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Merci Baku: notes from Azerbaijan

Where nothing is what it seems

Photo: Elnur Amikishiyev / Alamy

I was expecting to arrive in a land of hijab clad women called Marjani, Fatima and Hayat walking behind hirsute men. I was expecting to find load-bearing donkeys reluctantly trotting down narrow streets that disappeared into an arid nothingness. I was expecting chai khanas and bazaars where shisha-smoking men traded cattle and carpets.

But when our plane landed in sub-zero Baku on a fine January morning, the grand idiocy of my assumptions were revealed to me almost immediately. Wide roads and cascading flyovers stretched in front of us as our car drove into the capital of Azerbaijan. The sun had barely set and beautiful, illuminated buildings from different architectural periods were lighting up the landscape. Moving along the gentle curves of the road that raced alongside the Caspian Sea, we arrived at the Fairmont Baku, which is perched over a hilltop overlooking the sea with the city unfurling around it.

The chill in the air stung our faces as we hopped out of the car and made a dash for the warm hotel lobby where more warmth awaited the men from our group in the form of beautiful Azeri women moving about on the premises.

We were led to the 15th floor where, from the window of our room, the expanse of the city glimmered beneath us. In the dark of the night, strong winds, which the Azeris called khazri, began to blow and a flurry of snow started falling from the night sky. When morning came, Baku was under a light blanket of snow, a sight so delightful that I squealed with joy.

Snow is snow and it makes anything look beautiful. But over the mélange of historic buildings, it takes on a dreamlike quality. Add to this the modern steel-and-glass edifices dotting Baku’s landscape that compel you to ponder over the country’s new-found prosperity.

Driving around the time-warped streets of Baku, one was in the past one minute and present in the next and sometimes, simultaneously in the past and the present. As we drove down into the heart of the city, the view outside of the windows was Arabian Nights meets Star Wars. This spectacular look, of course, has been achieved thanks to the oil that seemed to sprout from Azeri soil as easily as mould on stale bread. It was not uncommon for the farmers living in semi squalor of the early 20th century Baku to have dug into gushing oil and become billionaires overnight. (Among the more famous families that made their fortunes through Azeri oil was the Swedish Nobel family, of the Nobel Prize fame.)

Baku: where the old meets the new
Where the old meets the new

A century later, as oil continues to spout generously, Baku glistens in glory and beckons the beau monde. In wake of this prosperity and freedom, designer stores like Gucci, Dior and Armani have suddenly appeared along the Neftchilar Avenue, Baku’s own Sloane Street. Their presence seemed like a contradiction because the people of the city did not appear fashionable or brand conscious. Chingiz, who worked for the agency that facilitated our trip to Baku, became our de-facto tour guide because he could converse in English. He informed us that the forlorn looking designer stores were a part of the ‘Let’s put Baku on the destination map’ package.

Even though our agenda was crammed with historical sites to be seen, the city was paralysed by the unexpected snow. There were hardly any vehicles on the road because people were not used to snow in this seaside town.

Despite that, we managed to get into the quaint old city, which also happens to be a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was while walking through those narrow lanes that I realised that it wasn’t only the mules and women in burqas from my imagination that were missing. Also missing in Baku were dervishes in the stone-walled old town where minarets tore through the winter sky.

I first encountered Azerbaijan as a child in Tintin comics–and I die a little as I say this–but I failed to update myself about the country ever since. Agreed, reading and quoting from the National Geographic might’ve been a better idea than relying on the fountain of knowledge that is Tintin comics. But it was too late for regrets.

Be that as it may, the snow continued to fall the entire day, and we felt shaken and stirred at the same time. The infamous khazri from the Caspian Sea was giving us unsuspecting people from warm climes a hypothermia of sorts. But the beauty of the 11th century Islamic structures was so compelling that I continued to click pictures with my bare fingers till the digits of my hand went numb.

The old part of Baku.
The old part of town.

By the time we reached Mugham Club, a 14th century keravanserai, I was sure I had frost-bite and was mentally preparing myself for a fingerless future. Fortunately, the warmth of Mugham Club helped and my dying fingers were revived with a little help from some local wine. The Mugham Club was a popular overnight stop for caravans of traders to take rest when they traveled into the city of Baku to sell their wares.  I was expecting to see Alibaba and his forty thieves emerge from one of the many stone balconies overlooking the courtyard. Instead, it was waiters in equally large numbers who emerged. Several lamb chops, berry pilaf and some olive murabba later we were back in our minibus. It was -7º C outside and I could see why vodka was so popular around these parts.

Back on Neftchilar Avenue, Bottega Veneta, Gucci, Blumarine and stand juxtaposed against the old city. It’ all Sloane street, except these designer stores had barely any shoppers. “They’re always empty,” we were told by the Indian chef at our hotel the next morning. The intent of the stores wasn’t sales–they were there because the first lady of Azerbaijan, Mehriban Aliyev, wants Baku to be the next big tourist destination of the world. I’m told that the Aliyev family owns many of these boutiques. Mehriban Aliyev is herself known to be extremely fashion forward and her heavily botoxed pictures are splashed across every publication in the country. “All our women want to be like her,” Chingiz said proudly. 

