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Baku: The tourist's-eye view of an oil-boom city
Azerbaijan wants to see as many British visitors photographing its
monuments as working on its offshore rigs. Mark Leftly takes to the
streets
Independent/UK
Sunday, 16 May 2010
LARS BARON / GETTY IMAGES
Baku is the capital, the largest city, and the largest port of Azerbaijan
Chin balanced awkwardly in his hands, the pre-adolescent, mop-haired
boy in a turquoise pullover glances up at his opponent. His eyes dart
back to the chess board, legs shaking vigorously beneath the table.
The other boy, dressed in red, has moved a rook one space to the left,
e3 to d3, but why?
In maybe three seconds, the riddle is solved and Mop-Hair swiftly
moves his bishop diagonally up the board to a threatening position.
Another glance at his opponent, this time accompanied by a grin. At
the back of the chess centre are many trophies, one of which the
children here are competing to win. At the front, by the wide,
covered-up window, middle-aged women are reading books and considering
their Sudoku puzzles.
Hidden away behind rickety wooden doors on one of the main streets in
Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, is this down-at-heel centre where the
great Grandmaster Garry Kasparov learnt his trade. In 1990, Kasparov
fled this extraordinary city of contradictions, bleak yet spectacular:
Unesco-protected fortress walls struggling for prominence with ugly,
Dubai-style glass buildings; late 19th and early 20th century oil
tycoon mansions alongside Soviet brutalism.
Though born in Baku, Kasparov is Armenian on his mother's side. Since
1988, Azerbaijan and its land-locked westerly neighbour have been at
war, as least technically, over the Armenia-occupied Nagorno-Karabakh
region.
I am in this small country on the western edge of the Caspian Sea
because in November I wrote a travel article about Yerevan, the
incredibly well-planned capital of Armenia. The introductory
paragraphs described Yerablur, a cemetery on the city's outskirts that
is the last resting place for hundreds of Armenians who died in the
conflict during the six years to 1994, when a ceasefire of sorts was
reached.
A few days later, I was contacted by The European Azerbaijan Society
(Teas), to point out that Armenia illegally occupies Azeri land
surrounding Nagorno-Karabakh. The society added that the people of
this pro-Western country feel that Russia-friendly Armenia is treated
more warmly than Azerbaijan in the US and UK press.
Azerbaijan's image in the West is important to the government because
it is desperate to beat both Armenia and Georgia to the tourist dollar
as foreign interest in the Caucasus region grows. The state has
launched a tourism drive so that 30,000 hotel guests can be
accommodated at any one time within five years, while 1.3m people
visited the country in the first nine months of last year.
Baku is the centrepiece of these plans, an oil boom city that wants to
see as many Brits photographing its monuments as there are working for
the likes of BP on its offshore rigs. I wondered if the city was worth
the six-hour flight just for tourism.
As I pass the grim, futuristic glass pyramid of the old town metro
station, which jars with the backdrop of the old city's medieval
walls, I figure that I am in for a disappointment. But entering Icheri
Shahar, or the inner city, I soon realise that I have been too quick
to judge. I am greeted by an enormous stone head, the bust of the poet
Aliagha Vahid. Although fairly modern - he died only 45 years ago -
this is the first of many examples of outstanding statues I encounter.
On close inspection, Vahid's hair is, in fact, a collection of simple
scenes, such as men drinking, while his neck is covered not by
wrinkles but the roots of a tree. Nearby, three boys use the gap
between two sets of steps as a makeshift goal for a game of football,
a sport all locals seem to love, while a friendly down-and-out comes
over simply to practice his English and say hello.
Forget using a map in this corner of town, the disorganised tiny
cobbled streets would flummox the most gifted cartographer. There are
lots of little discoveries to be made - although at first it seems
that there are only cats and washing lines - the best of which is a
free-of-charge museum of miniature books.
The owner, a lady in her fifties who cannot speak any English, insists
on showing me around, and is even able to convey that there are 4,800
books in the museum but more in her total collection. She points out a
series of fingernail-sized works by Alexander Pushkin, and a
photograph of Boris Yeltsin, who visited the museum in 2005.
The major attractions in the old town are Maiden's Tower and
Shirvanshah's Palace, one as interesting as I have been informed, the
other as soulless as can be. The tower is a mysterious 29.5m
structure, of which no one really knows the origins, bar that it was
rebuilt in the 12th century.
Wearing battered old shoes with no discernable grip, I nearly slip on
several jagged stone steps on my way to the top, but once there I am
rewarded with a tremendous view over the Caspian. Baku isn't known as
the "City of Winds" for nothing: at this height I am nearly blown over
by fierce, icy gusts.
The palace wasn't worth the four manat - roughly £3.30 - that I paid
for entry and the right to take photographs. There's little of
interest to take a snap of here, the buildings empty, the
reconstructions of parts of this 15th century complex simply not that
impressive.
This might have been a better structure to demolish than the
south-western corner of the walls, which have made way for a Four
Seasons hotel. Sadly, there seem to be more construction firms on
their way to the old city, their mission to smooth out the irregular,
cobbled pathways.
I move on to Fountain Square, the hub of Baku's thriving shopping
district. Again, the builders have got there first, the square fenced
off for reconstruction. The famous little Passaj souvenir street to
the east of the square presently has only a handful of stalls, having
made way for painters who are redecorating the mansion arches that
cover this area.
A teenage boy running one of the few remaining stands dishes out a
lesson in the art of haggling. I ask the price of a gaudy, gold
picture of Azerbaijan, to which he replies "10 manat".
He runs off to get a less battered version and when he returns says:
"Thirteen, my boss tell me." I point out the increase in price to
which he responds "15". I eventually get the picture and some coasters
for 18 manat, though the boy suggests that I don't need the change
from my 20 manat note.
