Four Days in Baku

In April 2018, I traveled to Baku, Azerbaijan via Constantinople. The reason for the journey was quite unusual. For my upcoming photography exhibition on architecture in Iran, I wanted to exhibit some photographs of the Heydar Aliyev Center as a counterweight. I wanted to contrast the “masculine” Muslim architecture of medieval Iran with the contemporary “feminine” architecture of Zaha Hadid. The fact that Zaha Hadid comes from the Muslim world played a significant role.
Well, of course, I could photograph the exterior without hindrance, like any curious tourist. Despite good connections, I did not manage to photograph the interior. Despite my requests and explanations of why I needed the photos, I was completely ignored. Well, yes, the exhibition was nevertheless a success.
Let’s leave that aside.
The adventure began on the very first morning. How to get to the city center from the airport by bus. OK, I buy a ticket at the machine, where the instructions are only in Azerbaijani. The friendly driver was waiting for me, even though he should have already taken off. No one was upset.
And then from the center on foot to the suburbs, where I had a hotel reservation. I’ve passed by a few times because it’s wrongly located on Google maps! Hotel in the style of Soviet architecture. The room is spartanly furnished, you can hear the conversation from the next room, but no big deal, I don’t understand anything anyway. And the scrambled eggs for breakfast were always cold.
Not far away, the destination of my journey, Heydar Aliyev Center.
Illy cafe in the center, Hard Rock cafe, preparations for the Formula One city race.
Flame Towers, where a soldier, the guard in front of the Ministry of Defense kindly allows me to go to the top of the stairs for a better photo.
Rema, who kindly welcomes me to the Azerbaijan Carpet Museum.
Martyrs’ Lane, cemetery & memorial for those killed by the Soviet Army in Black January & the Nagorno-Karabakh War.
On one side, wealth, brilliant architecture, expensive shops, prestigious cars, on the other side, in the suburbs, poor areas, dirty yards, satellite dishes on balconies, crumbling facades. But the kind old ladies at the market who let themselves be photographed. And their husbands jokingly shout at me, don’t take the photo of our wives, take them with you…
And lamb pilaf (plov), saffron rice topped with meltingly tender lamb, slow cooked with a range of ingredients including dried apricots, dried chestnuts and cumin in one restaurant in the old part of the city.
And since I’m an old fashioned, from ancient times when we used to send postcards by post, before Gmail and Instagram, of course I wanted to buy some cards. I barely found them in an antique shop. Next wish, post stamps. As in many countries, you can only get stamps here at post offices. Google guides me from the hotel to the nearest post office. An old building with a low door and a small inscription above it почта. Russian? I walk in, a small place with a counter and three girls behind it. In front of one was line, and naturally I stand behind the last person waiting. When it’s my turn, I ask for stamps in school English. I don’t know Russian, let alone Azerbaijani. Panic. The girl calls out to the boss, who clearly knows the basics of English. I repeat my wish. OK, how much? Eight. He takes the postcards from my hands, counts them again and says, that will be four manats. I give him money, he says thank you, I say thank you and leave. The postcards arrived a good month later.
After a few days, I head to the airport. At the hotel reception, I ask how much a taxi costs. They tell me 50 manats. It’s two in the morning, the taxi driver is standing in front of the hotel. When I ask him how much the ride to the airport costs, he tells me 25 manats. Okay, let’s go. The guy doesn’t speak English, so we keep quiet. The stadium in the suburbs is lit up as if there is a game on. At the border crossing, the policewoman demands that I take off my shoes. Another moment and I’m in the transit zone.
Goodbye Baku.
And thanks to Rema, who said that through my eyes and my photos, she sees a different Baku of hers.