The Phone: Mobile Networks in Post-Soviet Azerbaijan

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Nokia-Phone-SimSim-Azercell-Azerbaijan-Saray-The-Brief-Note-2012-Travel My first phone. A Nokia with awesome battery life AND a flashlight. Along with my first Azercell SimSim pre-paid card (And my toes). Saray, Azerbaijan

 

The phone has become a ubiquitous feature of contemporary life. Mobile technology is becoming a hallmark of many development projects. The African continent, for instance, is celebrated for advances in the use of cellular phones as a medium of payment in remote areas. Building off the Soviet infrastructure, Azerbaijan prides itself on a mobile network with expansive coverage of the country. Recent marketing stunts include trips to Mt. Bazarduzu – the tallest point in the Republic – by Nar Mobile and Azercell, proving their cell service reaches to the most hard to reach.

A quick jaunt through Baku, and out into the regions reveals advertisement for phone companies enjoys a bulk share of public space. Even entire train lines in the Baku city metro are covered in the purple banner of one of the major companies. Three mobile providers dominate the Azerbaijani cell phone market: Bakcell, the first mobile company established in 1995; Azercell, the largest mobile company established two years later; and Azerfon, the newest company founded in 2007 operating the brand Nar (meaning pomegranate in Azerbaijani). Each company working with GSM technology, with each boasting 4G data packages by the end of the year.

Azercell Azercell Advertisement in Fountain Square above the Sunset Cafe, with Moonrise in the background. Baku, Azerbaijan

According to the Teliosonera website (majority owner of Azercell, and many other mobile providers),  the mobile penetration is a whopping 115% – based on my experience, this makes a lot of sense. My first host brother gave me both his Azercell and Nar Mobile numbers, which I didn’t understand at the time – I assumed one was a work phone, but then I didn’t know why he didn’t just give me his personal number. It turns out, having more than one cell number is one of many strategies local Azerbaijanis use to save money.

Similar to the States, phone companies give discounts to in-service phone calls and SMS. It turned out, most of my friends have at least two numbers (often with two phones, but some people have phones that accept multiple sim cards). Generally, most people have pre-paid plans through one of the companies. “Contour” is an out-phased marketing scheme, but is still used widely to refer to the amount of money on a particular phone. People will refer to being “out of contour” or ask people to “buy some contour” or even “gift contour” from their balance by SMS. All phone plans only charge the subscriber when the send, but not receive SMS and calls. Using Azercell’s “ZengEtCell” feature (lit: RingCell), a pre-paid customer who has depleted their supply of contour can send an SMS for free with a short sentence requesting a callback. You can send 7 of these a day. Often in lieu of your name or number, people will text a brief note – maybe just a “Yes” or “No.” Azercell also allows subscribers to send SMS from their online account – 10 free per day. (I used this feature to have free texts sent from the US – gave my login info to friends back in the States and they were able to send my phone an SMS for free from their computers.)

A little later on I discovered many people “VZV” – which is an onomatopoeia for a “qisa zeng” or “short call.  This either lets you know a persons sees you, or maybe asking for a callback. Just one, quick ring so they can conserve kontor. Once while riding the bus to Baku, one of my friends kept VZV-ing me – everytime I called back he wouldn’t answer. I assumed he was “butt-dialing” me, but in after a few minutes a felt a tap on my shoulder. He was on the bus and was trying to get me to look back at him.

Azercell, Azerbaijan One of over a dozen Azercell stores in a town of about 12,000. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan

When we first arrived in country, our cultural and language teacher took our passports and acquired our first phones and pre-paid Azercell SimSim cards. Cellphone sellers are one of the most common sites in nearly every nook of the country – this includes dedicated Azercell, Bakcell or Nar Mobile stores – or people who offer numbers and phones on the side. Purple and red charge up cards for pre-paid plans are usually scattered throughout the streets, and make up a large percentage of litter. Nearly any store that sells something sell charge-up cards. Prepaid subscribers can charge-up online (that is if they have an Azerbaijan International Bank account).

Azercell mobile phone store in Zaqatala, Azerbaijan. One of a dozen Azercell stores in a town of about twelve thousand. Convenience store with advertisements for Nar, Sim and Bakcell cards. Baku, Azerbaijan

Discussing phones with a good friend, he recalled an acquaintance who landed a nice, cushy bank job. He found himself the target of ridicule over the phone he was using. An expensive phone was a status symbol, and one that should reflect the status of the job. This man eventual broke down and purchased a touch-screen smart phone. My first phone was a small, very common Nokia tank known as a “soapbar.”

Generally speaking, phone plans in Azerbaijan are significantly cheaper than in the States. The price for a pre-paid number is 5 AZN ($6.36), however, this price may change depending on the phone number. It seems that numbers that are easier to remember are more expensive – I’ve also heard that “lucky” numbers might cost more, but I can’t substantiate this claim. After purchasing a number – you can add “contour” that can be put toward per use purchase, or buy discounted packages. For instance, the fifty-SMS package can be purchased for just about $1.15. For one full year (excluding the cost of the phone) on Azercell’s GencSim prepaid plan, I paid a total of 98 AZN which comes to about $10.40 per month. For the year, I used about eleven-hundred text messages and seven months of data (3200 mb total) while I had a smart phone (Samsung Galaxy S II).  I generally purchased the smallest data package of 200mb, (unused data and text rolled over if you purchased another package before the expiration of the previous) and found it difficult to even come close to using all my data with normal use. For about four cents, I could send texts back to the States, but only for AT&T and Sprint (not Verizon, which most in Montana tend to have). For about sixteen cents, I sent messages to a Softbank  phone in Japan.

The mobile phone industry in Azerbaijan seems to be making leaps and bounds in expansion and sophistication. Azercell, for instance, is even one of the largest tax payers. However, these developments are not without blemish. For instance, the industry is accused of being, at best, an oligopoly. The most recently established firm, Azerfon, for instance, is believed to be majority owned by President Aliyev’s daughters through a shady network of holding companies registered in Panama. Azerfon’s is also believed to have acquired the country’s first 3G license without following the proper legal avenues.

These private companies are also believe to be in cahoots with government surveillance. According to a report, Azerbaijani authorities put “black boxes” on Azercell towers that can be used “enabling security agencies to monitor all mobile communications in real-time.”  The people I discussed this topic with were not surprised, it was a common assumption that the government monitored most electronic communications, and Amnesty International corroborates this view.

Kazbegi-Gergeti-Glacier-Mountaineering-Texting-Phone-Summit-The-Brief-Note-Stepantsminda-Georgia-2012 Texting from twelve thousand feet at Bethelmi Hut at the foot of the great Mt. Kazbek. Stepantsminda, Republic of Georgia.

Most of the companies also partner with mobile providers in neighboring countries, such as Azercell and Georgia’s Geocell (also owned by TelioSonera). While, climbing Mt. Kazbek – at the Meteo Station – I was able to text my partner in Okinawa, Japan (some 4680 miles away) with my Azercell sim card while roaming on Geocell for about eighteen cents (USD). (For a complete list of roaming partners checkout GSM world) To call and text cell phones back home – once I had a solid internet connection in my home in Azerbaijan – I primarily use Google Voice, occasionally Skype. Others used Magic Jack. If you are traveling through Azerbaijan, purchasing a phone with a pre-paid plan is definitely feasible and economical.

Distance and the Dilemma of Greetings and Farewells

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Heydar-Aliyev-Waving-Good-Bye-Baku-Train-Station-Farewell-The-Brief-Note The former president, Heydar Aliyev, waving goodbye to train passengers at the Baku Central Train Station.

“Mobility is a fact of life” Tim Cresswell states in his geography treatise: On the Move: Mobility in the Modern Western World. In many ways, this mobility becomes a paradox in the frame of development. As Cresswell points out, movement is a token of progress – we want mobility, we want to shuffle off the chains of stagnant tradition, of poverty, debt and disease. Mobility is freedom. To a certain extent we romanticize movement, the liberated soul, the adventurer. On the other hand, mobility can be painful and deviant. We are forced to leave behind loved-ones. Live surrounded by strangeness. History recounts many tales of raiding marauders attacking agrarian-states, and contemporary stories of shady vagabonds and traveling killers and the denigration of “carnies” and Gypsies. In the United States, finally “settling down” is a sign that “you’ve arrived,” while many consider it a city’s duty to clean the transients from the streets.

