The fact that I got out of bed this morning just goes to show how dedicated to the cause I am. Atheer didn’t get up until well after noon. First up, I needed my passport back.
After a quick (but surprising) fingerprint-taking session, the Iranian Embassy gave me my little burgundy booklet of travel, furnished with a brand new visa. I had Iran in the bag. Now I just have to get there before World War III kicks off.
I had got in touch with Jamel, a couchsurfer in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, to ask if he could write me a new letter of invitation. No probs he said, but it would take him a couple of hours to get it proofed and everything. The Azerbaijan Embassy closed at 1pm and was way way way on the other side of town. I HAD to make it. At 11am I was on the internet at the backpackers a little more than worried. By 12 noon I was beginning to panic, but at 12.15pm the letter had come through. I emailed it over to Mehmet on the front desk and he printed it out for me. I grabbed it HOT OFF THE PRESS and began to RUN!!
I headed FULL PELT to the Sultanahmet Tram station, took it all the way to the end of the line where I changed for the Taksim Funicular, arriving at 12:41. I thundered through the station and jumped on the Metro service to Levent in the very north of the city. The train pulled in at 12:55.
You should possibly understand at this point how hungover and sleep-deprived I was. Madness, utter madness.
And, even though the bloomin’ escalator was out of service, I managed to bound up the mofo all the way into the clear crisp spring day that was awaiting my return to the surface, sweating beer and chagrin. 12:57. I pegged it up the road towards the Embassy like a man possessed, arriving at 12:59.
They let me in.
Panting, exhausted and ready to faint, I got into the little portacabin office on the right of the mansion house and presented my documents – bank statements, letter of employment, letter of invitation…
This is no good.
What? Sorry, I mean WHAT?!!?!
It must come from the government.
I was told it didn’t have to, I just needed a letter. From someone in Azerbaijan. Written in Azeri. Well, here it is.
Nope. No good.
He saw that I looked like I was about to burst into tears.
Why don’t you try the embassy in Tbilisi, Georgia?
Thanks for nothin’ Azerbaijan! And to think… you used to be my favourite word.
After yesterday’s gallivanting around the travel agencies of fair Istanbul, I knew that the buses for Georgia left at 6pm. There was nothing else for me here. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had been brutally murdered by Stormtroopers and they had totally trashed my T-16. How could I be expected to bullseye womp-rats now?
Atheer was up for one final crazy night out, but The Odyssey comes first. Georgia here I come.
Dear old Bertie died of a heart attack in the 1920s and – according to his wishes – had been stuffed and kept in the little museum on the grounds of the fabulous manor house that Mand and I were visiting for Pimms and cucumber sandwiches. Bertie looked hilarious in his tartan and tweed and hadn’t aged a day. He was characteristically mounted standing up and holding the very glass of whiskey he was drinking when he passed away. The whiskey had evaporated over time, but one sleuthy sniff revealed to me the tell-tale smell of almonds in his drink – arsenic, old bean: dear old Bertie didn’t die of a heart attack, he was MURDERED, and what’s more… his killer was in this very room…
Before I could whip around and reveal whodunit, I woke up and found myself on a bus heading east along the banks of the Black Sea. Yesterday I had said my hearty farewells to Atheer and the good folks of the Orient International Hostel (gets a MASSIVE thumbs-up from me!) and we had travelled through the night east, east, east towards the Caucuses.
A day on a bus gives you precious little to write home about, but my fellow passengers were helpful and friendly and (I LOVE TURKEY!) the tea was, of course, free. The Black Sea to our left was, indeed a dark and forbidding slate-coloured affair but the little fishing boats did their best to brighten things up. To be honest I slept until midday. I guess getting sozzled four nights in a row had finally caught up with me. I tell you what though, I’m beginning wake up aching, which isn’t fun… and is doing much to make me believe I am now past the prime of my life.
Around 4pm we made it to the border with country 145: Georgia. The only place round these parts that don’t demand a visa. However, one of our passengers took a good two hours getting through customs, and we had to wait for him. Coupled with the fact that Georgia is not one but TWO hours ahead of Turkey, it was 8pm before we hit the road again.
Mandy had hooked me up with a CouchSurf host in Tbilisi called Rati, but by now I realised it would be well past midnight before we arrived. Rati said it was okay, to ring whenever. What a dude!
It was past 3am before we got there. A heady mixture of terrible roads, fog and driving rain had hampered our efforts somewhat. I took a taxi to Rati’s neighbourhood and met him outside the Chemist’s shop. All I can say is a THANK YOU and express a massive depth of gratitude to Rati for meeting me. I put my stuff on charge and got my head down for the night.
I actually woke up at 7am, but Rati was still asleep, so that gave me an excuse to go back to sleep until noon. Rati’s apartment is lovely on the inside, but it is housed within just one of many ugly concrete tenement flats from the closing days of the USSR.
There is something tremendously soul crushing about Soviet architecture, maybe that was the idea – to invoke a dab and dreary landscape from which escape seemed impossible. The conspicuous lack of any elegance, refinement, beauty or romance is echoed in many buildings all over the world; not least in the UK, were I implore anyone with even a modicum of interest in architecture to go compare the graceful Liverpool Infirmary (designed by Waterhouse and built in the first decade of the twentieth century) to the painfully dispiriting home for the undead that is the ‘modern’ Royal Hospital opened in 1979 – the year of my birth.
Look at the statues from the era – not exactly slender, svelte and sinuous are they? Just brutal, ugly and overbearing. They look like they were carved by the Bitmap Brothers. Whilst wearing boxing gloves. But when it comes to all things oppressive, blocktacular and downright ugly, the former USSR wins hands down.
Right now the Azerbaijan Embassy doesn’t open until Monday, so I may as well go get another country under my belt: Armenia.
This entailed going to the bus station which looked like the cargo hold of the Nostromo, if it had been made of concrete. Rati came with me and plonked me on a shared minibus to the border, 70km away. It rained all the way there, but gave me the chance to catch up on my blog. Unlike Georgia, I do need a visa for Armenia, but you can get it on the border and it’s only a fiver for three days, which is way more than I needed. The border guards decided to take me to one side and go through all my things asking questions. It was only when one of them took out the Toblerone I had bought at the Duty Free shop and asked me what was in it and what it was for that I fired my best comedy “what is this guy on?” look to his mate who promptly cracked up laughing.
