a little of this, a little of that…

Brilliant Marketing! At least this baby got a chance at 15 min. of fame, usually plastic dolls (and stuffed animals) are sealed in plastic bags and hang suffocating from random places on bedroom walls-or in the case of my new-ish flat-they make an installation of it, utilizing a gas line to string up Fluffy the Bear and Friends.

 

Speaking of things being strung up and out, these unfortunate Faux-People where spotted outside a uniform shop near a metro stop-it seems the owner is a little scared they might dip out when he turns his back-cant blame ‘em though, the clothes are bland enough to bring the clergy to tears.

I bet that Baku Faux-People were a little jealous of these gems from the Whitechaple Green area in London Town-My sister passed this stand every morning on the way to the tube and had failed to notice it, until I pointed out that it was a kindly reminder of my AZ home-a la crotchless nylons.

It seems that the Faux-People are not the only ones subject to hideous clothing being forced upon them-the Toy is a lone holdout showcase of bad life choices and animal print refusing to die. This rather shocking ensemble provided over 4 hours of amusement; however I wasn’t able to capture the matching suitcase size purse that threatened to wipe out children whenever she turned around. Thankfully for attendees’ progeny, she left the purse on the table when she got up to dance.

Even I with mad Nina skillz honed and strengthened from 2 years of avoiding animal print was not safe from the insurmountable challenge of the wonderful (seriously) host mother who is terrified that her American sons and daughters will die from cold feet (sometimes such things happen, apparently.) Anyway, it was a pity that SnowLepordGirl wasn’t around to enjoy the socks with me.

Not every clothing article given to me is just barely suitable for home wear I received a kicking pair of pants that not only made my legs long and skinny, and my butt 2 sizes smaller, but also gave me BlingInTheLowerFrontalRegion-catapulting me into categories of HardCoreness mostly reserved for Gangsters and two wandering Aussie Photographers. Sometimes its hard to walk upright, so much flash is weighting down

If I am found to be walking in style, you would notice I prefer to take full advantage of the national obsession with knee/thigh high boots of all colors and prints -no matter how high, slinky, skanky or massively hooker-ish, boots are welcomed in every size, shape, color, quality, and function-too bad the population of most small villages isn’t as accepting of foreigners, people with disabilities and African Americans. Found, and purchased at a metro shop:

 

Found and snapped, this ridiculous beauty not so innocently dangling from a line in a larger regional city.

It seems towels are the one canvas upon which horn-ball fantasy computer geeks are let loose to create public art acceptable for purchase and consumption. This towel in particular was a gift from one Azeri English teacher to one American English Teacher, a Ms. NE of AZ5-both women are in their late 50’s-a point I make not because late 50’s is old, but because I’m of the opinion that proper English teachers giving naughty-towels to other proper English teachers is more a cause to assume the world is ending than me running and not eating meat.

(Thank you to Mr. J for modeling the towel he was lucky enough to inherit)

If the world does indeed end in 2012 as so many of my friends have told me, then at least this poor atomically incorrect Elephant guarding a kiddy pool at a family resort on the Caspian will be put out of its misery. This one is indeed a head puzzler. Since when did female Elephants have chests located in their armpits? And since when was it OK to have that at kiddy pools yet wearing red pants and making eye contact are actions deemed inappropriate enough to send every pious/board person in a 60 km radius into spasms of shock/horror?

This requires no explanation, other than it was given to me, last winter, with a many a laugh, by a nearly blind old man at a fruit stand near my old flat.

Explanation would have been helpful when this lovely find of a restaurant did its menu- Freelancers out in the world looking to earn some quick cash; take note-proper translation between languages is a skill in high demand

Also in high demand are t-shirts sporting naughty English phrases-even IzzyTown was not safe, a student from my school was spotted proudly wearing ‘Eat Me’ across his scrawny chest. Spurned on by several more sightings of disastrously funny t-shirts, EM (my partner in crime for most everything) and I took on the SummieLandClothingBazzar hoping to swipe a few t-shirts for holiday gifts. Finding it nearly impossible to not laugh when asking for ‘Eat Me’ (a phrase which had to be s l o w l y enunciated) I settled for the following: (Be glad I didn’t pick up the long sleeve tee which shamelessly stated: ‘Turn off the lights and take off your clothes.’)