High-mountain summer pastures called yaylaq A high-mountain summer pasture called “yaylaq” in Azerbaijani. Çoban (shepherds) take their sheep up to yaylaq around May, and return to the city in a massive exodus in late September.

In Azerbaijan, there are still seasonal nomads – the çoban (shepherds) – who lead their flock to the “yaylaq” or high-altitude summer pastures. Many çoban move between the borders of Azerbaijan and and the Russian Daghestan – on remote mountain passes, difficult to guard. Many still traverse through the Şahdağ National Park – the most isolated part of Azerbaijan. And there are those Azerbaijanis who move to Baku from the regions or even Moscow seeking greater opportunity. Still, many live very nearby, where many generations ago their “nəsil” (patrilineal family) harvested hazelnuts and chestnuts, fired-up təndir ovens, and tended to the livestock. It is tradition for women to leave their family, sometimes moving only a few kilometers, but moving, nonetheless. For mothers seeing off their daughters, it is a great emotional distance. Women sometimes talk of their family’s “kənd” as a far-off land.

Thus far, my adventure has proven one thing above all: distance is relative. While, the Caucasus may not be a large physical area – this small linchpin of the world, locked between Asia, Europe, the Mid-East and the Mediterranean – crams several worlds, miles of experience, leagues of emotional depth, mountains of myths and languages, traditions and struggles – into an area not much bigger than Montana. Live here for just a short while, and you feel as if you’ve traveled the world over in memories.

For a lot of my childhood I was a bit of a nomad. And, through most of my fledgling adulthood, I’ve desired to remain that way. A necessary and unavoidable part of the flow of traveling, and tides of life are the many greetings and farewells. For modernist-nomads, the farewells seem to come sooner, as they leave behind the mostly sedentary. Forced mostly be economic hardship or opportunity to uproot and split. This is different, I would argue, than other nomadic peoples, as they had the luxury of moving as a community. Now, job-pilgrims can only hope to move as a family.

On a more interpersonal level mobility presents a deeply intimate dilemma. Leaving Azerbaijan, I realized – perhaps for the first time – that the Earth is really, really big. On many levels the world is not as flat as Thomas Friedman contends. Technology has changed the landscapes, but we are still subjects to physics and inequality. We are too aware of the caricature of super-rich folks and, maybe, they live in a reality where all things that money can buy are within their grasp. The rest of us, we can’t go anywhere, we can’t see everything, we can’t meet everyone, we can’t return to everywhere we once were. We can’t meet every old friend. We only have so much time. Movement must be prioritized.

A row boat on the Caspian Sea A row boat on the Caspian Sea (the “Xəzər” sea – in Azerbaijani). The view outside my abode the day after arriving in this foreign land.

The people of Zaqatala, Azerbaijan openly welcomed a stranger into their community and, eventually, treated me as a member of their family. As I heard many times, it was very important to be kind to the foreigner. “Respect the foreigner, he will respect you,” they told me. People passing on streets would often welcome me to Azerbaijan with a happy “xoş gəlmisiniz!” Some ask my opinions of Azerbaijan – and they were often waiting (hoping) to hear the word “qonaqpərvər” or “hospitable.” And, they did welcome me, and feed me, and offer to help many times over (as I’ve discussed before)

Most people, even those who don’t speak Azerbaijani, greet with the Arabic word for peace: “salaam” or the full “salaam alakum” meaning “peace be upon you.” In Azeri, they would quickly follow-up with “necəsiniz?” (“necəsən” for informal) or in Georgian “rogor kar?” (how are you?). Or in Caucasian Avar: kansa ruqu? (for general audiences); kansa vuqu? (for males); kansa yuqu? (for females). For the first month or two of my stay, my role was meeting new people, in Azerbaijani “salamlaşmaq.”

Over a time (shorter than I thought), the relationships transformed. Boundaries became fuzzy, cordiality dropped, but still the kindness and warmth remain. Despite such a snippet of temporal distance, many Azerbaijanis leapt fathoms in social distance. My host family and friends became closer than many of my childhood companions back home. Despite cultural and language blockades, a general agnosticism facilitated our companionship. While, perhaps most relationships are built on commonalities, we managed to form our connection around a discussion of the differences. And, there were many differences and many disagreements.

Yevlax, Azerbaijan “Yaxşı yol” on the exit from the centrally located township of Yevlax, Azerbaijan.

The ebb and flow brought that chapter to a close for me, and with it came the painful good-byes; in Azerbaijani “saqolaşmaq.” One of the first things we learned about “saq ol” or “saq olun” (for the plural/formal), is that it is used both for “thank you” and “good bye.” At first, I was confused when someone would reply to my “saq ol” with “sen da” (lit: “and you”). After I found out the literal translation it made more sense. It means “be well.” A pleasant thing to say. I soon enjoyed shooting out a “saq ol” with more frequency than my Azerbaijani counterparts (which was perhaps a bit awkward).

To the departing guest, it is also common for people to say “yaxşı yol” – which very literally means “good bye,” but in this sense “bye” is to mean: way, road or path. Have a good road. Safe journey. (now, I find it humorous that we English effectively say “road” to each other). Common Azerbaijani good-byes include: “helelik” (lit: until our next time), “goruşerik” (lit: let’s meet again) or if someone is going on a long journey, “saq salamat” (similar to “safe and sound).

Statue of Heydar Aliyev in the Capitol of Baku Azerbaijan A common site, statue of Heydar Aliyev greets the passerby in the capitol of Baku.

There is also a word in Azerbaijani that translates to “farewell,” but is only used when you will never see that person again. Good bye forever. Əlvida. They often joked that they use it when breaking up with friends. Despite its lovely sound (to my ears, anyway), it has somber connotations – it is about endings. People seldom use this word. Likewise, in Georgian, good bye is accomplished with the word “nakh’wamdis” which is closely translated as “see you later.” I never felt comfortable using it as thought it unlikely to meet most people in Georgia again. However, my good friend (hailing from an ethnically Georgian part of Azerbaijan) said that even if you might not see them again, you don’t know for sure. To say otherwise is to imply that you will actively try not to avoid meeting – and it would be offensive.

During my last two weeks in Zaqatala, many people invited me over “to guest.” No one said “əlvida.” And many friends offered their homes for my return. “It doesn’t matter if it is a year or ten,” my good friend joked “if you return to the Caucasus and don’t visit my home, our paths better never cross again!”

It’s true that not all my time here has been sunshine and butterflies, not everyone was warm and inviting, and there were many things that frustrated me, but the generosity of these people, and the charm of their history remains the most potent aftertaste. I will return. While, I can’t predict my future, I feel as though this can’t be an ending. We can’t return to everywhere we once were, but Azerbaijan, and the people of the Caucasus are forever pressed on my mind. To those mountains, and those people, this is not əlvida. This is helelik. This is nakh’wamdis. Until next time.

Dustin is a traveler and researcher trying to improve his writing. To learn more about Dustin, visit the appropriately titled About Dustin section.

Head over the helpful “How to Pronunce Azerbaijani Guide” to read the Azerbaijani words in this post.

Freeing Amirani: Development and the Caucasian Prometheus

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Mt-Kazbek-Kazbegi-Mkvinvartsverti-Republic-of-Georgia-Stepantsminda-The-Brief-Note-2012 Looking at Mt. Kazbegi from the field near the Gergeti Trinity Church. Many local Caucasian legends claim that Amirani – the Georgian Promotheus – was chained on or in this mountain to punish him for challenging god (or the gods).

 

The one year mark of living in Azerbaijan is quickly approaching. During the last month, my wanderlust was satisfied by tromping about both Georgia and Azerbaijan, and entertaining two of my favorite people. My movement was confined while working as  ‘development worker’ – so it was a relief to really step out. “Contrast” shapes the Azerbaijan-experience for a foreigner, especially when comparing Baku with the rest of the country. And on the roads through Georgia, up to Stepantsminda and through Tbilisi and back to the Caspian coast, contrast continues to be a striking theme.

 

Soviet Art, Mural in Zaqatala Azerbaijan A few interesting mosaics remain in Zaqatala, Azerbaijan. Remnants of a colorful Soviet past.

 

In the landscapes of both countries you catch the ‘development’ of the past peeking. Crumbling Soviet mosaics and effigies in disrepair dot the landscape, and tell a story of a much more colorful Soviet Union than my mind’s eye had led me to believe. However, these historical intrigues (at least to the traveler) are becoming increasingly harder to uncover. Either left to entropy, or forcefully removed by the current government project, a communist past is being churned into a new vision of modernity. Through the wreckage remnants of the influx of capitalist venture in the early nineties is also evident – many ultimately failing and leaving behind empty resorts, factories and apartments – windows removed by the rocks of passing hooligans.