They let me in, no worries!
But by the time everyone was through it was dark and so then the bus drove through the Debed Valley, which the Lonely Planet tells me is the more picturesque bit of Armenia, at night – so it’s fair to say I didn’t see much. I stayed the night in the town of Vanadzon at the south end of the Valley. Arriving at 9pm, I thought I’d check into the cheap little hotel, find a nice little place to eat, maybe have a beer or two… no.
Everything – and I mean EVERYTHING was closed. Saturday night in Armenia is not my idea of fun. It’s not anyone’s idea of fun. Unless you’re Morrissey perhaps. It was pissing down with rain, the people where either glum or rude (or both!) and after a fruitless hour of pottering about getting very wet and even more hungry I found a 24 hour supermarket (wonders never end!) which actually had a kebab (souvlaki) stand in it. Thank the maker! The kebab, I have to say, was the BEST I have EVER had. If there is one (and there may be only one) redeeming feature of this place, I think that will have to be it – the kebabs. The secret? Ah – that’d be the crispy bacon!!
After yesterday’s glum-fest, I didn’t think things could get any more glum. I WAS WRONG! After leaving my (Overlook) hotel I went over to the train station/bus stand to try to get a bus up the valley to go and explore the old monasteries up there. A guy called Gary offered to take me in his clapped out old Lada taxi around the sites for twelve euro. That’ll do, I thought, and hopped in.
Man oh man, I heard the Soviets were awesome at sucking the beauty out of everything like some kind of giant aesthetical vampire, but I was NOT prepared for the devastation they had wrought on the Debed Canyon. If, as it states in the Lonely Planet the Debed Canyon “manages to pack in more history and culture than just about anywhere else in the country” then I didn’t miss much by not visiting the rest of Armenia.
Once upon a time, the Debed Canyon was a picturesque wooded valley, dotted with small settlements and medieval monasteries. Then the Soviets rucked up in their big clod-hopper boots and managed to somehow take this pristine wilderness and turn it into the most heartbreaking bags of arse I have ever seen. They installed a copper mine, HIGH-RISE FLATS (seriously!) and a railway line. And in doing so they thoughtlessly meffed-up Armenia’s heritage in a way that would make the most capital of capitalists blush.
The railway line wouldn’t be so bad (I have no objection to a pair of nice clean rails running through the countryside) if they hadn’t decided to solve the obvious drainage/subsidence problem in the most ham-fisted way imaginable – by steering the rainwater OVER THE TOP of the railway using wide, brutal concrete drainage channels every kilometre or so. These drainage channels sat perched in the air over the railway and looked like half-finished concrete bridges of the kind dreamt up by over-zealous town planners in the 1960s who thought that they could create a new world order out of concrete and asbestos.
The trees of the valley are now all but gone and all that remains of the good old days are a handful of small monasteries in various states of dilapidation. I spend a good few hours exploring them in the rain – Sanahin and Haghpat are UNESCO World Heritage Sites – but aside from the joy I got from the inscriptions carved on the wall in the Armenian alphabet (it looks soooo much like it was done by aliens) it was about as much fun as a wet weekend in Rhyl.
Did I mention it was raining? Oh, yeah, I did, but I thought I’d mention it again as it adds to the dark, grey gloominess of the valley. What’s that? Oh, another factory, another derelict warehouse or two… or four… or thirty-six. Concrete hell-holes with all their windows smashed in, covered in graffiti and despair. It’s like somebody read my mind (or my blog) and devised the perfect opposite of my personal vision of nature and architecture entwined in some kind of ethereal beauty.
In short, Rivendell it was not.
I soon decided it would be best to head back to Georgia, which I duly did, losing another precious page of my passport in the process (despite my valiant efforts!). I met with Rati at his home and we had dinner – some kind of Russian concoction, a bit like meatballs wrapped in pasta. It was pretty good, I have to say. Later we left to head into town and meet up with a couple of guys that Rati had been in contact with through CouchSurfing – Michael and Martin.
Michael is from Germany and Martin is from Austria. Michael’s supposed to be kipping at Rati’s gaff but I’ve nicked his spot (ha!), no fear though – he’ll be joining us tomorrow night and taking the spare room. We found a little pub in downtown Tbilisi (if you like a drink or two, Georgia is gob-smackingly cheap) and settled in for the night. But remember – NEVER toast with beer in Georgia – only wine or spirits may be used to propose a toast. If a Georgian toast you with beer, you are their enemy, which is a great way to catch somebody out who’s pretending to be Georgian and isn’t.
Turns out Michael was working in Cambodia for a couple of years before deciding to travel his way back home – which meant that I could happily pick his brains about the old border formalities of China, India, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran et al. Thanks to him, I’ve altered my schedule slightly and will now be attempting to enter China from Pakistan rather than Nepal (I was hoping to pull some strings, but I gave up hope of special favours a loooooong time ago).
So what’s up next I hear you cry?
Well, obviously I need to sort out my visa for Azerbaijan still, and once I’ve got that I’ll high-tail it over to Baku, the capital. From there I’ll be heading to Kazakhstan, the home of a certain Borat Sagdiyev and then pressing on to Uzbekistan (for which I will (hopefully) have a two-entry visa) and beginning the process of getting my Turkmenistan transit visa (it can take up to TWENTY days). While I wait for that to come through I’ll visit Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan before returning to Uzbekistan to pick up my Turkmenistan visa (for one day’s worth of travel, I might add) and thunder on through Turkmenistan down to Herat in Afghanistan where I’ll take a sharp right like Bugs Bunny at Albuquerque and plough head-first into Iran.
Good. Now first things first… I need a new visa for Azerbaijan.
The Azerbaijan Embassy is only open for two hours every morning, but after last night’s little beerathon, Rati and I were in little mood to drag ourselves out of our beds. But somehow we did. Soon enough we were in a taxi which didn’t know where the Azerbaijani Embassy was going around in circles looking for the Azerbaijani Embassy. After asking at least fifty separate passers-by for (wrong) directions, our driver finally got us there ten minutes before closing time. Thank god he wasn’t on the meter.
So we joined in the scrum outside the Embassy and Rati got chatting with the guard who gave us an application form and told us it would take three days to get the visa. THREE FRICKIN’ DAYS?!!!? What’s more, it would cost another (wait for it…) ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DOLLARS. I nearly burst into tears there and then.