Rendering myself lame for 2 days by smashing my big toe is clearly a result of not consuming enough Ninjalar Candy-complete with super awesome disk throwing watch.

Wherein, the Heroine Avoids a near full on pub brawl, Discovers a literary gem, Confronts a ghost and Recommends a book-not necessarily in that order.

Devoured since May, is a stack of books that includes Azerbaijan Diary by Thomas Goltz. A man who I had the fortune to meet at Tequila Junction late one Baku night when said author, after waiting until my male companion dipped inside to use the toilet, approached me and opened the conversation by forcefully demanding ‘Do you know who I am young lady?!’ Being witty and bit of a minx (or so I’ve been told by S. Jeeves Westminster), I looked him straight in his eyes and said with a bored shrug, ‘No, no, I don’t, am I supposed to?’ It must have been provoking, as Mr. G growled out ‘Well then you obviously haven’t read my book, Azerbaijan Diary.’

‘Obviously’ said I with mischief, ‘Let me run to the nearest Ketabhaxna (library) and pick it up.’

What followed can only be described a word brawl between an older man losing his pride and temper and dropping the F-bomb most inappropriately and a 20-something lady gleefully being shamefully rude. Thankfully, a handler was, well, on hand, to calm the waters before two Irish Tempers attacked without mercy.

(I make the assumption that Mr. G is Irish based on his unwavering self assurance of ‘I’m kinda a big deal’ that seems to be prone to those in possession of Irish roots-I could be wrong, but in any case, if Mr. G happens to read this, I hope he takes it as a complement.)

And then of course, curiosity getting the better of me, I did go the next day, not to the nearest Ketabhaxna but to a friends flat, picked up Azerbaijan Diary and burned through it in a mere 3 weeks.

So this can be seen as a solid endorsement of the book and recommendation for one to read it-it also is, in a round-about way, a very small way of sending up the white flag of truce and stating that if, Mr. G and I should happen in the future to meet in a pub, while I will never apologize, I will offer to buy a few pints and swap tales of Azerbaijan, and make a point to state that yes, I do know who he is, but, more importantly, does he know who I am?

 

I don’t almost get into pub brawls with the author of every book I read-evidence: Rereading William Goldman’s The Princess Bride has been delightful, and I have neither felt nor desired to yell at him for being pretentious. When reading, there is usually a paragraph or page that makes the book-for instance, in Les Miserable, in the section of 100 pages or so when Mr. Hugo goes into exacting detail about the Paris sewer system, I drooled, while most simply rolled their eyes and skipped to the ‘good parts’ involving romance and angst. In The Princess Bride, this gem of a paragraph was re-discovered:

 

(Buttercup and Westley are about to enter the Fire Swamp.)

‘As a child, she (Buttercup) has once spent an entire nightmared year convinced that she was going to die there. Now she could not move another step. The giant trees blackened the ground ahead of her. From every part came the sudden flames.

“You cannot ask it of me,” she said

“I must.” (Said Westley)

“I once dreamed I would die here.”

“So did I, so did we all. Were you eight that year? I was.”

“Eight. Six. I can’t remember.”

Westley took her hand.

She could not move. “Must we?”

Westley nodded.

“Why?”

“Now is not the time.” He pulled her gently.

She still could not move.

Westley took her in his arms. “Child; sweet child. I have a knife. I have my sword. I did not come across the world to lose you now.

Buttercup was searching somewhere for a sufficiency of courage. Evidently, she found it in his eyes.

At any rate, hand in hand, they moved into the shadows of the Fire Swamp.’