Hilton Baku The recently completed 5-star Hilton faces-off with the brand new5-star Marriott – Clash of the Titans?

In Azerbaijan, the “free-market” is encouraged, but the current administration holding the reigns firmly. Baku is slowly flooding with new, tan brushed-stone, multi-story buildings (which, I’ve discussed this construction before). Many of these new buildings remain dormant. Walking a short distance from the epicenter of Icheri Sheher, I feel as though I am walking through a Montana ghost-town, when the mines dried up. Tbilisi, by contrast, seems to be letting its hair down, giving up a bit of control and the construction seems less all-encompassing and more chaotic (or organic). While the two countries seem to maintain different perspectives on the politics and process of development, it feels, to the casual passerby, that their visions of shiny, brightly-lit modernity are similar.

 

Engulfed in this milieu the story of Prometheus tickles to be remembered. Well, that and, my recent mountaineering trip to one of the the famed peaks upon which the Titan is fabled to be chained. Before coming to the Caucasus, in the pages of many books that prepared me for my master’s thesis research, the name Prometheus was a prominent installment. An ancient cultural trope that for some reason still packed a potent punch of germane imagery for our contemporary world. I re-encountered this Greek myth when I first read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein several years ago, as the subtitle reads “Or, the Modern Prometheus.” Since then it has stuck with me as an intriguing lens through which to view the very notions of “progress” and “development.” And, about the drama of change and hubris.

Amirani The text reads “Amirani” in the Georgian alphabet. Stolen from the Facebook page of the Georgian bottled water company Bojormi.

It’s likely that the myth of Prometheus originated in the Caucasus mountains sometime between 3000-2000 BCE, although theomachists – a fancy name for a hero that goes against the gods or god – are a common mythical being. For instance, in the Matarisvari in the Vedic religions, Maui in Polynesia, Mheri in Armenia or the score of angels in the apocryphal Biblical “Book of Enoch.” And, of course, Prometheus of the Greeks, the fire-stealing Titan chained to a mountain where an eagle daily dined on his liver, only to grow back. Stories of theomachist often embody the emotions of cultures in transition, either new religions, imperial conquests or technological transformation.

A statue of Amirani, the Georgian Prometheus A brand new statue of Amirani in Tbilisi, unveiled in 2007. Stolen from the Ukrainian Wikipedia page on Amirani

In several places Georgia honors their native hero, for instance a modern statue of Amirani in the capitol of Tbilisi or an older statue located somewhere near Sighnaghi near the Azerbaijani border. (Interestingly, the former statue was dedicated to the Promothean project, a Poland initiative to support ethnic identity movements to weaken the Russian Empire, and later the Soviet Union.)

According to Legends of the Caucasus by David Hunt, over 44 different Prometheus stories have been identified in the region. The myth is most prominent in the northwestern regions of Abhkazian, Chechen, Ossetian lore,  and in the Georgian language this hero is known as Amirani (ამირანი). As the Greeks are known to interact with what is know the Republic of Georgia, via the shores of the Black Sea, many believe that several Greek myths are derived from the diversity of Caucasian cultures (including those fierce female warriors, the Amazons).

 

 

The story itself varies greatly from region to region. The kernel that ties these tales together are the motifs of societal change, opposition to authority (God), as well as technology (Fire) and hubris. Our hero goes up against a great power and, despite great accomplishment, is left to suffer. In each case the hero outwits some being of great strength. In some stories he is tricked by his pride to suffer, and in other stories he willingly gives his life as a sacrifice, for the good of mankind. In current mythos, this great power – stripped bear of its divinity – is the great unknown. The future. Despite strong efforts to predict tomorrow, uncertainty remains. As a social scientist, I am aware that the sciences are much better at explaining what happened, but much less successful at explaining what will happen

 

For better or worse, the world is far to complicated to control on any grand scale. Development does not always distribute the costs and benefits equally. Poverty amidst plenty being the epitome. Some may argue that human progress should be a quest to reach into the future and pluck out the pain and suffering.  Others long for days past. Still others want things to stay the same. Maybe they are simply content with the present, or perhaps they fear the consequences of trying to tame fate. But most, I would argue, wish to free Amirani.

A lot of Ladas and Road Safety (in Azerbaijan)

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

MoskovichGreen-The-Brief-Note An early model Moskovitch outside the butcher shop. Zaqatala Rayon, Azerbaijan.
In Azerbaijan, there are a lot of Ladas – and the concentration increases shortly after exiting the Baku city limits. Most are obvious Soviet-era legacies, with forty, fifty, and even sixty year old cars still trucking along the magistral (main highway). These historical gems include Volgas, Moschovichs and Ladas – the most abundant model being the “Zhiguli” (in Cyrillic: Жигули. The “Ж” or ”Zh” is pronounced with the “su” sound in pleasure). These small, inexpensive, easy to fix cars (with parts easily attained), make up the vast majority of cars in Azerbaijan. Even still, popular European luxury cars are on the rise – nearly all the police cars, for instance, are BMW – and Mercedes, Ferrari, Jaguar, Audi, Lexus and the like are not uncommon sites even 400 km from the capitol. As one of my local, wealthier friends told me, buying a fancy European car is a milestone in a (wealthy) man’s life – a sign that you’ve arrived.
Old and New - Ladas in Azerbaijan Comparison - The-Brief-Note-2012 Older era Zhigulis drive next to late model luxury sedans.
Zaqatala, Azerbaijan 2012.
Not a month ago, while in Baku, a good friend of mine was giving me the rundown of “car lingo” and this was the first time I’d ever heard the word “Zhiguli” – my western counterparts called them all Ladas. Specifically, the Zhiguli is a particular era of Lada, which covers the early 60′s to about the early 90′s within the USSR. The Soviet manufacturer AvtoVAZ made a deal with the Italian company Fiat for the base model that became the Zhiguli – small, compact, stripped of most luxuries – a true “people’s car” – but was built like a tank, with hefty suspension. Notorious for breaking down, but valued for being easily fixed. The different types or years of Zhiguli are known colloquially by different numbers with “one” and “eleven” being earlier cars, and “five,” “six,” and “seven” being later models.
Zhiguli Emblem, Azerbaijan The “Zhiguli” Emblem on Soviet Ladas. Zaqatala Rayon, Azerbaijan
During the 50s and 60s there was considerable debate in the Soviet Union over the purpose and meaning of personal car ownership. Specifically, was personal mobility a right, a sign of development and a necessity, or would it further the cause of individualism, show status and inequality and (pardon the pun) drive people apart. During the 60s personal cars in the Soviet Union increased drastically, where as before manufacturing focused on vehicles that could haul a load (such as the Kamaz).
 In Azerbaijan you will find a range of emotions toward Ladas. One of my cab drivers told me of his 30 year love affair with his Zhiguli, which always got the job done.  Another time while attempting to drive to a somewhat isolated town in the mountains of Sheki in a newer Opel SUV, Zhigulis rocketed passed us on the washed out road, and steep dirt trails. Not everyone loves them, though. Earlier this year, regulation banned the import of “sub-standard” cars – specifically targeting the Zhiguli. More recently,  new legislation will also make it near impossible to register Zhigulis – due to the fact they don’t have airbags and anti-lock brakes.
A friend of mine informed me that the real reason they are trying to ban the Zhiguli is because of “avtoş” culture. This was later confirmed by another friend who said that “avtosh” particularly love the lightweight “seven” model, and they are easy to modify. To make the car “dance,” for instance, they take the springs out of the 4X4 Niva, and replace the seven’s suspension. This was the first time I’d heard the word “avtosh” –  slang for the primarily young (18-22 year old) boys in Azerbaijan (primarily Baku) who push cars to the limits. A standard trick would be to drive the car on two wheels – preferably with “Seni sevirəm” (I love you) written in lights on the undercarriage – or simply to race around the maze of streets in the capitol.
The model seven Zhiguli You can tell the model “seven” Zhiguli from the rectangular headlights. As they are popular among “avtosh,” my friend advises to run when you see them coming! Baku, Azerbaijan.
Others feel that the recent changes in registration directly target the lower classes in Azerbaijan, as Zhiguli is what they can afford. Looking at  a few snippets surrounding the debate (in addition to conversations I’ve had) would indicate that concepts of social class permeate car culture in Azerbaijan. For instance, a spokesman for the national traffic police addressed the avtosh problem, by saying: “Most of those involved are middle-class, and not the children of oligarchs, as people often say.” When discussing the ban on Zhiguli in general, Vice speaker of Parliament said “I call Zhiguli cars the killers which are mainly used by drivers with low social status, not knowing the rules of the road.” Overall, it seems as though the current administration is taking yet another step toward cleansing the “tarnished” alleyways of Azerbaijan – and appealing to the “generalized elite” of the world.
Early on, the security liaison for the US Embassy informed us that driving was the most dangerous part of Azerbaijan – to sink the point home he showed us YouTube clips of people getting hit by cars. As I previously worked on a research project involving danger on the roads (specifically DUIs in Montana), I decided to run the numbers and see if Azerbaijan was indeed full of unsafe roads.
Traffic Fatalities by Population Traffic Fatalities by Population. Please note: From the data available it is difficult to standardize, for instance, fatalities per miles driven would be the best method, but I only had total population. This also doesn’t account for recent trends (up or down), or reporting standards. Take with a grain of salt.
According to a recent Men’s Health article, Houston has some of the most dangerous drivers - it also has similar population and density to Baku, so I used it as a comparison. You will see that Azerbaijan as a whole is equal to Texas, and close to the US, but Baku itself (at least in 2009) is a higher than all the others at 18 deaths per 100,000 people. This is still lower than the state of Alabama in 2012, which according to a recent article, had an estimated 21.7 deaths per 100,000 people. The high numbers in Baku also implies that the roads are safer elsewhere in the country (where the majority of Zhigulis are driven) – in fact on par with the US.
Despite my (highly scientific!) analysis, it doesn’t remove that fact that –  as a foreigner – I was subjectively uncomfortable around the roads for several months into my stay in Azerbaijan. In addition to my discomfort, the drivers also earned a great deal of my respect. In Montana we often quip “road laws are mere suggestions,” but that is usually because the only witnesses are cows and deer. Here drivers tend to be loose when it comes to the formal laws, but seem to speak their own car-language when negotiating order on the roads. Using lights, horns, the cars position – and the unwritten rules of the road – people are able to safely complete the vast majority of trips.
The Soviet-era Volga. The Soviet-era Volga. Zaqatala Rayon, Azerbaijan.
Perhaps far more interesting (to me), is the more inter-subjective side of driving – the fact that drivers and pedestrians are able to negotiate space, and despite the lack of formal rules – or rather the lack of respect for those formal rules – order emerges. Being someone who grew up around cars, and with many miles under my belt, I am hyper-aware when drivers do things – often very minute things – that I would do differently. (And somehow they always manage to find extra space, where I see none.) This made me realize that driving skills are perhaps less about handling your car, and more about reacting to everyone else’s driving. But alas, that is a big topic that I will perhaps broach elsewhere.