I was desperate to hit the local boutiques and handicraft stores to get a sense of local fashion and also to carry gifts back. But Baku, I was told, had no local fashion, nor handicrafts and hence no local boutiques. The only locally made item you might want to take back from here were their overpriced carpets. It was slowly sinking in that Baku was glossy and fabulous on the surface but desperately lacking cultural depth.

Our next stop was Heydar Aliyev centre, known for its distinct architectural style of fluid curves instead of sharp edges. It was an awe-inspiring masterpiece of confounding proportions. We were given a tour of the futuristic interiors of Heydar Aliyev after several men and machines had scanned us thoroughly. I pretended that I was aboard a vast spaceship and being escorted by ruthless men in black (the security folk). Eventually, I snapped out of my fantasy when we arrived at the breathtaking exhibit by the most exalted artists of Azerbaijan.    

One our way to the next destination, we thrived on Chingiz’s stories inside the warm minibus.  An Azeri born and brought up in Dagastan, Russia, Chingiz spoke fluent Azeri, Russian, English and Japanese. In fact, he graduated in Japanese literature and worked in Tokyo for a few years before the smell of fresh oil drew him home. It was from him that we learnt that Azerbaijan was a secular state and a progressive one too. Muslims did not feel morally compelled to keep rozas during Ramadan and the few who did observe this fast, usually did it to detox. Women wore western clothing and were allowed to pick their own groom, but this came with a caveat for the groom. He had to propose marriage to the girl within six months of dating her, failing which, he would have to suffer the wrath of the girl’s father, and there was no telling what form this would be served in.

The names of almost all the streets of Baku changed every time there was a new ruler. Street named after Islamic rulers changed into streets named after Russian Czars that then took on the names of famous communists leaders and symbols and now finally, they were being called by local Azeri names. According the Chingiz, his father and he never referred to a street in Baku by the same name, both preferring to stick to the names concomitant with their respective eras. This obviously caused much confusion between the two.

Back at the hotel, Anna Kournikova’s doppelganger, long golden tresses and the same bright smile in place, waited to greet us inside the lobby and even though it the cold outside had frozen the marrow in his bones, there was a sudden spring in the step of the men accompanying us and a grateful smile stretched across their faces. I could not blame them–the blend of Central Asian and Russian blood had rendered the women of this country astonishingly beautiful. Unfortunately, this cocktail had not worked too well for the local men.

The following morning, we were driven to the famous burning mountain or Yanar Dag. Our guide spoke in an accent so indecipherable, it was insufferable. The men had to put on their earmuffs inside our severely heated minibus to escape the sound of her voice. Thankfully, the burning mountain was well worth the drive because it was unlike anything one had seen before. Fresh snow covered the mountain and it continued to burn with natural gases from under earth.  Some claim that it has been burning since before Christ and that even Marco Polo had a mention of it in his travel records. Fire worshippers from Iran frequented this spot from across the border to pray, and our guide urged us to do the same. Or maybe she asked us to jump into the flames and stay there, there was no way to tell.

The pictureseque Ateshgah in Baku
The pictureseque Ateshgah.

Back in Baku, we were taken to the picturesque Ateshgah, an ancient fire temple (natural fire again!) and even though we spent a few minutes clicking pictures, we did not learn much as the guide herself seemed clueless. We only found out on our return to the hotel that the temple has inscriptions from the Adi Granth in Gurmukhi made by Punjabi traders from India during the Middle Ages. There were also Sanskrit inscriptions in praise of Lord Shiva and Ganesha. In hindsight, it may have been wiser to go with Wikipedia on our smart phones, instead of the misguided tour guide (who, I think, might be better off as a body embalmer or post-mortem specialist, because the dead don’t complain nor do they have a problem with warped accents).

That night, we got a taste of Baku’s vibrant nightclubs where, in spite of the snow, the uber rich and the uber fashionable city bourgeois came alive to the beats of the latest tracks from around the world. In this regard, this city was undoubtedly at par with the best in the world. 

Our last day in Baku was spent enjoying the hospitality of Baku’s biggest billionaire and oligarch, the debonair Ibrahim Ibrahimov. Born in communist times, Mr Ibrahimov charmed us with fascinating stories of his audacious rise from a small town village boy to the man he was today. A man who wore only Brioni suits, Berlutti shoes and drove around in a Rolls Royce and man who forgave all those who did him wrong. Because in his own words “Who am I to settle scores or not forgive? It is Allah’s will. Allah wants us to love”. “I was a watchman by night and a student by day,” he told us proudly. “But I have a sharp mind and the luck of the devil, so here I am.”

The lessons from Ibrahimov’s life and his stories were far too remarkable to squeeze into a travelogue.  I will save those for another time and another day.

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