Convincing Jake (aka Mr. Clean from the summer) to visit Izzy Town was a bit hard, but eventually we made the arduous trip via a 3 hours bus ride on the newly paved mountain passes that makeup the last half of the Baku-Izzy Town Yol.  Arriving in top but tired form, we hoped to settle down for a freezing night of watching newly purchased DVD’s courtesy of Mr. Hong Kong Harries-little did we know…

In context.  Right before leaving for Baku I awoke to loud pounding on my door at the bad hour of 7am-upoin opening the door I was greeted by a barrage of cussing that was issuing forth from the mouth of a xanim who was missing all lower front teeth and looked to be in the range of 60 but was likely closer to 40.  In-between the near constant stream of ‘Pox Su!!!’ (Literal translation: Shit Water) I managed to ascertain that apparently my toilet was raining down what appeared for all intents and purposes to be Shit Water into her toilet. (Good aim, I say) After 4 days of various incompetent males attempting to fix the toilet, no water, no heat and a flat that smelled of shit water, I left for Baku with the promise of returning to a toilet and accompanying pipes that worked if not correctly as least marginally. 

Fast forward to us arriving, arguing with 2 pretend repair men who made lobotomized zombies (stole that from DS-thank you) look smart, and finally being under the impression that until the next day, things in the pipe/toilet world were ‘Yaxsi’.

Apparently in the short time from when the lobotomized zombie repair men left and we had hidden ourselves under a mountain of blankets and were a few scenes into ‘2012’ (how appropriate), my toilet and all related and non related pipes had decided to give rebellion a go and simultaneously freeze, break, implode and spew a combination of sewage, moldy water and mysterious black particles into my bathroom, hallway and bedroom.  Standing in the bathroom door, we were in silent awe contemplating the ridiculous scene-moldy water was spewing from a recessed light socket, cracks in the ceiling, and pipes on the floor-the water had already made an ½ inch deep puddle outside the door.  Harmoniously cussing at the same time, we were momentarily paralyzed by the sheer un-believability of what was unfolding. Thankfully we recovered from shock in time to realize several important things, namely that: both of us have no idea whatsoever how to fix Azeri pluming, our socks were wet, we were standing directly in the line of fire and my bedroom had swiftly become a flood zone.  Unfortunately in times of crisis my Azerbaijani is limited to cussing making the process of describing over the phone to my mostly deaf (and a tad senile) landlady that a Lego size flood of biblical proportions was unfolding, a painfully drawn out endeavor that ended with me repeating ’Water Everywhere, Toilet Cut, I don’t know why!’.  After hanging up, unsure when and even if help would show up, Jake and I (laughing hysterically) were found to be running about with old sweat shirts and dish towels, since we also discovered that my processions lack a considerable supply of vary large, very absorbent towels for soaking up shit water.  Help did arrive though, in the form of 2 of my students, who thankfully, hid their amusement at my distress, and set to work turning knobs and handles and making phone calls (how this helps burst/broken pipes is beyond me)-eventually they crawled up to the roof, where several loud repair type sounds could be heard, and then, the moldy rain shower subsided, the light socket stopped spewing, and a general calm was reached.  My students left covered in attic dirt, assuring me that everything was fixed, and that the last repair to be done was bolting of the toilet to the tile. 

Launching a rescue mission to salvage clothes and bedding from the room proved to be more frustrating and time consuming than useful, as reaching anything needed required a ninja run/jump/back flip move that given my state of tiredness was only executable once.  Too tired to soak up nasty water and rather peeved at the interruption to our movie, we had to settle for trying to not fall off the fold out couch (how I can possess such a luxury and still not have heat is a problem that makes my brain hurt), not freeze to death (as my gas had just gone out entirely) and sleep (as my bed was a literal un reachable ark of comfort sitting in a puddle of moldy water.)  Somehow it was all managed, though for the next day using the bathroom was akin to entering a war zone of enemy mud, insurgent mold, and stealthy gorilla black flecks hiding everywhere.

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.

On September 19th       Azra, Javad and I opened ‘First Step’ at YarAdAn Gallery in Baku.

Showcasing the photography of youth from Seki, Zaqatala, Mingacevir, Goycay, and Xacmaz, the event was the first of its kind held in Azerbaijan. Part gallery show, part publicity event, part celebration, we estimated over 300 people visited over a 2 day period.

(Apologies for the somewhat blurry snaps)

Azra and I take a moment to shamelessly pose at the entrance.