Summer heat: ‘Bathing in Tea’ or ‘Swiming in the River’

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Armudu glass, Azerbaijan tea The traditional “arumudu” glass (lit: pear-like), helps keep the tea hot until the last drop. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan.
Right now it is pretty-darn-tootin-hot – and as I am a cold weather person – it has required some painful (whiny) adjustment on my part. The (hot) tea, is not one of them.
Writing about tea in Azerbaijan is a daunting undertaking. Tea is everywhere, and always. A phrase I’ve heard when refusing a second glass of tea is “Çay nedir, say nedir,” which literally translates as “What is tea, what are numbers?” Meaning, roughly, you shouldn’t count the glasses – just keep drinking (like a river).
Most Azerbaijanis feel tea to be an important part of daily life and this too is a question I often get: “do you like tea?” Luckily, I do. Tea in these parts is so very much the “big show” that The Economist even wrote about the quest for a great cup of Azerbaijani tea.
According to one article, Azerbaijanis drink a considerable amount of tea – something like 2.5kg per capita – which puts it high on the world list of tea drinkers (can’t imagine drinking more tea in a day). The usual cup of çay (pronounced ‘chai’ but nothing like the coffeeshop namesake), is a black tea grown in the northwestern region of Zaqatala or the southeastern regions of Lenkeren and Astara – and, I’m told the northwest is the best (by those from the northwest, of course). Tea production has declined considerably in the last couple decades – obviously certain events have shaking things up around here (such as the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the conflict with Armenia). From 134,000 hectares in 1985 to just 8000 hectares in 2011 (and productivity dropped from 43300 kg to 9800 kg per hectare, according to the State Statistical Committee).
The zavarka, thick brew, tea, azerbaijan, the brief note Very dark, thick brew settles at the bottom awaiting some hot water to dilute the mix. The darker the “dəm,” the less is added.

Back in Montana,  tea preparation involved either those bags of tea soaked in hot water, or the giant jar set out in the sun. In Azerbaijan, tea preparation is a bit more involved. First, the tea leaves are put into a small kettle called “çaynik,” along with just-boiled water – the tea itself isn’t boiled. For best result, the çaynik  should be ceramic. The tea leaves soak to form a rich, dark broth called dəm (or sometimes the Russian “zavarka“), and this is used throughout the day. The dəm is also referred to as “the color” (rəng) – for instance, someone might ask for a little more “color” in their tea.  The dark brew is poured less than halfway into a glass, and then topped off with freshly boiled, scalding water.  The water is usually the product of a somewhat larger tea-kettle (çaydan).

Pouring from the chaydan into the zavarka Diluting the “dəm” with fresh boiled water from the “çaydan.”
Another option for your boiled water needs is the samovar. Now, samovars are big deals around here, some older models sell for a small mountain of manat. Samovars are common in other tea-drinking cultures, like Morocco or Russia, but there is evidence that the Caucasian region is the primordial birthplace. While attending a “yaz” (a mourning ceremony occurring over the course of several days after someone’s passing), the water was prepared in these tall, fat, metal samovars. (At many funerals, tea is the only beverage served.) My friend informed me that most people consider the tea better if prepared with a samovar – and, he added, some people will claim they can tell the difference. Every once in a while, I do have an exceptionally good cup of tea, so maybe?

Even after living here for the short-while that I have, tea is infused with my daily routine, I’m even a bit bummed if I fail to imbibe at least once a day. When trying to make connections, and get to know people – grabbing tea is a valuable ritual. Most will offer when you walk through the door, and if you refuse, they may assume you are being polite and bring you some anyway. As a guest, many interactions in the street will involve an invitation for tea. Men set up wood boxes with tea beside the road, and drink outside small shops, or behind the counter at the butcher. Çayxana (lit: the place with tea; Tea-house or tea-room) are dotted throughout small and large towns alike. Most are modest open-air shops, with plastic lawn furniture, but some are set up like a pub and serve food. Generally, 1 AZN is enough for one full round of tea with all the trappings. During the day, jobless men and retirees populate the çayxana, many playing dominoes or nard (similar to backgammon). In my region, women and families tend to come out later in the summer evenings, and the party dies down around midnight.

Even more consistent than fruit murabba, the sugar cubes, the pear-shaped glasses, the lemon slice and the saucer is the temperature. Tea must be served hot. If the tea gets cold (because I am gabbing instead of guzzling), it’s not uncommon for the host to throw out the tea and serve more. My ears have captured several reasons as to why. The first one, was because drinking cold tea contributes to weight gain, unfortunately my language skills were poor and the causal explanation was lost. I vaguely remembering something, somewhere in my life references the weight-loss impact of drinking hot tea after a meal, but alas, my search was futile. (Searching Google Scholar, it would appear there is surprisingly large amount of studies looking at the connection between tea and weight, however there is no meta-analysis and I’m not going to read all those studies.)