 

My landing is void of nosey neighbors; a fact who’s pros and cons have been thoroughly discussed by most everyone. Some contend living alone on a landing is safer since it negates the possibility of having bad men neighbors in close proximity. Some contest that no landing mates makes it dangerous (possibility of bad men neighbors be dammed) in case I need help when a flat crisis occurs-such as not knowing how to change a light bulb *shudder* or not being able to sweep. *horrors* I think living on a mostly empty landing, except for myself and a blue eyed cross-eyed white cat is a prime arrangement. (Yes, there will be snaps of qəşəng pişik. Oh. The possibilities of mad win if I could get the midget cobbler and kitty in a photo together…),The other 2 flats are empty for typical reasons: drunken husband, some scandal involving a woman, and a business deal gone bad/good in Baku.

I was on the mobile talking to a friend who was having an AZ crisis that involved all the usual suspects: homelessness, nasty food, leering men, mysterious sickness-so absorbed was I in gum flapping that as I backed out the door fumbling with my key, hunched over the impossible lock, I didn’t notice the women in the opposite doorway of the empty flat. Some movement on her part attracted my attention and I straightened. We stood 2 feet apart, eyes locked in a dead on staredown. If this was a movie, the ass kicking music (Metallica-‘Enter Sandman’ comes to mind, feel free to substitute your favorite) would have cued, the sun disappeared, my tabbi boots, and bowstaff appeared and her fangs and cape materialized. But this isn’t a movie and 3 minutes into the staredown I was getting bored for precisely that reason, no fangs, no smoke, no ass kicking music and slow motion fight sequence-just your standard everyday strange/awkward encounter with a woman who wasn’t supposed to exist. *yawn* My friend kept talking and I kept staring, realizing that this could go on forever, since I’m never one to conceded a staredown from tiredness, I pulled a ‘New York’ escape, (The ‘Oh damm, oops, I’m on the phone, its important, *shrug* can’t talk now, gotta go, I’ll call you later. Sorry *contrite look*’ dance that females have perfected to avoid annoying suitors and evidentially possible ghosts.), turned and made all sorts of haste down the stairs, not forgetting to throw a cute little wave over my shoulder.

Fresh Photography from AZ Youth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eye candy while you wait.

 

  Color from the BusStops on the Goychy-Ming. Yol.

(Lomo prints posted here in Dec.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rain drops keep falling on my nose…

This morning Mr.T and I went running, then, it started to pour…

 Lightning.

Splashing through puddles.

The sound of rain.

Soaking wet.

I almost couldn’t stop laughing at how happy it made me. It is one of those glorious things, like kindness from strangers, pda, hot water, phone calls from that person, seeing a good looking guy, etc  that mostly don’t happen here in the ‘Baijan.

A Few Tasty Snaps!

 

The AZ5 Ladies in Ming, boasting mad jumping skillz.

 

 

 Yes we do, the perfect rainy day: chocolate cake, popcorn, coke and movies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Brainnnnnnnnnns, Yummy Brains!! (too bad H didnt see the funny in oozing chocolate)

 

 

 

 

 Ming. Photo Class.

The first letters of all our names = friends (dostum)

 

 

 

 

Creative Center Ming. Azra, Kim, Nate 

Bringing the mullet back to the playground!

 The day we invaded da Lahood!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ’I see your heart!’-K

 

 

 

 

 

Look what I found in Xcmaz, my very own, Mr. Clean! Think I’ll take him back to Izzy town…

 

 

 

 

 

 Faux stars of the traveling circus.

 

 

 Playing in Baku with a Lomo and my red shoes.

‘…n I’m gonna run for as long as I’m allowed…’

It seems (due to the high volume of questions from various people) that the general opinion is that I’m staying here longer (a year or so) due to the presence of a significant other person. It’s probably a good time to point out that besides ‘lack of prospects in the AZ’ (and this I could care less about), living with roaches on steroids (who see all my major and minor appendages as tasty treats), no water (at. All.) and the general populous thinking I’m a lose woman (because I like to run in the AM), are not exactly circumstances I’d like to stay in simply because I was keen on a dude. Rumor has it though, that a lady in Peace Corps (near my own age) is staying in the AZ for precisely that reason, (engagement)- married bliss awaits around the corner for them, and I wish them many years of joy lacking any sort of gold grills or tight faux leather pants.