Javad-gallery owner-artist-psychologist- extraordinaire interviewed by the press. (In reality, the youth that attended gave more interviews than Azra, Javad or I, however, no snaps of that)

The Xacmaz crew reprezents! H font and center and L on the right were amazingly bold in talking portraits in the community-they also swooped in to help endlessly with translating.

Chilling in the street front room.

Y-my self proclaimed ‘brutha’ from Seki next to one of his portraits.

A-the right hand man for Azra and I in Seki, he was the saving grace when working at the Yaddash Orphanage-if I could adopt brothers, A and Y would be top picks. A took some of the most original photos of the entire summer.

Mr. French next to Mr. J-my two aficionados of style, culture and hipster-ism-we have snooty conversations about snooty topics while waving around cheap smokes and making sarcastic jokes.

Sometime during the after party, Azra and I had an ‘Oh. Wow. We did it!’ moment and then followed up with a victory snap shot. Lovely.

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.

                 I had not returned to Jorat in 2 years. When I had left I was angry, scared and hopeful. And now, as I rode in a car, along the sea road, like I had so many times in that ’07 summer, thoughts and feelings unexpectedly rushed to the surface. Nostalgia: usually reserved by the populous for cliché memories of past loves is reserved by me for the flatness and heat, the burning wavy lines that made ratty Ladas take on fantastic shapes, the noise and dirty air, the tension below the surface of people at once restless for something new but languid in heat that suffocated even the sharpest thoughts, the same fisherman casting his line next to the spewing sewage pipe-it shocked me on my first morning walk; the smell of oil and excrement that became familiar, the thin film of blackness that covered my clothing and skin after every wander or stolen moment of peace smoaking a forbidden cigarette- Nate and I and Misvig would sneak to the sea shore at dusk, huddling in the wind to light our Wests, mostly not talking, just being and looking out across the sea-Jorat; frighteningly strange for a small American girl-the men yelling nasty remarks about the paleness of my skin, ‘Fish’ they called me and still do-I had never thought to miss it, the sleepless nights, listening to the sea, but that is what I remember most distinctly, the jet lag and culture shock causing nights of wakefulness and tossing, the first night I couldn’t sleep, when the yard was finally quite I thought a water pump was running, but no-walking out my door to the crumbling stoop, I could hear it, waves, a small sound of water, a backdrop to everything else, calming and distant-when he would yell and scream and hit the family, I would wait, straining to hear the distant crashing of waves on the sea shells that made up the beach-every pause in the one sided argument, I would try and catch the calm, beyond the sounds of hitting and stomping and distress. That is why I had left with anger and fear, and now, riding in the car, to the wedding of the daughter, I realized that those petty emotions had gone, foolishly I tried to conjure up bitterness, but nothing, a breath of calm, so often I had despaired over the lack of ability to change myself into a better person, and of course, no one can be truly good-but the calm is knowing, being in Jorat and not being angry anymore.

To fanfair, drunken speeches, random hugs and breathless confessions of undying love, sometime in Sept. most of AZ5 left the Azerbaijan for travel, jobs, grad school, significant others, Americastan, mediocrity, success, and the occasional nostalgic thought of the ‘Baijan.

It was difficult to see them leave-my rag tag group of once clean always idealistic Americans-we had weathered 2 years of amazing experiences-survived squat toilets, stomach aids, vomiting out our body weight after libations at a Toy, not showering for 2 months, and piva at the Dove-we had broken new ground in cultural exchange by dancing the JumpRope in dive bars, the Robot at toys, and busting the Airplane with every Faried, Elnor and Faud-with the grace of a sledge hammer we stumbled over more cultural faux-paux then the population of the villages many of us lived in-sometimes profound, sometimes madly frustrating, but never, ever, ever, dull, life in the AZ was top notch for us all-to sum up, in the words of one Donald Stevens Jr. “We are in frickin AZERBAIJAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

AZ5, their time has ended here-my Azerbaijan adventure carries on. Exhilarating.

I miss for you and kisses you all!

YarAdAn project,

In cooperation with Azra Vardar (Germany) and Colleen MacDonald (USA)

With generous support from Union of Azerbaijan Photographers and Asiyat Fatullayeva

Over the 3 summer months of 2009, youth ages 13-21, in the regions of Mingechevir, Goychay, Zaqatala, Xachmaz and Sheki participated in an intensive one week introductory digital photography course.  The course was taught by volunteers with the purpose of not only introducing photography, but also introducing and encouraging creative expression. For the youth, it was the first time they had used a camera.  Learning how to focus, try different angels and frame, the youth spent a week in their communities photographing people, objects and themselves.  The youth were bold in their approach; playing with everyday items to make them fantastic and fearlessly stepping in front of the camera themselves and to produce art that is both playful and relevant