breakfast tea in azerbaijan the brief note dustin stoltz A typical morning sight. My usual “stəkan” of tea and fresh bread in the background, honey to the side.
The scalding hot tea became a much looked-forward-to morning ritual of mine. That light burning on the tongue smacks me in the face, and leaves my tail bushy. The tea stayed scalding hot even when the weather was equally blazing, which I somehow failed to notice (the tea, not the weather). This reminded me of yet another something, somewhere about chili peppers being paradoxically more common in hotter parts of the world because they cool you down. Assuming this was the case in Azerbaijan, and contently drank my hot beverage.
It is not very often that I am not asking questions about life in Azerbaijan, but it seems the great Flying Spaghetti Monster (among other things) really wants me to get answers anyhow. In the span of a few weeks, three of my local friends felt compelled to tell me why the tea is always hot: “at first you will get hot, but after ten or fifteen minutes it will cool you down.” And then, NPR writes a short article about both the chili peppers and the hot tea! As it turns out, ice-cold drinks (in general) might be a strange American idiosyncrasy (anyone from another part of the world, feel free to chime in).
Slightly off topic: If in Baku, and you have some money burning a hole in your trousers, a great dining experience is the Asian-Mediterranean restaurant “Chinar” – named after the enormous, ancient hardwood trees – next to the new Azerbaijan Carpet Museum. It is here that you can sample an interest tea-experience – the “Secret Blossoming Tea,” which are hand-tied, and open when placed in the water to steep.
Secret Blossoming Tea chinar Restuarant Baku Azerbaijan The Brief Note The “Secret Blossoming Tea” comes in several varieties and runs about 5.50 AZN, and comes with tasty cream-puffs. Chinar Restaurant, Baku, Azerbaijan
And to top it off, I leave you with a funny story of linguistic befuddlement. One time after coming home from hiking in the mountains, my host mother asked me “çayda çimdin?” I was terribly confused. While I knew the dictionary definition of these words, I was used to hearing these words in two very separate contexts. One meaning of “çayda” is “in tea” and one meaning of “çimdin?” is “did you bathe?” At first, I thought I stumbled onto a whole ‘nother level of tea culture. Well, “çay” is also “river” and the verb “çimmek” can also be used for “to swim.” My translation: “did you bathe in tea?”  What she was really asking: “did you swim in the river?” I suppose, anything I can do to beat the summer heat.


Caucasian hospitality: Being a guest in a country of hosts

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

There are a few predictable questions most people ask you, after “Where are you from?” it is often “What do you think of Azerbaijan?” There is sometimes a tinge of self-consciousness in their voice – some very unsure what you may say, and pleased when I respond with “Azərbaycan çox xoşuma gəlir” (I really like Azerbaijan). Then they delve into the specifics, and often will ask if the people of Azerbaijan are “qonaqpərvər” or “qonaqpərəst” (hospitable). And, they most definitely are. This sort of a hospitality is not just those who invite me over to there home, but also those in the market or on a bus. It seems that most people feel that as I am a “qonaq” (guest) to Azerbaijan, all (or at least many) people are responsible for my wellbeing.

 

Prior to coming, I stumbled on a few articles about the unparalleled hospitality of the peoples of the Caucasus. In my experience, these accounts have mostly discussed the idealized form of this hospitality – what the host ought to do, and the rituals and history involved – but little has caught my eye discussing the actual form it takes. This joviality toward foreign strangers is a special form of “gift-giving” as, many anthropologists and sociologists have note, giving a gift often locks individuals and families into networks of mutual support and indefinite reciprocity. Gifts, and kindness toward the foreigner, I would argue, is of a different sort as they are ephemeral relationships.

 

During my time in-country, I have experienced the much-discussed “guesting,” where an invited (or uninvited) guest comes over to be treated to a full course of meals and treats. When visiting friends, I’m sure to be quick, lest the host rustle something up before I can protest. One time, I was tricked into a full meal – first the invitation for just one glass of tea, then a few sweets, then bread and vegetables, and before long “just a small meal” which filled me for the day. Even more interesting than this (for me at least) is the hospitality that occurs outside the home.

 

DrinkingTeaChaySpringCaucasus-Dustin-Stoltz-The-Brief-Note-2012 Drinking some Zaqatala tea at the foot of the Caucasus mountains.

 

On a snowy January day, I moseyed through the local bazaar, on a futile search for postcards (I have only found a few in Baku). It was cold and a group of men huddled around a fire (behind a sad collection of fruits). My odd clothes, and (at the time) rather large beard alerted them, and I overheard them say “American.” Turning, I locked eyes and they called me over. We made small talk about where I am from and what I was doing here, and not long they rushed me into a very nondescript shop. It turned out to be a cafe – it had a few small plastic tables, and the walls were a light, pastel green-blue. The overcast sky, and the layers of jackets dampened the scene, while two tables of middle-aged men chatted and drank tea. Before I could say much of anything they told me to sit and eat (and mimed eating to drive the point home). A small metal pan, about five inches across was placed in front of me, with chunks of lamb, onion and cilantro still sizzling in butter. Topped off with delightful, fluffy, fresh bread, and tea. Our discussion lead from sports, to family, to the poor job market in Azerbaijan, none of them men had jobs aside from selling small produce (and I assumed one of them had owning interest in the cafe). Despite the talk of no jobs and low wages, they adamantly refused my money, despite insisting.

 

Bazaar-the-brief-note-open-air-vegetables Twice, this seller has given me a kilo of plums. Zaqatala Rayon

 

Several trips on the train involved people offering me food – one I’ve already recounted in my post on the Azerbaijan railways. In fact, only once have I not received food from fellow passengers, and I have a suspicion that riding in the cheapest class (plaskart) will increase the chances of getting fed.

 

On when recent trip, I sat on the top bunk of in plaskart class reading, while a middle-aged couple sat below me. We had exchanged the usual conversation, and I had read in silence for an hour, before they produced a loaf of bread and the man didn’t ask, but more-or-less told me to come down and eat. I’ve grown so accustomed to this, that I didn’t even try to protest, I hopped down, and reluctantly grabbed a chunk of bread. The women then produced a bag, wrapped around a cloth with five pieces of fried chicken, she waved a hand toward the food and told me to “ye, ye” (eat, eat). We ate in silence and I conscientiously slowed my chewing, trying my best to eat very little of their food. Realizing returning to my bunk would be awkward, I excused myself to the bathroom, and upon returning I offered the couple some of the cookies from my bag. They refused.

 

Even further removed from the host-guest paradigm is the “hospitality” of sellers. One of my local friends and I often discuss the strong sense of reciprocity in Azerbaijan. Family and close friends tend to help each other with little forethought – it is expected.  When it comes to a persons profession, however, my friend tries to refuse their goodwill. If it is a persons’ livelihood, how they feed their family, then he would rather not accept their gifts. I would tend to agree, but often people are very persistent, even after my equally persistent insistence.

 

The winter wonderland of Qax Rayon Azerbaijan The winter wonderland of Qax Rayon Azerbaijan

 

During the winter months, my masochistic feet decided to take my person for a very long walk to the next town east. Along the way, various tarp-huts next to small cars, sold hazelnuts by the kilo. My path was on the opposite side of the street, but my blue attire against the pale backdrop roused their interests, and they enthusiastically waved me over. Without asking, they poured a cup of tea out of a thermos (which reminded me of the puke-green Coleman thermos my dad touted around during my childhood). They handed me three cubes of brown sugar cubes, and we got down to the matter of what-the-hell I was doing walking around in the middle of winter, in the mountain back-roads. After the hot tea and the conversation, I felt more inclined to purchase a pile of hazelnuts  (which, my American mindset assumed was the point of the hospitality all along). They filled a large, clay-orange bucket with nuts from a large white sack, and asked me where they should dump it – not having an extra bag, the hazelnuts found there way into the spaces between the extra layers in my backpack (I rattled when I walked).

 

Per usual, I asked how much. They refused. I handed them money. They pushed it away. I said I must pay and he replied that God would reward him. After a while you stop trying so hard to refuse people’s offers of kindness, and just look for opportunities to help someone else.

 

Summer in Qax A change of season. Qax, Rayon, Azerbaijan

 

Cherries, Apricots, Alcha and Other Sweet Things

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Assortment of jam's for tea. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan Assortment of jam’s for tea. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan
Walking to work, the distinct smell of fermenting white and black tut (mulberries) follows, and I can feel them underfoot. I don’t even try to avoid them, they are far too numerous – in the sidewalk and the street. This is my first experience with this fruit tree (though I’ve heard plenty of “mulberry wine” references.) One of the days I’m feeling unwell, my host mother picks a batch from the yard, boils them in a giant, steep-sided pot into a thick syrup. Giving me some with tea, she tells me – like orange juice or echinacea back home – it is a good stomach dərman (medicine).