Rather, staying here was an idea that’d been running circles in my brain for a while(since last August actually) therefore, when given the opportunity to not only expand the Photography for Social Change project but also a chance to work on a few personal photography/documentary projects (generally associated with leftover Soviet Sanatoriums on the Caspian, Secular Islamic Rap Groups, and Bus Stops) it seemed like the right life choice-living for 3 years in a post Soviet, contemporary Islamic country discovering democracy is a photographic gold mine of adventures that doesn’t present itself often.

Of course, a month ago, while hauling boxes, and various personal items out to the street (to the sound of xanims cackling at my odd and so very ‘English Qiz’ possessions) due to once again being kicked out of a flat, I would have given anything to be back in Minneapolis at 3AM talking with Mark about the various ways we could defend our house against the battalion of drunk frat boys relieving themselves on our front door.

So, I’ve jumped in the work fray-frantically (I forgot to pack the Christmas Tree) throwing my possessions together (and the above mentioned high profile exit), leaving the most permanent ‘home’ I’ve had thus far in my 24 months, and depositing kitchen tools with another volunteer, I’ve been living out my pack since the end of June with my collection of film and cameras and a few horridly unfashionable clothing articles. But everything has sorted, as things do-given my summer work-holding photography day camps in various regions, I’d be traveling anyway-best not to have rent payment, and a mostly crazy, toothless landlady hounding you. In between imparting massive amounts of photographic knowledge to hordes of bright youth, (This is worthy of at least 3 posts.) Azra and I have been navigating new territory in the photo realm of ’Foreign Ladies in ‘Baijan Possessed of Charm, Wit, Mad Language Skills and Cameras’-which means, we made a list of places to see over 3 months, checked it twice and celebrated the warmer weather of June/Start of Summer Adventures by conquering ‘The Factory’, ‘Artyom Island’ and ‘Chicken Factory’ (all abandoned and guarded) in top form.

Since then Azra and I have managed to engage in all sorts of photo shenanigans (halved Lenin statues, traveling circuses, giant Soviet telescopes…) as well a few more sobering wanders-one in particular, which, found us in Mardekend (village north of Baku) was a shocking reminder of the mess left over when cultures, ideals, politics and a host of other human meddling converges and explodes. Several attempts have been made on my part to accurately convey (via writing) what we saw and its significance-however, it seems when I try to write, a bit of self doubt creeps in, that, if unable to thoroughly describe Mardekend, I would fail at making anyone see its importance-because somehow, I think Mardekend is important.

Also of importance are the half a dozen or so stories that are collecting dust/taking up hard drive space-eventually or when I find a home, they will make their way here…

Short and mostly Sweet: The Life of Ninja

 Bringing the phraze ‘cuddle slut’ to a new level, Ninja lived the last 4 months of his life in lux comfort, surrounded by ‘cute animal to pet’ starved volunteers and generous quantities of 2.00AZN tins of tuna (which means his food cost more than mine).

Unfortunately, Ninja  met his end at the hands of an astoundingly stupid 10 year old boy, whose, only somewhat remarkable quality could be considered that he has, and will continue to live the cliche of  ‘mommas boy’-and the momma is worth mentioning, sporting the name ‘Latifa’  and not in any way a Queen, possessed of rhyming skillz or a sassy mouth-this ‘Latifa’ is missing most of her teeth, smells wretched and spent 40 min yelling at me in garbled Azeri, only pausing long enough at the 20 min mark to order her boy to take Ninja to the rubbish heap.

RIP Ninja!

 

Ninja spent the first few weeks hiding- under the petch was pathetic optimism, as I was without heat for the first 6 weeks I had him

However, counter tops were made for Posin Mad Stylez! 