The only good news was that I didn’t need a Letter of Invitation (which was why I couldn’t get the visa in Istanbul).
Now there were a ton of people outside and although we had manoeuvred ourselves to the front of the ‘queue’, the guard said that the bloke what does the visas had left and wouldn’t be back for half an hour. Okay, well we’ll go get some lunch then… which we did, stuffing our faces with Khachapuri, the Georgian lunchtime snack of choice – cheese pie. Yum!
When we got back to the Embassy, we got some bad news, the visa guy wasn’t coming back. Dammit, we should have got there earlier. The guard wanted me to talk to somebody, which I did by pressing on the intercom. A voice answered. I explained I wanted a visa and they told me to come back tomorrow. I explained that I already had a visa, but it had expired. Okay, come back at four. I thought I was hearing things… oh, okay then.
With more than a few hours to kill, Rati and I arranged to meet up with Michael and Martin again and in doing so we walked along Rustavelis gamziri, Tbilisi’s main street, and what a street it is… the buildings are stunning, just stunning. The contrast of these elegant edifices of the city with the slap-dash cheapo concrete suburbs couldn’t be more acute if it tried. Georgian-Georgian terraces, a magnificent opera-house, a music school trimmed with columns, an art gallery, parliament, museums and a whopping great golden statue of St George killing the dragon… wow wow wow and wow again… and – something that is bound to make me go weak at the knees – everything had a Georgian flourish about it, a little something you wouldn’t see anywhere else in the world – local architecture built by local people out of local materials. Shame everything that’s been built after World War II is as unsightly as Susan Boyle chewing a wasp.
But that kinda goes for everywhere in the world…
After finding Michael and Martin at the Metro station we mooched about looking for a coffee only to find ourselves back in the very same bar as the night before (if it ain’t broke…). After a pleasant hour of friendly banter it was time to head back to the Azerbaijani embassy to reveal my fate. A taxi ride there cost me €2, which I was more than happy to pay if it could save me a couple of days waiting for this damn visa.
The same guard at the embassy asked me to address the intercom again. I explained I was told to come back today at 4pm. The guy asked me to come in to speak to him. He told me that they could not accept the application today…
If we were quick – very quick – we could head over to the secret travel agency that could sort me out with a visa straight away.
Straight away? What like in three days?
No. Like in half an hour.
My jaw hit the ground. Half an hour? This was too good to be true. How much will this service cost?
Well, you still have to pay the $101, but after that it should only be a few euros.
Within seconds we were back in a taxi screaming our way across town to the secret travel agency. We got there just as they were leaving with that day’s passports. You need to fill out an application form…
It’s okay… here’s one I filled out earlier.
Okay, come back in half an hour.
I couldn’t believe my ears or my luck.
An important lesson is to be learnt from all this… if we hadn’t have got so plastered last night, we would have got up earlier, got to the embassy for opening time and got the application in prim and proper. Then I would have had to wait until THURSDAY until I got my visa. By being late getting to the Embassy, we found out about the secret back door, the cheat code that could get me a visa within minutes. It all works out in the wash.
After a swift celebratory half with Rati, I had my passport back, furnished with my brand new Azerbaijani visa. Happy days.
Now the big question was should I stay or should I go. An American chick I got chatting to outside the Secret Travel Agency told us that the train for Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, left at 6.30pm. It was 5pm. That didn’t leave us much time – all my stuff was at Rati’s and I wasn’t packed – and by the time we had picked up Michael I wasn’t holding out much hope of getting on the damn thing.
So instead of rushing about, we took the Metro back to Rati’s gaff, bought some beers and sausages (well Michael didn’t – he’s a veggie) and planned a lad’s night in. Good job we didn’t rush – it had been raining all day and my clothes were on the line – they were soaking. I told you it all works out in the wash.
The day started slowly, with me finally dragging myself out of bed around 11pm. I spent most of the day packing my bag, organising my tapes and doing a bunch of boring stuff that possibly doesn’t warrant a mention in this great big bulging blog of mine.
At 4pm, it was time to hit the road again… I had a good two and a half hours to make the train to Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan – what could possibly go wrong?
Ah yes. What could…?
Rati had a couple of things to be getting on with, so he said he’d join Michael and I at the station later. We headed off to town, asking the cabbie to take us to the post office as it was high time for me to send some tapes back to the UK for safe keeping. When we got to the post office, it didn’t take us long to figure out that something was amiss – it was a derelict shell. Nothing to stop you walking in there, mind, but a derelict shell it was.
We were redirected down the street. Eventually finding the new post office across the road from the HSBC in a scuzzy courtyard with ‘Post Office’ printed on A4 paper and stuck to the wall with paste. We went inside and were directed to a third Post Office, one that handles international post, this time over the other side of the Mikvari River that rushes through the middle of the city like a man possessed.
So it was another taxi ride before finally finding somewhere I could post my tapes. Only I couldn’t. Why? Because the electricity was down and so they couldn’t weigh the bugger, all 314 grams of it. They told us to come back tomorrow. I’d be in Azerbaijan. Luckily, a jovial Georgian chap who spoke English came to our aid. He took the tapes, went next door to the swish courier company and plonked the tapes on their scales before they could stop him. He ran back into the Post Office triumphant. 314 grams it was. That’ll be €11 please. What what? Eleven Euro? Have you lost your mind… the tapes didn’t cost that much!! Oh yeah, and it will take three weeks to get there.
If it gets there.
Well I was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, so I said fine. Then she tried to put all the required stamps on the tiny package. Twenty of ’em. Luckily for some reason best kept to the Georgians, they can stick their stamps over other stamps as long as they leave a few millimetres revealed down one side. It looked like somebody was playing stamp poker.
Ah well, soon enough it was all ready to go and blimey is that the time it was 5.30pm. Time to get that train.
The American girl yesterday told me it left at 6.30pm. Rati called them today to confirm and they said it left at 6.45pm, so I thought I was uncharacteristically getting there in good time. Ha!
Tbilisi’s train station is currently being refurbished and is in a remarkable state of disarray at the moment. Michael and I spent ten minutes queuing at the wrong counter before being told we were at the wrong counter and then going up to the correct counter and waiting another ten minutes for no discernable reason. At this point Rati showed up and I asked him what gives. He asked the girl in the window next to the international departures one (number 14, if you’re interested, not that there are 14 windows in the station, there’s more like 5) what was happening and she said that there were no more tickets for the train because the train leaves in six minutes’ time.