While much of what I learned leading up to and including the first few weeks in Azerbaijan has proved to be overstated, two things have definitely persisted: tea and fruit. Now that spring has given way to summer, and blossoms to fruit, a lush array of fresh-made mürəbbə (a type of syrupy jam with junks of fruit) drips off my spoon into scalding tea. Another thing we learned early on, from many proud Azerbaijanis, is that the country has 8 climatic zones, which in turn means a rich diversity of flavors are grown in all corners. The meyva (fruit) is so diverse, that in many ways promoting nar (pomegranate) as symbolic of Azerbaijan is a disservice. Feyxoa (a feijoa or pineapple guava), əncir (fig) or heyva (quince), among others, could just as easily take the throne as national fruit.

During my training period, where I desperately struggled to get a grasp on a language so incredibly different from my own, my host family kindly picked pomegranates and figs for me from their yard, and inquired whether I liked it, and whether we had them in in the States. Admittedly, I’d never even seen a fig that was not in the form of a Fig Newton – an interesting green exterior and bright purple interior with an even more interesting texture. It was also in this first family that I tasted ağ pendır (white cheese, usually salty and smooth), with tart, apricot-orange jam on fresh bread – heaven in my mouth.

When winter hit, the preserves lasted for a while, and at my new home in the north, honey replaced the jam. Like so much else, the honey has a strong seasonal quality, changing flavor with the changing flowers. My host family lent me my own jar of honey, kept warm next to the peç (stove) so it would be ready to sweeten my tea.

Stand in the town bazaar selling fruits and vegetables. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan Stand in the town bazaar selling fruits and vegetables. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan

This winter was wet with heavy snow, and this spring and summer continued to bring moisture – from what I hear, it is much more than in past years. This leads to an interesting problem: there is a lot of fruit. This is wonderful for me. Fruit is abundant, and cheap. During a late-night stroll around 10pm (about the time everyone goes for a stroll in the cool evening) I passed a man sitting next to a small table – selling prepackaged cookies for 20 qəpik, and watermelon for 40 qəpik. He looked up with tired eyes, hoping I was interested. This isn’t so great for the many people who sell in the bazaar, in roadside stands or makeshift stores on sidewalks. Which, talking with a producer, brought up an interesting point: in a market economy a “bad” season is “great” for some, but a really “abundant” season is bad for everyone (except the buyers, that is.) The low prices, as I’ve heard, are also because regulations have restricted the flow of Azerbaijani fruit to Russia – that big ol’ market to the south. Mainly, making it tough for the “little guy” (of which there are many) from getting their produce through the hoops and on to Russian plates.

Most households have at least some form of fruit or nut tree. As unemployment is rather high in Azerbaijan (and widely considered the number one problem by my friends), families find other ways to make it; having a fruit tree to reduce spending is one way.  I’ve spent several evening hours perched on a ladder, picking dark cherries while the birds fight for mulberries next to me. Within a day or two, they are used up – in jam or eaten raw.  Going the extra mile to actually sell the fruit is not always lucrative, however. Often families will, instead, trade a bit of one fruit for another – some of the cherries I picked were given to a neighbor, who in turn gave us çiyələk (strawberries).

Bowl of fresh-picked Azerbaijani cherries. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan Bowl of fresh-picked Azerbaijani cherries. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan

 The first sign of spring came when alça started popping up in every stand and shop around my home. Green, a bit smaller than a golf-ball, tart and sweet - alça soon grows up to be gavalı or plums. What is interesting, is that I have had plums before, but never have I eaten alça. After all, an assumption I have about fruit, is that you eat it when it’s “ripe.” The idea that a fruit can be ripe twice in it’s lifecycle was delightfully tasty news. Sadly, alça season was short-lived, and not even a picture is left.

The Baku City Metro and the Myths of Nations

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Icheri Sheher Metro Station Escalator Descending into the Icheri Sheher Metro Station. Baku, Azerbaijan

Being a country-boy, public transportation was a late-in-life experience. My first: Washington, DC and my second: Chicago – and each time, there was little reflection on my part due to the pressing urgency of being in a big unfamiliar city. Until watching National Geographic’s “Inside North Korea” – where the travelers descend the enormous escalator into elaborate halls – the connection between national ideology and public works projects was lost on me.

At first, the Baku Metro was like my previous experiences: hurried, frantic, confusing. The confusion was mostly on my part, the setup is actually straightforward. You purchase a metro card for 2 AZN, then you “charge” the card using brightly colored kiosks. A small shelf on a square indent about waist-height coddles the card and while you insert money (coins or paper) into the machine. When finished, press the red (not the green) button on the touch screen. The metro card can be returned (only at 28 May Metro Station, I think) for a refund. Entrance is 20 qəpik (it’s free to transfer lines), which apparently makes Baku Metro the “cheapest metro in the world” according to the Metro Chief. The metro opens at 6am, and runs until 1am. (They also check bags with a wand metal detector, and might look in the top of your bag if it beeps, but the mostly could careless – at least in my experience!)

As discussed in a previous post, people will most likely not be in lines; working to the front is always easier than I imagine at the time. One time a young man peeked over my shoulder, quickly asked if something was olar (“It can be” OR “can it be?”) – then pushed a 20 qəpik into the machine. It didn’t take long for me to realize what was up – slipping through the turnstile gate, I handed the card back to him. Returning my card, he thanked me and was off. This has happened to me at least a half a dozen times. If you see people hovering around the kiosks, they are probably waiting to hop on someones card.

28 May Metro Station The 28 May Metro entrance, and one of the older woman who keep the Baku city streets clean.

If it is rush-hour, the crowding into the cars is a sight-to-behold. While, no one was overly aggressive when getting off or on, during these times I always harbor doubt that I will actually make it through the sliding doors – there seems to be a stream of people, and you either flow into the car, or get lightly cast aside. Though the US Embassy warns against thievery in Azerbaijan, I’ve heard no stories of pick-pockets – not even half-hearted rumors (yet). The Metro has two lines (red and green) which interchange at 28 May station (next to the Baku Central Train Station) a guide opposite the waiting passengers is visible when a car is not, and an LED display notes the final destination of the coming train.

Descending deep into the City’s vascular system at Içəri Şəhər Metro (formerly: Bakı Soveti – often shorten to “baksoviet”), the stainless steel escalator under the glass pyramid continues for days. A total of seven metro stations are “deep-laid” with pylon-style construction that can double as shelter during, for example, nuclear strike (or the Zombie Apocalypse). Which, these elaborate, and strong designs were common among Soviet metros. Planning and building a rapid transit system – the brute will, mechanical muscle, and calculated gusto required – was highly compatible with communist mythos (or so I’ve read). Most of the cars are painted the same dark green of the trains, and contrast strongly with the few bright red and dark purple cars advertising the two major cellphone providers: Bakcell and Azercell, respectively – an occasional juice brands. (The juxtaposition of capitalist advertisement, and communist engineer, is not lost on me.)

Baku Metro Elmler Akademiyasi The chandeliers at Elmler Akademiyasi Metro Station

A brilliant article on the subject likens the Soviet metro system to an “underground church,” where the industrial rationality of communism becomes tangible and visual, and the ideology of the worker is celebrated on the walls of each stop. In the Baku Metro, each stop has a different motif, and many are ostentatious. Making the metro stations more than just concrete and stainless steel, is a display of the success and prestige of the ruling elite, but it also has deeply “communist” roots. Improvements in public transportation, almost invariably, serve the poorer strata in a society – and in many ways the grandeur of these Metro stations, brought the luxury of the wealthy to average, working folk. For instance, the ornate chandeliers at Elmei Akedemiyasi (Academy of Sciences).

The depictions in each station tell a honed and selective story of Azerbaijan. In particular, much effort is being made to connect Azerbaijan, with a specific history, geography, and trajectory. For instance, Nizami Gəncəvi, was a 12th century Persian poet, born in a city in present-day Azerbaijan, and Nəriman Nərimanov was a true Azeri “Renaissance Man” at the beginning of the 20th century. However, the histories of the many ethnic minorities within the Azerbaijani border are left unrepresented. Some of the names still maintain an aftertaste of Soviet ideology, but have been re-purposed to fit the current administration’s “neoliberalism.” For instance, Nefçilər (Oil workers), Xalqlar Dostluğu (Friendship of Nations), İnşaatçılar (Builders) – marking the strong conflation of “development” with petroleum, construction and memberships in international organizations.