                  Arming ourselves with cameras, water and our best smiles, Azeri and I set forth to conquer ‘The Factory’-a structure, somewhere between Baku and Ismailli that sports 4 stacks and look wretchedly out of place in the dessert that proceeds Baku-we both had been eyeing the beauty for most of the winter, and had finally set aside a weekend to tick a few items off our photography hit list-in context photographing anything in AZ is tricky-the numerous times I’ve been accused of being a spy, chased by yelling arm waving fat men, chased by pissed Xanims, been mobbed by street kids, have, all in all made creating a few pieces art not easy, sometimes dirty, sometimes scary and generally a challenge.

[Warning: Tangent!!! In fairness though, there have been several odd situations while photographing in other countries, take, USA and my hometown of MPLS-one night out wandering due to sleeplessness, I happened to be shooting a few long exposures of an old grain mill (original, huh?), was approached by a Rent-a-Cop (who make up for their utter uselessness by providing endless amusement trying to look tough and smart) who in one breath accused me of being part of a ring of prostitution /meth production, pointed to my tripod and asked "What’s that?". Convinced of his stupidity (since old ripped jeans, an ugly tee shirt and a camera is the latest in MethHeadHooker fashion) I told him to leave me alone and go away-muttering under my breath as he drove away that if natural selection hadn’t already taken him, the recent event would guarantee at least an honorable mention in the DarwinAwards.]

So we set forth-as many things in AZ are, there is no straight path to anything, making our best guess we boarded a bus in hopes that it would take us in the general direction of ‘The Factory’ 20 min later we realized we’d gone in the opposite direction and were in an outlying suburb of Baku that, from our bus windows was mostly a collection of markets selling gas pipes, door/window frames, car parts and the occasional engine. With nothing to lose, we jumped off the bus at an old gate that was guarding a seemingly promising spread of old buildings. Too late we realized, that guarding the gate was a house turned guard shack, that was occupied by at least 3 curious police men (shown by 3 faces smashed up against one dirty window)-the pull of interesting buildings was too great and we marched up to the door, surprising the men with our boldness. It took a few min, of smooth taking on Azra’s part to convince the police we really just wanted to photograph the mosaics we had glimpsed through the gate. 15 min later we left the complex, mosaic pictures in hand, snickering helplessly-the 5 men in the shack were guarding an old, abandoned, and disused (since ’96) chicken farm.

The ‘NiceTaxiGuy’ dropped us off at the ‘The Factory’ gate and with a worried smile, asked if we wanted him to stay and wait-assuring him of our determination to see ‘The Factory’ we sent him back to Summie with many a ‘Yaxsi Yol!!’ and proceeded to look for an entrance. Lacking the tabbie boots/equipment usually required for such mad moves as vaulting ones self over a 13 foot high rusted gate/climbing a wall of corrugated iron topped with razor wire, we snapped a few photos through the gate hoping that, as it usually does in the AZ, someone would wander over to see what the ‘foreign girls’ were doing, and that person would happen to have a key. Call it fate, or just bloody good luck, that was exactly what happened, only it was 2 young men, who not only happened to ‘guard’ the complex, but who also happened to be incredibly bored out of their minds-as the day we appeared happened to fall in the middle of their 3 day guarding stint-a stint, that we later learned, was void of any form of amusement outside reading the Koran and bludgeoning to death the occasional snake. Initially suspicious, the young men, quickly realized that giving a ‘tour’ would likely make the next few house pass swiftly and lift the dull stupor of watching 25 acres of left over soviet factory slowly rot away. We spent the next 2 hours wandering around the factory-the guys telling us their life stories and throwing endless questions our way-to ensure we had no doubt as to their manliness, they also gave several dramatic accounts of heroic snake battles, in which they, of course were the victors. Since there are only so many ways to photo pealing paint and rust, we ended the day sitting around a small table in their painfully desolate ‘office’ drinking chy with the stern look of HA in a picture frame watching us-survey says HA would have approved. Eventually working up the courage, the young men shyly asked if we would pose for pictures-figuring that a portrait swap was the perfect way to build cross cultural relations/understanding (etc. etc) we posed for mobile portraits, flashing our best pearly whites. Azra and I have portraits of the 2 young men, they are 21 and 25, both had never met a German or American before, they look much older, they try to look stern, but eventually crack smiles-they beg us to not leave, but we do, to the sound of ’Sag ol! at our backs, we make a graceful exit that is nearly ruined by a banshee Kamaz driver…

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

(Lomo prints posted here in Dec.)