It was 6.09pm.
But we had been told the train left at 6.45, or 6.30 at the earliest – plus we’d been there for twenty minutes.
She didn’t give a f–k
I was ready to explode.
You could try asking on the train. So Rati, Michael and I pegged it like Trainspotting over to the platform on which the Baku train was waiting. Can we….?
Is there anything we can do?
You could take a taxi to the next town, head the train off at the pass, so to speak and get on there.
This is madness. The train is here!!
Okay, other than the fact that I desperately want to get this journey finished sometime this decade, if I don’t get to Baku for tomorrow morning, I’m going to have plenty big trouble getting the necessary visas for Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan before the weekend. I needed to be on that train. There was only one thing for it… it was taxi time. Rati did the fast talkin’ and after saying my hearty thanks and farewells to my wonderful Georgian host and my fellow wayfarer Michael I jumped into a cab which then raced like a loon (not that Georgian drivers drive any other way) to the town of Rustavi, halfway to the border with Azerbaijan.
Can I just say at this point that Georgian drivers are the WORST in the world. Yup, even worse than Nigerians. If that’s possible. You see, Nigerians may drive like suicidal maniacs on the wrong side of the motorway, but at least they’re sober. I’m firmly convinced that every taxi I took in Georgia was driven by a chap more sozzled than Winston Churchill on VE day.
My cabbie to Rustavi wasn’t as bad as some I’ve had, he only nearly killed me seven times. We beat the train and got to the station just as it was pulling in. Yippee!!
I bounded over to the copper standing on the platform (well, the ground) and asked him where I could buy a ticket. He looked confused. Then I spoke to the lady conductor on the train I had spoken to in Tbilisi. I was supposed to buy the ticket at another station on the way here. Was I? Crikey, this is complicated. Can I get on?
Can I get on if I pay double.
Just wait there for five minutes on the freezing cold platform. Well, ground.
(five minutes later….)
Just spoken to the boss, she says no.
Here’s what you need to do. Take another taxi to the border, it won’t take long. Cross the border on foot and take the bus.
But the bus left at 3pm today!
That was the international bus. This is a bus that doesn’t cross the border – it leaves from the Azerbaijani side. If you hurry, you’ll make it.
Secret revealed knowledge eh? There’s nothin’ like it. So back in a taxi (and another €15 – still cheaper than a five minute ride in a Italian taxi) and by about 8.30pm I was crossing the border. My Armenian visa raised a few eyebrows (Azerbaijan and Armenia are at war, a cold war, but war nonetheless) but after twenty or so minutes they let me in.
WOO! AZERBAIJAN!! Country 147. What a break!
There were people offering me taxis to Baku (it’s 450km! Are they mad?!), but there like a great big slab of wonderful metal on wheels was a proper coach ready and waiting to head to Baku. I made it in the nick of time – like the coach from Igoumenitsa to Istanbul it left before I got to my seat.
So after yesterday’s half-crazied shenanigans, I found myself kicked off the bus at 6am in the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE somewhere in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan. The sky was firing sleet down and the wind chill was making my face freeze. There was a large concrete roundabout under a large concrete overpass. I tried to hide under the shelter of the nearby tumbledown fleamarket while I consulted my iPod Touch to find my barings, but since it takes a good minute and a half to refresh a quarter of a page of a pdf (and I thought my ZX81 was slow) I got moved on by the gruff security guard before I could find them. Hapless and out of ideas, I jumped in a taxi and headed to the main train station. Hopefully I’d find a 24 hour cafe, and I did.
Shivering, wet and cold, the pot of tea that I bought was a total lifesaver. I got out my laptop and sussed out where the hell I had to be next.
So, having gained entry to the mythical land of Azerbaijan I was now faced with the challenge of getting into Central Asia. The land of hellish visa regulations – letters of invitation, registration dockets, GBOA permits (whatever the hell they are), you name it, they want it and, if you’re unlucky, they’ll take their merry time about it too.
Yes, I’ve got an Iranian visa, but it’s a one-entry affair and I need to cross Iran to get to Kuwait next month. So the only option is to take a ferry across the Caspian Sea, one to Turkmenistan and one to Kazakhstan. The Turkmenistan one goes pretty much every day whereas the one to Kazakhstan goes when it feels like – and that’s usually once every 10 days or so. Obviously, it would be better for me to go to Turkmenistan, but it is the HARDEST place in the world (or at least joint equal to Saudi Arabia and North Korea) to get into. Just getting a transit visa takes at least two weeks, maybe three. A tourist visa requires a guide (that you have to pay for) and a set itinerary, which would mean private transportation – not something that lies within The Odyssey guidelines.
So my best bet is to get a Kazakhstan visa and wait for the ferry. I could be in Baku a loooooong time.
So as soon as it opened, I arrived at the Kazakhstani embassy having just about sussed out the Baku underground system. As with most embassies around the world (and the staircases in Harry Potter) it had moved for no apparent reason other than to MESS WITH MY HEAD, so I ended up taking a taxi, but the lady inside was nice and spoke good English. My guidebook said that I should be able to get the visa same day. My guidebook was wrong. It would be Friday at 4pm. Two days away.
That REALLY stuffs things up for me. I also need to pick up my visa for Uzbekistan, which I’ve organised through the wonderful folk at Stantours. Considering the Kazakhstani embassy is only open for a couple of hours in the morning, I’m not holding my breath for the Uzbek embassy holding the hours I require to make a quick exit. In short, I could be in Baku a loooooong time.
Having left my passport at the embassy, I walked back to the nearest metro station – and just happened to find myself EXACTLY where the bus has dropped me off several hours earlier when things were much darker and colder. Now it was just about bareably freezing. I found a dirty little cafe and settled in for a few hours updating my blog and attempting to organise my GPS logs into something usable (I may have failed).
Unfortunately, the cafe was monster cold as some workmen were fixing the door (and making a hell of a racket about it) so it wasn’t the most pleasent of introductions to Baku, especially not when they charged me a good seven quid for a crappy kebab and a cup of tea. But it was good as a base of operations until I sussed out what I was going to do next.
The two people that had offered to allow me to CouchSurf in their gaffs could now no longer host me – Jamil, the hero of the Istanbul Letter of Invitation, was leaving for a holiday in Russia on Friday and Nick the Aussie guy had invited somebody else to CouchSurf (he thought I was staying at Jamil’s). Luckily enough, Nick’s Surfer couldn’t make it, so ol’ Dead Man’s Hughes strikes again and biff bash boff I had a place to stay.