During the long life of the Baku Metro, this story has, no doubt, been tweaked. Changing the scenery reflects the changes in political landscape and also, a history that the government, more or less, wants forgotten. For instance:

  • Koroğlu (Formerly: Məşədi Əzizbəyov, renamed 2011): The Epic of Koroğlu (literally “son of the blind man”) tells about the deeds of a hero of the Turkish people who struggled against unjust rulers. Məşədi Əzizbəyov, on the contrary, was a Soviet revolutionary leader, and one of the first Azerbaijani Marxists.
  • 28 May (Formerly: 28 Aprel renamed 1991–93): On May 28th, 1918, Azerbaijan gain independence – becoming the first democratic and secular republic in the Muslim world (for more: Modern History of the Islamic World). The Bolsheviks, in need of Baku oil, sovietized Azerbaijan two years later on April 28th, 1920.
  • 20 Yanvar(Formerly: XI Gızıl Ordu Meydanı renamed 1991–93): On the 19th and 20th of January 1990 in Baku the USSR tried to squelch dissonance, up to 137 were killed. The XI Gızıl Ordu Meydanı translates to XI Red Army Square (oddly, Gızıl is “golden,” but is use to convey grandeur in this case) which commemorates those that marched into Azerbaijan in 1920 (above).
Baku Metro Nizami station, 1976 Nizami Station depicting the life of the famous poet. Baku, Azerbaijan

With any technological advancement, faith is required. After the worst tragedy in the history of metros, Bakuvians trusted the authorities to fix the problems and continued to ride. In this regard, the metro is the incarnated trust between nation and citizen: heading several meters into the earth under a bustling city center and boarding a confined metal canister being hurled through rock, iron and cement tubes requires trust. Trust in the builders, the architects, in the economic system and the policy makers.

Even more subtle than the national history carved in the cathedral-like stations, and the faith of a citizen to their nation, is what a rapid transport system represents in-and-of-itself. While borders are, more-or-less, arbitrary, the metro emerges to meet a practical need for efficiency in our “rational” world. The location of these hubs often mark the very heart within a nation in a very tactile way. In the modern nation-state, few things can embody the abstract idea of “progress” and “nationhood” quite like publicly-funded steel and concrete pumping citizens through the arteries of the metropolis. (Was that metaphor too drawn out? Yeah, I thought so. Well, at least, I didn’t call the fire in the subway “heart-burn.”)

Cold Hard Cash and Azerbaijan’s Shadow Economy

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Cash is a funny thing. At the very center, the sweet nougat, the heart and soul of “money” is trust – or, actually die-hard belief.
In our day, most people are born into a (fiat) money economy. We sell our labor (or something we produced with our labor) in the job market for a wage or salary paid in paper bits issued and guaranteed by a government. We then turn around and purchase the product of other peoples’ labor (and on and on). This, very easily taken-for-granted fixture of societies, is really breathtaking.
Millions of micro-negotiations all centered around a belief in the inherent value (within a range, of course) of money (of various sorts).
Any “thing” valued by enough people can serve as money – and this can be as few as two people (in theory). Generally, money emerges as a middle-man to compare two things that are very different. For instance, my guitar is worth 500 Oreo cookies. While it’s possible for me to trade my guitar for a heart-attack’s worth of chocolate sandwich cookies, I will “feel” that I’m getting a fair deal if I first convert both into pounds of barley, for instance. So that I can compare the two.
Montana Motor Home Traded one pig for that trailer. My parents tossed a port-o-potty in it and called it a real “Montana Motorhome.” Florence, Montana.
Without money of this sort, it is really difficult to “extract” profit. In high school, I exchanged a pig and a steer for my friend’s 1987 Ford Bronco II. As we both felt this was a fair trade, we essentially gained things of equal value – to make that easier to understand: 1 Pig + 1 Steer = 1987 Bronco II. Though they are equal in value, for each of us they were of greater utility (as I didn’t need anymore pigs, and he didn’t need another vehicle). Unfortunately, I can’t take that “surplus” worth to the store to purchase fuzzy dice for my new wheels. If I want fuzzy dice, I have to grow another pig. (Figuring out from where the “Wealth of Nations” sprouted from was a central conundrum for early political economists).

This is, of necessity, a tertiary introduction to money. It’s actually much more fascinating, complex and nuanced than the above examples let on – for further reading, I highly recommend: The Social Meaning of Money or, an oldy-but-a-goody, The Philosophy of Money

Having this incredibly liquid, “super-commodity” to compare different things becomes almost a second nature to us – we have a subconscious and emotionally charged connection to money. For this reason, one of the first things I focused on when I arrived in Azerbaijan was trying to “feel” how much the national currency was “worth.” While, one of my good friends who left to volunteer in Madagascar had the pleasure of being a “Malagasy” millionare (500 USD = 1,092,705.25 MGA), in 2006 Azerbaijan issued the New Azerbaijan Manat (AZN) to curb hyper-inflation making 1 AZN worth about 1.27 USD today. So when I checked my bank account, I saw less digits.
Roadside Seller in Azerbaijan A screaming deal on apples (3kg for 1 AZN). Saray, Azerbaijan
The good side is that 1 AZN goes a heck-of-a-lot farther than a 1.27 USD back home. For instance, I can travel about 300 km for 8 AZN by bus, or I can buy 3 kg of apples for 1 AZN, or one month of texting, calling and data on my phone for 5-7 AZN. Excluding my trip to Japan, my average daily expenditure (and I know this because I commit literally every “qəpik” to spreadsheet) is 15.60 USD per day. (It’s important to say, my situation should not be generalized to the rest of this country. This number also doesn’t account for items I brought, care packages my wonderful friends and family have sent, or the many gifts and free meals I’ve received from Azerbaijanis.)
In many economies people don’t actually see or handle most of their money. People get a check (or direct deposit) and drop it at the bank, then check the number in their accounts online. Some people write checks, many people swipe credit cards, and debit cards or wire money straight from their bank accounts, online with Paypal or even through their mobile phones (which, Africa’s development in this arena is drawing considerable hype). In Azerbaijan, however, most people tend to keep their money in the form of cold hard cash. In fact, “the ratio of the mass of cash in circulation to the monetary base is 94 percent in Azerbaijan.”
Early on in my stay in Azerbaijan, I heard that it was common for people to withdraw their entire paycheck, and heard many theories as to why. During the Soviet era people built up sizable nest eggs, but no one could withdraw that money when the Soviet Union dissolved. Years of saving, abruptly zeroed. A recent report by the Baku-based Center for Economic and Social Development, stated that the Azerbaijani government agreed to return these deposits. However, the resulting exchange rate, according to many I have spoken with, is not enough. The example the report gives, “if a depositor had deposited 15,000 rubles at the Savings Bank of the USSR, she would receive a return of AZN 1250 [~1591 USD].”
Financially, a lot of families, more-or-less, scrape by. As one of my good friends (who is not scraping by) told me, people empty their accounts because they need the cash now, they have bills to pay. And those that can, do save. As another friend told me, every family has a special hiding place, but there isn’t much to stash for long.
For all these reasons, Azerbaijan remains a fiercely “cash-in-hand” marketplace. Perhaps even more interesting is the value of small money. On more than one transaction my twenties and up have been refused for smaller money. In a rare instance, I waited in the bazaar while the attendant rustled up some change from other sellers. And, if you are planning on traveling around the cities via bus and marshrutka, you’d better have a pocketful of qəpik. Though if you are asked to pay anything less than a ten qəpik, it is a sign you are in a metropolitan area – in the “regions” sellers and shops tend to like a nice round number to their prices. (I still have a three qəpik received while in Sumqayit city six months ago.)
As an aside, though trust in paper money is strong in Azerbaijan, it can easily be called into question by a small tear. Three or four times, the seller asked me for different bills (I, of course, turned around and used the same ones elsewhere). The bills themselves are works of art, each having different colors and sizes – which is handy feature for determining what denomination the papers in your wallet are.

Shoe Repairmen Small metal hut for a shoe repairer. Zaqatala, Azerbaijan

A strong cash economy has pros and cons from an economic development standpoint. On one hand, people are able to toss around goods and services with ease. Any home that grows fruits and vegetables can sell a few right out the door and any car can pick up a traveler and charge a fee. It’s common to see small metal huts with “shoe repairer” (ayaqqabı təmirçi) painted across the top, roadside stands, or people parked on the side of the road with trunks full of pomegranates. Or, even, bathtubs with BALIQ (fish) on the side for passing cars to see.