 

 

 

Ah! The Signs of Spring…

• The Man in the Black SUV is back like the plague, appearing out of no where when I’m alone and following me home.  Somehow in spite of 2 house moves and a brief homeless stint last Fall, he still managed to find me now that warmer weather has hit. I see this as evidence of him possessing no life whatsoever as well as the creativity of a dish sponge.  In the words of DS. ‘You need a guard dog!’
• Which bring up the issues of dogs.  In the summer gangs of dogs roll around Izzy Town (TM Dushka) barking, humping, drooling and decorating the little grass that still exists with rubbish.  Usually these gangs consist of a token little Dashand/Welsh Corgi mix that windmills his legs to trot pathetically being the big dogs that collectively resemble a hairy grunge band (Pearl Jam??) of wonky faced boxers who always lost the fight.  Unfortunately I never fail, at the end of my run, to see at least one very large dog getting ‘fresh’ (that’s for you Silo) with the midget dog(s) outside my flat.
• Over the winter the few, the proud and the incredibly dull formed an elite group of males who were responsible for ensuring that all inanimate objects were sufficiently propped up with enough backside to last the winter.  Now that the temperature has reached the melting point, the elite group has expanded to include the incredibly stupid in uncontested membership whose only requirement is that one possesses the intelligence of a Coke bottle and the jeans tight enough to cut off circulation.  That’s just another way of saying that my walks are no longer pleasant or quiet.
• Last summer thanks to Murad and Elnor, Izzy Town was introduced (knocked over) to the joys of bicycling.  This spring has seen the birth of no less than a dozen bikes being operated in the city center (the only place with enough paved area) by dudes/kiddies.  In a highly amusing contrast the small bikes have overgrown pre-pubescent teenagers/dudes riding them while the slightly large bikes have 6^th formers who can barely reach the peddles wobbling about in circus worthy follies.  A diabolic urge to reach out and push over bike and rider takes hold of me every time a tiny bike with a big dude zooms dangeriously close to lopping off my knee caps-I have rationalized this evil by considering it just retribution for the absolute distress most of the male population causes me every time I leave the flat.
• The resurrection of affectionate nicknames generally relating to the color red that are bestowed upon me by my girls.  The following are a few of the things (blog appropriate) I have been called since landing, ungracefully and nervously 2 years ago in the AZ:

 

Pomidor (tomato-due to my skillz at burning all visible skin)

Girmazi Giz (red girl-again related to sun damage)

Kamala (smart-since Colleen was tooooo difficult to pronounce)

Englissss Giz (English girl-obviously I’m English since I speak English)

The 2008 !!!

 

Jan-June ‘08
Volunteer Youth Group from School #1 with the special needs children; at the HA Park.Peace Corps Insider did a story about the children. This was one of the first big projects I did with youth, and for a fresh n00bie it was a lot to tackle; the kids from school#1 were amazing and really committed a lot of time to help the children at the hospital. Story associated with this project: February 2008: Blue and Failure

The last night in Tbilisi, GA.
March ‘08(there are no pictures left from this trip since my computer crashed…check out FB)
Spent the afternoon on the private rooftop patio of the presidential suite of a prominent hotel watching the sun set and dangling my feet 90+ feet above traffic. Set out on a wander to find the underground brothel turned restaurant and somehow (due to me) ended up discovering an abandoned metro/tube stop that was connected to a mostly abandoned underground shopping center with a few barely alive strip joints. Unfortunately the rest of the group lacked a sense of adventure/taste for the underground, but was overwhelmingly apt at stating the obvious as evidenced by this little gem uttered at the top of a stairwell: ‘Its dark down here and it smells like pee.’
*slaps forehead with palm of hand*
Resigning myself to a small tantalizing glimpse of GA possibilities, (vowing to return sometime) we carried on and eventually found brothel turned restaurant due to shortcut taken through newly found abandoned metro/tube stop. I spent the remaining evening gawking at the stunning array of fascinating characters collected in the Kinkali House. This place makes it on the list of top places to eat, 7 levels, (6 of which are underground) faux maroon velvet everywhere, floor to ceiling mirrors, the Alco/smokes menu the same length as the food and the waitresses getting high in the restroom!