Damn good news – the cheapest hostel here is a whopping $25 a night.
So I arranged to meet Nick at the huuuuuuge statue of Nariman Narimanov (a famous Azeri poet, apparently) in the west of Central Baku. It was a hell of a hike up the hill from the Metro station, but bloomin’ eck it was worth it – don’t let the skanky suburbs fool you, the centre of Baku is stunning. More sandstone building than you can shake a stick at and they’ve all been recently renovated (Baku was the epicentre of the world first oil boom), I was in love. If only it wasn’t so damn expensive. Or difficult to get into. Or so far away.
I met Nick at 4pm and we went to his flat. I had decided to hold off finding out which day the ferry to Kazakhstan left until the next day, the weather was just too beastly. Nick works for BP and he used to go to the same uni as Mandy’s sister. He also has an AMAZING flat. He’s off to Pakistan in a few days and his girlfriend wants to see him as much as possible before he goes, so I was left to make my own kind of music tonight. It wasn’t until I logged on the internet that I realised it was St. Patricks Day. Completely forgot! This time last year I was in Key West, Florida. You’ve come a long way baby.
So I made plans with Jamil and we headed to Finnigans, the Irish pub (THERE’S ALWAYS AN IRISH PUB). Luckily for all of us who like our booze, the Azeris, while nominally muslim, don’t seem to give two hoots about the usual prohibition that makes Libya and Saudi such dull places. I had only just got to the bar before a guy from Florida bought me a Guinness, followed quickly by another courtesy of Jamil.
Soon enough I was sitting with a couple of Azeris, Alex and Lala, and a top Irish bloke called Don was getting them in. Jamil had to leave early as he had work in the morning, but Alex, Lala, Don and I stayed until chucking out time. Now Azerbaijan, being an oil state, follows many of the rules of a typical oil state. First up, it’s far too expensive (see: Norway, Angola, Libya), secondly, the government is not renowned for tolerating opposition (see: Angola, Equatorial Guinea, Saudi, Venezuela Libya etc.) and thirdly, the son of the last guy is now in charge (see: Gabon, Brunei, and just about everywhere in the Middle East). This, understandably pisses the good people of Azerbaijan off (especially if they side with the opposition). So what happens if you oppose the government here? Well, you get thrown in jail or shot. End of.
See my blog entry ‘George Lucas Syndrome’ to see where you end up if you stifle all opposition to your ideas. Jar Jar frickin Binks.
Anyways, we ended up walking Don back to his hotel, Lala back to her flat and me back to Nick’s. I found myself torn – I really love the architecture here, but why does this sort of stuff alway have to go hand in hand with oppression damnit?
You know, I almost let myself believe that Azerbaijan was one place in the world in which the incessant political meddling and game-playing could be for once be landed squarely at the door of the Russians and Persians – not the British (whose political machinations effectively invented over half the world’s nation states) for once, but no – I love the line from the history of Baku section in the Lonely Planet “…[in 1918] a secret British force sailed in from Iran to help them ‘defend’ the city (well, OK, the oilfields) against the Turks (Britain’s WWI enemies).”
Ah, nice to see some things never change…
“Britain has no perpetual enemies, only perpetual interests” – Lord Palmerstone.
But aside from that doomed military adventure (them plucky Brits ended up shipping back out under cover of darkness!) Britain tended to keep its sticky beak out of the Caucasus – no frickin’ wonder – the regional politics of this area are madder than a hatter in a hat factory.
So you’ve got your three main countries – Armenia, Georgia and Azerbaijan. After that it gets complicated, so pay attention.
There’s three more quasi-independent nations within the Caucasus – Abkhazia, South Ossetia and Nagorno-Karabakh. Yeah, “Nagorno-Karabakh”: it just rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it? In short, they have been the source of a metric ton of tension and violence in the region. Russia, still bristling from the recognition by the US of Kosovo as a independent nation decided to back Abkhazia and South Ossetia’s claims for independence from Georgia resulting in the brief war (more Mini-Me vs. Goliath than David) that dominated the news in 2008. What’s the problem? In short, the Abkhazians speak Welsh instead of Georgian while the South Ossentians are dominated by ethnic Russians moved there by (guess who?) The Russians!
You see the dexterously sinister symmetry played out here? Kosovo was once part of Serbia. Lots of ethnic Albanians settled there, but while that area was all Yugoslavia it didn’t seem to matter, but once Tito’s commie adventure drew to it’s inevitable (and bloody) conclusion (did nobody suss that the term ‘Balkanisation’ came from – er – the Balkans BEFORE the Balkans Balkanised in the 1990s) things had changed. Slobberdown Melon-Chavic and his cronies saw that the population of the Kosovo region of Serbia was overwhelmingly ethnic Albanian or, to put it more succinctly, Muslim. This didn’t make him happy, so he devised a cunning scheme to rid Kosovo of its burgeoning Islamic population – it was called operation ‘KILL THEM ALL’.
The morally-bankrupt organisation of international gangsters and bastards we call the UN had turned two blind eyes to this kind of thing in Rwanda in 1994 and Melon-Chavic was counting on them doing the same again. AND THEY DID!
Whoop-whoop, another own goal for the UN, methinks. I can’t stress this to strongly enough – as yet undiscovered phosphorescent life living off the sulphur deposits of thermal vents two kilometres below the surface of the ocean have a better grasp of morality and ethics than the United Nations.
Luckily for the Kosovans, there’s a little club called NATO that doesn’t have to do what the UN thinks is best for the world (which, generally speaking, is to do nothing about anything ever) and so NATO set about bombing bridges in Novi Sad, which made it really difficult for all the people at Serbia’s Exit Festival to get back to their tents on the other side of the Danube. Justifiably angered by this, the festival-goers marched into the capital and hung Mr. Melon-Chavic from a lamppost. Kinda.
Now Russia has been getting upset about anybody (but them) diddling about with the Balkans since Archie Duke got shot by someone with a black hand in 1914, and the notion of having to stand by while the bruised and battered Kosovo (somewhat justifiably) asserted its independence from bullyboy Serbia was all a bit much for them and in classic Great Game style, they turned their attention to Abkhazia and South Ossetia. If they could prise them from Georgia, it would be Russia 2, NATO 1.