With this, the difference between Azerbaijan and my experience in the States is more of degrees. When I lived in Colorado Springs, for instance, we always drove past a blue sedan, trunk popped and “Tamales” on cardboard – in the middle of the city. Drive up to the Flathead in Montana and it is all too common to see wooden huts selling cherries and huckleberries roadside. And, on my bike trip through Montana and Wyoming to Colorado, I stumbled into many small town grocery stores that only took cash.
From a government standpoint, a large amount of cash facilitates a “shadow economy” or an “informal economy,” which is a threat because it stays “off the books” and is tricky to regulate. As a percent of GDP, Azerbaijan’s informal economy is estimated to by an astonishing 60.6 per cent. The administration cannot tax the activity easily, and it is more difficult to enforce health standards. Another issue emerges regarding economic growth, specifically. In the widely accepted model of growth, economies grow because producers invest surplus capital into their enterprises to make them more efficient and productive. A farmer takes his extra cash and buys a faster tractor. Except, the farmer is more likely to get a loan from the bank to buy the tractor – this is impossible if there is no money in the bank from savings. While there are, of course, critics of this model of growth (notably, Georgescu-Roegen or more infamously, Karl Marx), the Azerbaijani government supports reducing the “cash” in the economy and encouraging leaving the money in the bank for just this reason. So that banks can loan more money to companies for “development.”

The Evil Eye and Mountain Karma

Posted on by Dustin Stoltz

Tree adorned with Göz Mucunğu. Cappadocia, Turkey. Stolen from Wikipedia

In the new-country experience, visual culture is the easiest to consume – and also the easiest to misunderstand. The deep underlying motivations for displays, and the historical dependence of art and otherwise are unknown to the traveler. The foreign gaze has no bearings, no context, and limited emotional weight to add to what they see. One of these obvious artifacts that pops out to the Baku tourist is the Göz Muncuğu or Nazar Boncuğu (“eye bead” or “evil eye amulet”). It is a beautiful deep blue circle or oval with a black, light blue or yellow “eye” that adorns amulets, bracelets, shopping bags and the rear-view mirrors of taxis and marshrutkas – and likely of Mediterranean origin. It is one of many charms, talismans and rituals said to detract or remove the misfortunes caused by the “evil eye.” Seems straightforward. Swing through İçəri Şəhər (lit: Inner City, but commonly called Old City) and most of the vendors will have Göz Muncuğu on a variety of items; heck, you can even grab your very own Evil Eye Charm from Amazon.com! But, of course, the thrill of exploration is peering into the inner-workings of new places and attempting to grasp the “whys” to all the “whats” we encounter.

The “evil eye” is a widespread and variable feature of a great many cultures in the world. Despite my own fascination with cultural comparison, there is only so much I can cram into a thousand words. To put it short and cliche: this will be the “tippy-tip” of the iceberg. I’ll do my best. It’s also important to say that, in Azerbaijan, the evil eye is ubiquitous in the sense that nearly everyone I talked with had something to say. However, the level of devotion to the idea varied from: absolutely not, to I don’t know, to maybe, to absolutely yes – and a lot of sentences were started with “they say that…”


The Blue Bead watching over the travelers at the Caspian Hostel. Baku, Azerbaijan. The Blue Bead watching over the travelers at the Caspian Hostel. Baku, Azerbaijan.

I found the nature of the “evil eye,” difficult to fully grasp – not quite demon-spirit or witchcraft, not deriving from a centralized evil, not wholly intentional or predictable. In my discussions, most disagreed over whether a person was born with the evil eye, or whether it was an acquired trait. Some considered it more superstitious, and others more religious, but God (Allah) was definitely somehow involved.  Interestingly, not all envy causes the evil eye, and once a person “has” the power to cause bad luck it would not leave them – most won’t even know they “have” it  (unless they notice misfortune following in their wake). Contrary to my first assumption, the evil eye is not always fueled by the malicious intention of the carrier. One of my friends recanted a news story of an old lady who avoided “beautiful things” all together as she believe so strongly that she was “cursed.”


In short, purchasing new things or having a happy event brings a threat: a carrier of the evil eye might look on the happy person or family with jealousy, causing bad luck.
The belief in the evil eye potentially creates the opposite of “conspicuous consumption,” which is when someone buys items to make people envious. Those who fear the repercussions of envy - vis a vie the evil eye – will tend to present themselves as more modest and eschew flashy attire, cars or homes. Thus, some economists would argue, belief in the evil eye has the potential to “harm” economic growth by discouraging investment. In a working paper, Boris Gershman at Brown University, argues that the evil eye belief is higher in societies with persistent high inequality and low tolerance for inequality – making the envious more like to act out against the wealthy. The paper goes on to posit “this superstition emerged as a rule of thumb approximating rational envy-avoidance behavior.”


However, this assumes (like most economics articles) a very narrow view of the “rational” human: people will always, and only want more. Stopping at this conclusion overlooks the possibility that one reason the evil eye is propagated is because it causes modesty. That is, it assumes people are jealous, and sets aside the possibility that people might want modesty. Granted, there are many people who do purchase luxury sedans, and have large, elaborate entrance gates leading to equally extravagant houses, and, on the other hand, there are many critics of the wealthy classes, and inequality in Azerbaijan, in general. Despite relegating concepts like the evil eye to “superstition,” these traditions are very much connected both to how the (modern) world works, and also how people feel the world ought to work.


A lighthearted personal example: Mountain Karma. Now, I’m almost certain I invented this idea (and a quick consultation of the oracle Google shows few contenders). Basically, if those who would venture into the mountains are arrogant, they will pay the price of their arrogance. The mountain will humble them. I began my tiny devotion to Mountain Karma when, for my 21st birthday, I decided to climb the tallest mountain in Montana, while still a very green mountaineer. My arrogance: I decided to continue on without my climbing partner on the final push to the summit (something I have vowed to never do again). My just retribution: we forgot some of my gear at the saddle, I returned a few days later (alone), only to be hit by a cold, wet early fall snowstorm fourteen or fifteen miles into the backcountry – almost causing my early demise.



Froze-to-Death-Plateu-The-Brief-Note-Dustin-Stoltz2012 Not a bad place to kick the ol’ bucket. Froze-to-Death Plateau, on the way to Granite Peak, Montana.


However, part of the reason the idea of mountain karma is appealing is because it makes “earning the summit” necessary. Those who cut corners, who are arrogant, who buy their way to the top, who disrespect or try to “conquer” peaks are “punished” by the indifferent mountain. The idea is connected both to how the world works (bad things might happen on mountains) and also how I think the world ought to work (people should respect the mountain and the people surrounding it, and the culture of climbing).



In Azerbaijan, there are a range of activities and talismans used so that “Göz dəyməsin!” (lit: the (evil) eye will not touch). You can burn some “Uzərlik” seeds (known as “Harmal” and considered an invasive species in my home state of Montana), or you can hang some “Dəvə Tikanı” (Camel’s Needle) at the entryway, or in the rear-view mirror. Occasionally, builders will hang a bundle from the frame of a new home. Most people will tie red ribbon to their doorways, windshield wipers or elsewhere when happy events occur in the family – especially weddings and new births. Many of the talismans are brightly colored and elaborate so as to draw the gaze of the evil eye away from the family, and to the object. If, for instance, the Eye Bead were to break, it means that it deflected the evil eye. After receiving many compliments a person (often a new child) is particular vulnerable, those giving compliments will add “Maşallah” – an Arabic phrase meaning “God has willed it.” It is also possible for the person receiving flattery to even things out by doing something disgusting, such as scratching one’s buttocks! These examples, and the explanations that people provide, hint at a sense of balance that is ultimately woven into the notion of time and the future.

Outside of the specifics, the evil eye also offers one explanation for a truth of life: that rain falls on the just and the unjust alike. Explanations for why good people experience hardship is called “theodicy” for those who believe in a benevolent and omnipotent God, and “sociodicy” for those who believe science can solve man’s problems. They often take the shape of quips, and shorthands which account for the contradiction of human suffering. The largely imperceptible nature of the evil eye, and its unpredictability offers such an explanation.


Evil-Eye-Bead-Azerbaijan A small evil eye bead, read for use. Baku, Azerbaijan.


While I was leaving a friends house, still in my socks, I stepped in something cold and instinctively reached down to check what it was. To my surprise and the amusement of my hosts, it was chicken poop. While washing, my friend’s mother said I would be rich now. This is a common reply when something unfortunate happens. I chuckled, but this saying gets at something profound – about how some people in Azerbaijan feel the world works, or ought to work. Bad things happen, but all in all, the universe is just and will balance things out – one way or another. Since stepping in poop sucks, the spirit in the sky must have something nice in store for me. İnşallah.