Feb. BurnOut

Silliness
Feb. ‘08
In Baku at the now demolished Absheron, a seminal moment becasue it represents that Donny was out danced by someone (!!!) and was too tired to make it into bed. Found him at 7 am while out the door for a run. Its worthwhile to know that the both of us have been talking about/planning  a biking/hiking adventure (since waaaaay back in ’07) to foreign lands with possible hostile conditions. This is also noteworthy since I rarely talk about my friends, clearly showing that I am, in spite of my protest otherwise, a typical self-centered twenty-something.

 

 

New Flat

Old houses, New Houses :Most of Spring, Summer and Fall of ‘08
Was chased out of first house by crazy yelling xanim who wanted more money.
Ran for it and deposited myself in new yard house where life seemed better until the Landlady climbed up on the roof at 7am (To dry berries. Seriously.) and peaking in my window caught me doing yoga…in a sports bra and boy shorts. (At least her spying was rewarded)
Was kicked out of yard house by yelling Landlady and son, much to the amusement and general shock of 7 small children, 5 xanims, 4 old men, 3 housewives, and 2 taxi drivers who had gathered to watch the show once Landlady and Co. started yelling and my possessions appeared in a messy heap in the middle of Side Street 4.
Finding these types of things hysterical, I couldn’t help waving and blowing kisses to the audience as I drove away in a taxi.      Was officially kicked out the night before leaving on holiday, unsure if I’d have a place to live when returning, I was a bit keen on keeping my clothing… This was not only a stupid choice but also an embarrassing choice as the result was dragging around a Awful Bloody Hell Huge pack for 2 weeks in eastern countries and then 6 weeks of meetings after…then I gave up and threw away most of my clothes. Sometimes I’m a Low Slerner. (However, due to a great climbing buddy from MN, my clothing supply will soon be replenished to a PC level of excess.) With extra space/midget beds/pillows/blankets this means the flat has become the central hotel of ISM with a revolving door of scruffy PCV’s randomly showing up. This also means I expect a few of my more adventurous friends from outside the ‘Baijan to visit in the ‘09 before I leave. Make your reservations now.

The summer photography class. L-R Back to Front: Salguk, Torgul, Farqu, Gunel, Titi, Lili, Narmine
What an introduction to inside lives of youth in ISM. It started as a photography class, but turned into something akin to The OC: ‘Summer in the ‘Baijan Edition. The essays were sharp (the youngest in the class was 15) and at times difficult to read due to subject matter. I’m not sure what’s more surprising, that the youth really threw themselves into the project (I had doubts if they would actually be interested in participating) or that they started to really talk to me about their lives. (And the lives of everyone else in ISM.) The teens in ISM have the same issues as the teens in America, they just manifest/deal in a different way. Shocking, huh? The summer ended in a bit of sadness, with half the class leaving for university in Baku and the other half reluctantly returning to secondary school classes.

 

Istanbul, Turkey
June ‘08
Sitting on the edge of the Bospherus drinking Effs Dark with Rob, talking, laughing and just being; then hookah and an in-depth discussion of old boyfriends/old girlfriends…Talking shit to the confused hostel owner at 3 am, pissing him off and then not apologizing, of course (somehow I see a trend here…)  Rob and I share a talent for finding bad fashion, being inappropriate at the worst/best times, being mistaken for movie stars, being really really good looking and having a love/hate relationship with members of the opposite sex. I had not expected to miss my family; was surprised when I cried myself to sleep after saying goodbye at 3 am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GLOW!