Look, if there’s a good reason for it, I’m all for countries going their own way – Somaliland and East Timor are a damn fine examples, as is Kosovo (they were being massacred!) but in some cases, such as Scotland, the Basque country, Quebec, you’ve really got to wonder… what the hell is wrong with these people? Are their children being stolen in the night by their evil overlords? Are they being forced to dress up in chicken costumes and parade around on the streets making cluck-cluck noises? Nope. They just happen to speak a different language to other people in their country. In Scotland, it’s not even a different language – it’s just a different bleedin’ accent.
We might as well call for independence for all people with a lisp. Or give deaf people their own country – I mean, after all, are they not speaking (signing) another language?
And what’s so great about independence eh? Cape Verde, Sao Tome and Comoros have been independent since the 1970s and they still so completely dependent on the condescension of others it’s almost silly. Like a beggar waxing lyrical about how great it is to pay no taxes before huddling from the icy winter gales in a shop doorway, independence is not all it’s cracked up to be. You have to pay for your own president(s), army, police force, customs, postal service, embassies in every other bleedin’ country in the world, politicians, UN reps, fire service, hospitals, schools, roads, drains, sewage systems, ports, coast guards, bureaucrats, judges, district attorneys, electrical grid, power stations… it all seems too much like hard work to me. Hence you should have a damn good reason for breaking from the motherland like eek! It’s Somalia! – and I’m sorry, but having another language does not cut the mustard.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Yeah, they’re now being run by Russia. Lucky them. I’d take tattooed mobsters, hilariously miserable prostitutes and soulless oligarchs over the laid-back Georgians any day.
My advice to Georgia? Let it go. You’re not going to get Russia to back down. Rehouse your refugees and join the EU. Soon you’ll be easyjetting it off to Paris every weekend to buy stilettos while your daffy former countrymen languish in the third world and have to pay protection fees to whatever Russian racket is currently terrorising their community. They’ve made their bed, let them lie in it (and then watch with glee when Abkhazia grows tired of its humourless masters and breaks Russia’s heart by attempting to join the EU as well) – Peter The Great was Great because he turned to the West, not the East. For all our foibles we must be doing something right.
As for that firm of Central Asian lawyers, Nagorno-Karabakh (did you forget about them?!), it was once a region of Azerbaijan but in fit of patriotic fervour back in the late eighties Armenia decided that they wanted it on the grounds that Armenians lived there (Brothers! Let’s take New England back!) and launched an incredibly brutal offensive to annex it off their Azerbaijani neighbours while the international community (as usual) was busy filing its nails.
Now I’m not saying that Armenia didn’t have a decent argument. Nagorno-Karabakh was (and is even moreso now) overwhelmingly Christian, and Azerbaijan, for all its beer-guzzling ways is nominally Muslim. This being the case, and the fact that the majority of Nagorno-Karabakh people regard themselves as Armenian (unsurprising considering it was part of Armenia until Stalin decided to hand it to Azerbaijan in the 1920s), you can (kinda) see their point, even if (like me) you can’t understand why people of faith can’t just – you know, get along. But what the Armenians did was out of order. When Nagorno-Karabakh declared its independence from Azerbaijan, Armenia’s army waded in and used it as an excuse to chuck out all the native Azeri people living in both Nagorno-Karabakh AND Armenia – a not insignificant figure – 200,000 people. The resultant war (1989-1994) killed a further 30,000 people. As for the future, I can’t see Nagorno-Karabakh ever being independent, it’s more likely to be officially integrated into Armenia – Nagorno-Karabakh does have a ‘president’, but he’s little more than a regional governor – a puppet for the Armenian government in Yerevan.
The upshot of all this is that you can’t get into Armenia from Turkey or Azerbaijan, you can’t get into Georgia from Russia and you can’t get into Azerbaijan from Armenia or Russia. Nagorno-Karabakh can only be accessed from Armenia, but if you have a Nagorno-Karabakh stamp in your passport you can’t get into Azerbaijan. Despite still being regarded as laying within Georgia by the international community (save Russia and a couple of oddballs), Abkhazia and South Ossetia can now only be accessed from Russia. Like I said, it’s all very complicated and I hope this goes some way to explain why I’m not bothering with Nagorno-Karabakh, Abkhazia or South Ossetia on this journey – I honestly can’t see any of them becoming independent nations any time soon, and personally doubt whether any of them really could. Nagorno-Karabakh will (eventually) be absorbed into Armenia and the likelihood of Russia really allowing Abkhazia or South Ossetia true autonomy is, in my opinion, a pipe dream – see nearby Chechnya for details.
The Caucasus – it’s where us whities get our rather daffy pigeonhole ‘Caucasian’, a term lampooned by Lewis Carroll in his nonsensical Caucus Race in which everybody wins a prize – sounds like modern schooling to me. I would say that when it comes to describing the breeds of human, the term ‘Caucasian’ should be left to describe white skinned dark haired buggers (generally sporting a monobrow – think Noel Gallagher) while us fair and red-haired lot get our own categories… something to do with Vicky the Viking or Groundskeeper Willie would be nice. Gallagans, Vicks and Willies – that would sort the men from the boys. Or maybe we could just do away with the whole system of putting humans into different categories and just have one big box marked ‘human’, you know, separate us from the dolphins in the dole queue.
Oh do grow up, Double-O Hughes.
So I woke with thunder crashing in my head and soon realised it wasn’t my head it was out the window – the weather had gone from grim to Grimaldi Ferries and there was a full-on blizzard outside. I made myself a cup of tea and considered my options. I could stay in Nick’s flat all day like a big fat slob, abuse his internet and watch his DVDs or I could go out in the freezing cold and squint at the city through frozen eyelashes. I unsurprisingly chose the former. Later on, Jamil called and invited me around to his gaff for some authentic Azerbaijani grub – an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Jamil picked me up in his car (nice wheels, man!) and we fought through the increasingly furious storm over to his place where he whipped me up some aromatic rice and vine leaves stuffed with meat – it was delishhh. Kudos to Jamil’s mum for preparing it all! Afterwards, we traded internet memes before I headed off back to Nick’s to get some shut-eye. A hard day at work I guess.
DID YOU KNOW? There are very few countries in the +4 GMT Time Zone – just Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, UAE, Oman, Seychelles and Mauritius. And a tiny bit of Russia.
I called Alex (whom I met at the Irish Pub the other night) and asked him if he could get in touch with the Uzbek embassy to see if there was any chance they might be open after 4pm today. To my shock and surprise, they were – they were open until SIX. This is pretty unheard of where I’ve come from (which I guess is the rest of the world) – most embassies open for a couple of hours in the morning once a century when the moon is in the Eighth House of Were. THANK YOU ALEX!!
Struck with a new sense of urgency (I was firmly convinced that I would be going to the Uzbek embassy on Monday morning) and seeing that yesterday’s storm had passed and the skies were bluest of blue, I headed over to the Kazahk embassy to go and retrieve my passport. After negotiating the antequated metro system and helping the taxi driver find his way there through a traffic jam, I arrived at six minutes past four and by seven minutes past four I had my passport back. Entry: GRANTED!
Awesome, I thought, ran out to the main road and jumped the first taxi I could get my hands on to the Uzbek embassy. However, it was now pretty much rush-hour and the going was sloooooow. The Uzbek embassy was unhelpfully strategically placed on the other side of the city and it was about 4:40pm before I got there (my taxi driver got very lost in the back streets of suburbia). Never mind, drop in the passport, pick it up on Monday, Bob’s-your-uncle. Only when I met the incredibly friendly ambassador he informed me that I could – if I was fast – get the visa TODAY.
You see, I had already organised the invitation through Stantours, all I was doing was picking up the visa.
The possibilities whizzed through my mind. I think because everything has taken so long for so long that that’s just the way things are going to be for the rest of The Odyssey, but to that I say PISH! If I got my visa today, I could be out of here tomorrow. That’s if the boat to Kazakhstan leaves tomorrow, which it won’t, unless I’m luckier than Lucky Jim standing in a field of four-leaved clovers wearing his magic lucky underpants. The ‘ferry’ only leaves once every ten days and one in ten are terrible odds.
So… what do I have to do?
Well, said the friendly ambassador, you need to hurry to the city centre, pay in the $85 you owe into the National Bank of Azerbaijan and come back here with the receipt. This is standard procedure with many embassies I’ve come across. I looked at my watch. It was 4:45. It sounded like an impossible mission. Surely the bank would be closed by 5pm. Oh well, in for a penny….
I ran with my arms flailing wildly to the main road, jumped in the first taxi that came past (almost getting myself run over in the process) and we fought together through the gridlocked traffic of central Baku. My heart was in my mouth as we inched closer and closer to 5pm… we were still a few blocks away and this traffic was going NO-where. At 5pm I had resigned myself to my fate. I’d be picking up the visa on Monday morning. We arrived at the bank at 5.03pm and it was closed. I banged on the door, but nobody came to my aid. But there were still people inside… couldn’t they just…. I tried to get in through the office entrance but the security guard was having none of it. Then a bank employee came to my aid. She told me that the bank had been closed since 4pm.
Are you open tomorrow by any chance.
No, it’s the holidays. We’re not open again for ten days.
Oh right…. PARDON????????!!!
Yeah, ten days. It’s the holidays, you see, like your Christmas.
Does that mean…. oh bollocks.
What do I do? What do I do? I started to panic. The nice bank lady told me I could pay it into another bank, a commercial bank, if I hurry – they don’t close until 5.30pm. My eyes lit up and I pegged it across town to this other bank.
I got there at 5.27pm. Panting, sweating, on the verge of tears…. can I pay $85 dollars into this account please?
The lady smiled. Sure – have you got your passport?
Yeah I, (goes for inside pocket only to find it empty)
I left it at the Uzbek Embassy.
I’m very sorry then sir, there’s nothing we can do.
At that moment, there was only one thing keeping me from total mental and physical collapse – my mobile phone and a snowball in hell. I rang the embassy and explained the situation. After some discussions the secretary came back on the line and said the words I so deperately wanted to hear – it’s okay. You can pay it here.
I jumped in the air and screamed WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!
Which made everybody in the bank jump. And then stare. I high-fived the bedazzled bank teller and ran out of the door, into the nearest taxi summoning US$100 out of the nearby cash machine on the way.
It was now 5.40pm. The Embassy closes at 6pm. One last hurdle… get out of town during rush hour on Azerbaijan’s equivilent of Christmas Eve.
You know, every time I get in a taxi, or a bus, or whatever my driver invariably believes himself to be the bastard child of Michael Schumacher and Eval Keneval. That is unless I’m in a real hurry and then they decide to drive like they’re driving Miss Daisy. It was coming up to 6pm and there was no way we were going to make it. I rang the embassy. It’s me again. Could you possibly stay open for just a few insy-winsy more minutes?
I held my breath.
Yes, we’ll wait for you.
Thank the maker. It was six minutes past this running joke when I arrived and after a tense moment were I was for the first time in The Odyssey on the verge of physically assaulting my &^%(^*$” cab driver (he demanded double for hurrying – the rotter!) I hurried to the guard outside the Uzbek embassy.
Sorry – we’re closed.
I know. My name is Graham Hughes, they’re expecting me.
A withering look. A quick phone conversation.
Okay, you can go in.
I entered the Embassy – by the way, this wasn’t your Sudanese concrete cellar or your Azerbaijan portacabin, this was the Ambassdor’s residence… and a ruddy nice pad it was. The Ambassador came down to meet me. He had already put the visa in my passport. I handed over the hundred dollar bill, he gave me the change and we shook on the deal. ACCESS: GRANTED.
My favourite Ambassador so far. Uzbekistan… YOU’RE ALLLLLLRIGHT!
I exited the Embassy into the glorious golden hour sunshine of success. In less than two hours I had got my grubby mitts on two visas from the ‘Stans… the hardest countries in the world to crack Da Visa Code. Central Asia, here I come. Now I just need a boat.
If past experience is anything to go by, I could be waiting some time. But the shock at getting my visas so quickly was making me believe that anything was possible. Maybe it is.
Fed up with all things taxi (ONE WORD, WORLD: METERS) I decided to walk to the port. It took two hours and took me through some of the best parts of the city – along the Avenue of Rememberence (in which we’re not just presented with the names but also the faces of the deceased, etched into marble – a common practice in this part of the world and one that I actually quite like) and down to the shores of the Caspian Sea.