July ‘08

A hyper mix of Azeri/American girls for one week at camp.  It could have been a recipe for disaster, but instead was a wonderful time of teaching teen girls how to be strong/independent/adventurous/caring/passionate leaders.  This project took up an enormous chunk of time and the efforts of around 20 PCV’s (just to acquire funding) which is entirely worth while when the girls, ages 14-17, learn new life skills.  For most Azeri girls, this is the first time they have been away from home with out their families and introduced to new concepts of ‘self worth’ and ‘individual abilities.’

 

 

Aug. ’08 

L-R: Aching, Jody, Unkonown,Rikki, Sara,Kat, Jason, Colleen

In Laich, the day I rescued London Mark from the Clutches of  Wretched Sleeping Arrangements, Overpaying, and Language Innocence (by inviting him back to ISM and then spending 2 hours on the bus trying to teach him all the Azeri insults I knew.)  Unfortunately, we both left for adventures elsewhere in distant countries soon after his one night in ISM with 10 inebriated PCV’s, several sour bubbly 33’s and one smelly squat.

 

 

 

Aug. ‘08  (pictures on the way…)

Kiev/Moscow/Drains/WanderingAtNight/Hookah/Vodka-IronBru/HawtMen/Partical Colliders/VastIindustrialWastLand/Dirt/Gime/RedSquare/Happiness/JumpingFreightTrains/

DodegyUndergroundStructures/Best2Weeks/Metro/Indipendence Square/Nassssty/Dsankt/Siologen/Quantum-X    

 

 

 

Sept. ’08

 Jason and I give Toy posing our best effort on his last night in the ‘Bajian before returning to Americastan.  Jody and I keep it hard core reprezenting the 4’s and 5’s!!  ‘I kess’es you, miss for you’ 

I hate saying goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fall/Winter Photography Class

 (a few of the kid’s photos) 

These kids are from the Russian sector of School #1.  Most of the first 2 weeks of ‘class’ wasall of us figuring out how to communicate, eventually, we recruited Lili to translate, the boys stopped being scared, the girls stopped giggling and the group started snapping amazing pictures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Current Location

The view out my kitchen window makes waking up worthwhile…if I actually fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summie WasteLand

Oct. ‘08(this is for you Steve, though apologizes; the picture is pathetic, yelling fat man wouldn’t let us get closer. I’m sure you remember this chyxana?)

Met up with a guy who had the paper, stamp of approval, signature, get out of jail free, VIP, Leet Ninja, hard hitting pass, approved by no less than an Azeri Government Branch allowing him free reign to go above/under/around/through Baku taking pictures.  Fortunately we were able to swap stories/tales/tips and spend 2 days photographing before he left for somewhere outside the ‘Baijan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toy

Oct. ‘08

The nails

The n00bs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ninja the Kitten as a centerfold

Nov.’08

I like small helpless animals. I do not however like feral crazy animals.  While Ninja made a good show, he is, at the time of this post….Gone.  While he did boost my popularity with certain male volunteers (!!), he was kicked out recently (last Feb.’09) due to complications with HouseTraining. (There is a follow up story to this involving my mostly toothless landlady)

 

 

 

 

FreshMeat   Dec. ‘08    (pictures on the way…)The addition of 2 hot new site mates has boosted my ISM social calander by at least 90%.  The AZ6’s hold promise, Marina has perfected her ‘I’m Disinterested, Hot and Board as Hell’ Toy Photo Smile and I have already trained Tim in the “Maxium Obatinium of Free Food from Individuals Helpless to Rresist your Good Looks” skill. 

 

Christmas Joy

Dec.’08

In the SouthRegion of Lankeron with the lovely Katie, Nate, Jane, Tor, Whitney, G-Strap and Rache.   Mimosa and the gift from Jane of a sock animal to give me someone to talk to when she is not around .

 

New Years! (none of the pictures are blog safe. trust me.)

Madness, of course.  It started with a French Man, stumbling over train tracks, a package, hair dye, and climbing over a fence, it ended with a Belgian Pilot, counting down to New Years 7 times, a Blizzard, a coffee shop, 2 nights on the PCLounge Floor and dressing like Xanims from the clothing stash on the bathroom floor.