Something I noticed on the way down – those stone buildings that I like so much… they’re brand new! Well, kind of… Okay, some of them are, some of them aren’t and some of them are somewhere inbetween. The ‘somewhere inbetween’ are buildings that were formally miserablist concrete monstrosities but have given a new lease of life by the entire edifice being clad in a new overcoat of cut stone – Ionic Columns, Blustrading, Keystones, you name it… it’s like they’ve taken St. John’s shopping centre and turned it into something akin to Buckingham Palace. No mean feat! Okay, there are some building for which it hasn’t worked and it makes you wish they hadn’t bothered – but there are plenty more for which it has.
Everytime I bang on about architecture I get people saying that it’s a money thing. It’s not. It’s a matter of aesthetics. I don’t see why new buildings ‘have’ to look rubbish, I never have. And here, at the edge of the world, I’ve found my proof. Put simply, at first glance I couldn’t tell which buildings were 100 years old and those that were brand spanking new. These were not some kind of tacky pastiche like you’d find adorning the walls of a modern shopping center or some dreadful aping of earlier designs shoddily rendered out of cement. And these new buildings are made with cut stone – the kind you want to touch – and a definate Azeri look to them, something that the soviet ‘dark ages’ buildings could never have: they just looked like the same clunky, uninspiring, brutal, concrete crap that you find all over the world from Milton Keynes to Mozambique, from Melbourne to Montevideo.
My heart is made of stone. And I don’t see that as a bad thing.
So, eventually, (after catching a glimpse of el presidente himself strolling through the cordoned-off-for-tomorrow’s-celebrations waterside park) I found myself at the port. I spoke to some guys and they pointed me to a portacabin just beyond the boomgate. I rang the bell and a guy in maritime garb opened the day.
No ferry today!
I already knew that much, but what about tomorrow?
No ferry tomorrow!
Okay, I’ve got the weekend to play with, that’s fine.
What about Sunday?
Can I call?
No, you come here tomorrow 1pm.
But it’s over the other side of town!
The guy laughs and shuts the door. That’s me told then. I ambled back to Nicks, grabbing a kebab on the way. Nick has been an utter legend allowing me to stay at his, especially considering he’s up to his eyes with getting stuff organised for his trip to Pakistan on Sunday. I’ve got to find somewhere else to lay my weary bones tomorrow night, but Alex and Lala are on the case. Finding myself home alone and with Jamil leaving for Russia tonight I ended up staying in and watching DVDs. I’d go out tomorrow night, Saturday night in Baku on a public holiday sounds like a blast.
What a day!
I made myself a cup of tea.
DID YOU KNOW? At one point, Baku supplied 50% of the world’s oil.
So I had nothing important to do today, it was a big public holiday in Baku and the main road through town were shut. I was looking forward to meeting up with Lala again later on and she had kindly offered me a couch at her brother’s flat. I imagined I’d go to the port, talk with somebody who knew what was going on, find out that the next ferry for Kazakhstan would be leaving in X-many days and have to wait it out. If I was lucky, it would be leaving before Tuesday. If I was REALLY lucky, it might be leaving tomorrow. To be honest, I really couldn’t be bothered, what with all the celebrations going on, but I walked down the hill from Nick’s to the Metro station, filled up my ‘oyster’ card (at 20p a trip, it’s value for money HEAR THAT BORIS?) and after arriving at the Main Station I plodded over to the port.
I was in no rush, and I didn’t get there until just after 2pm. I was taken into the portacabin and I spoke to the lady who through broken English told me to go and get my bags from my hotel. I didn’t understand what on Earth she was on about. My bags? From my hotel? Why?
Because the boat to Kazakhstan leaves in an hour. I couldn’t believe my ears.
My jaw hit the ground and my feet hit the road. My taxi cunningly took the route around town and by 3pm I was back at Nicks throwing my scattered belongings into my bag like a wife who’s just caught her husband with his pants down attempting the Heimlich Manoeuver on his secretary. Nick, being the SUPERSTAR LEGEND that he is, went to the grocers and picked me up some provisions for my journey over the Caspian Sea. He met me on the way out of his building and we promised to meet up again in the wonderful land of Oz. Thanking him profusely, texting Lala to explain what was going on (she had arranged to take me to an art gallery and all sorts, damnit!) I stuffed myself in a taxi and headed back to the port, hoping that by ‘the boat leaves in one hour’ the woman meant ‘the boat leaves in two hours’.
I got there at about half three, weighed down with bags and nonsense. The woman in the portacabin looked at me in that ‘oh dear, I’ve got some bad news for you, young man’ way that seems to be universal to humankind.
The boat was full.
Full? How could it be full?!
It only has eleven places for passengers.
ELEVEN PLACES?!? Why didn’t you tell me this before I legged it all the way to the other side of town and back like a man deranged?
But somebody might not turn up.
Out of a hundred, maybe. Out of ELEVEN?
Oh, six are already here.
So if one out of the FIVE people we’re waiting for doesn’t turn up, I get a place on the boat?
Yeah. Come back here at four.
I looked at my watch. It was twenty to four. I sat on the concrete by the boomgate, gobsmacked by this turn of events. An image came into my head – Lawrence Olivier and the other Olympian Gods playing with toy versions of their favourite humans for fun. The next boat wouldn’t be for 10 days. I’d probably be here until April. Why do the Gods mock me so?!
At half four, the lady came out of her portacabin. My heart was in my mouth. She flicked me a smile and coaxed me inside.
I was in.
Dead Man’s Hughes Strikes Again.
What are the chances of the last 24 hours of my life all working out so perfectly? Hundreds to one against, I’d say, but I’m not a gambling man – the house always wins. I got my ticket, barrelled through customs and bundled myself onto the ‘Naxçivan’.
After paying a whopping $120 for my passage, I was more than a little miffed when the guy on board wanted a further $15 for a skanky cabin. I haggled him down to $10 and got rid of my Azeri change by buying a bottle of Fanta. Dinner didn’t look to appetising (a sausage from a moldy fridge) so I made do with my processed cheese and bread that Nick had thankfully given me and settled in for the night with a movie – Confessions of A Dangerous Mind. Got a bit freaked out at one point when I realised that the main character was a little bit too similar to me for comfort.
By the way, I’ve got a GREAT idea for a game show…
DID YOU KNOW? Azerbaijan has a map of Europe on their banknotes – stretching all the way to the Caspian. FANCY THAT! Is somebody gearing up to join the EU by any chance? Does Russia know?