In need of a drink to contemplate the genius of the boy's sales
strategy, I pass the Carpet Museum, a massive Soviet structure that
looks like something from ancient Greece. I head for the tree-lined
promenade by the seafront. I go to Bar Xazor, a circular venue with
good views of the heavily overcast Caspian. Enclosed, I cough at the
smoke that wafts over from nearby tables, where patrons sip
jam-sweetened tea, gossip, and puff on high-tar cigarettes. I ask for
a Russian vodka. It turns out that there are 15 to choose from and
that measures are far from small despite the paltry three manat price
tag.
After that and a bottle of the Xirdalan, the light but refreshing
domestic lager, I stagger past two yellow Noddy Trains that wouldn't
look out of place at Bournemouth beach. I attempt to walk on to the
pier, but it is roped off due to the piercing winds, thwarting my
attempts to look like a male, slightly tipsy version of The French
Lieutenant's Woman.
After a two manat trip on the promenade's incredibly slow, Soviet-era
Ferris wheel, I head for dinner. I order a delicious plov, lamb with
rice that, in this case, is heavy on dill. On my table there is what
appears to be a small tub of grass, which I conclude must be a
condiment. I eat a couple of the blades and, sure enough, it's grass.
What I didn't realise was that it is the Novruz holiday, the first day
of spring, and that the grass bundle is a symbol of the event.
Grass aside, the food in Baku is filling and heavy on meat. At the
Fayton Club, for example, I order some dolma, those vine leaves
stuffed with minced lamb and rice. Inside each one there are only two
or three grains of rice, the rest is meat.
Fayton is near Heydar Aliyev Park. Aliyev was the president of
Azerbaijan from 1993 until his death in 2003 and was either the
country's saviour from post-Soviet poverty or an authoritarian human
rights violator, depending on whom you talk to. His image is
everywhere, and the statue of Aliyev waving in the park is, by night,
lit up by two sets of massive spotlights. Aliyev appears to be waving
at the hideous central bank building across the street.
My guide, Samed, tells me that the builders used several kilos of gold
to help create a distinctive colour for the glass of that building.
Unfortunately for the architect, that distinctive colour turned out to
be copper.
I visit Shahidlar Xiyabani, or the Alley of Martyrs, the Baku
equivalent of Yerevan's Yerablur cemetery. To get to the centrepiece
eternal flame you have to pass by a row of black marble rectangles
with images of people murdered during Black January, back in 1990,
when the totalitarian Soviet regime left its final mark on Baku, and
their graves.
It is a staggeringly moving memorial and a testament to the subtlety
of which this big, brash city can be capable. And if almost wilful
eclecticism is your cup of fig jam-sweetened tea, Baku is definitely
worth a visit.
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/euro pe/baku-the-touristseye-view-of-an-oilboom-city-19 74359.html
Azerbaijan wants to see as many British visitors photographing its
monuments as working on its offshore rigs. Mark Leftly takes to the
streets
Independent/UK
Sunday, 16 May 2010
LARS BARON / GETTY IMAGES
Baku is the capital, the largest city, and the largest port of Azerbaijan
Chin balanced awkwardly in his hands, the pre-adolescent, mop-haired
boy in a turquoise pullover glances up at his opponent. His eyes dart
back to the chess board, legs shaking vigorously beneath the table.
The other boy, dressed in red, has moved a rook one space to the left,
e3 to d3, but why?
In maybe three seconds, the riddle is solved and Mop-Hair swiftly
moves his bishop diagonally up the board to a threatening position.
Another glance at his opponent, this time accompanied by a grin. At
the back of the chess centre are many trophies, one of which the
children here are competing to win. At the front, by the wide,
covered-up window, middle-aged women are reading books and considering
their Sudoku puzzles.
Hidden away behind rickety wooden doors on one of the main streets in
Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, is this down-at-heel centre where the
great Grandmaster Garry Kasparov learnt his trade. In 1990, Kasparov
fled this extraordinary city of contradictions, bleak yet spectacular:
Unesco-protected fortress walls struggling for prominence with ugly,
Dubai-style glass buildings; late 19th and early 20th century oil
tycoon mansions alongside Soviet brutalism.
Though born in Baku, Kasparov is Armenian on his mother's side. Since
1988, Azerbaijan and its land-locked westerly neighbour have been at
war, as least technically, over the Armenia-occupied Nagorno-Karabakh
region.
I am in this small country on the western edge of the Caspian Sea
because in November I wrote a travel article about Yerevan, the
incredibly well-planned capital of Armenia. The introductory
paragraphs described Yerablur, a cemetery on the city's outskirts that
is the last resting place for hundreds of Armenians who died in the
conflict during the six years to 1994, when a ceasefire of sorts was
reached.
A few days later, I was contacted by The European Azerbaijan Society
(Teas), to point out that Armenia illegally occupies Azeri land
surrounding Nagorno-Karabakh. The society added that the people of
this pro-Western country feel that Russia-friendly Armenia is treated
more warmly than Azerbaijan in the US and UK press.
Azerbaijan's image in the West is important to the government because
it is desperate to beat both Armenia and Georgia to the tourist dollar
as foreign interest in the Caucasus region grows. The state has
launched a tourism drive so that 30,000 hotel guests can be
accommodated at any one time within five years, while 1.3m people
visited the country in the first nine months of last year.
Baku is the centrepiece of these plans, an oil boom city that wants to
see as many Brits photographing its monuments as there are working for
the likes of BP on its offshore rigs. I wondered if the city was worth
the six-hour flight just for tourism.
As I pass the grim, futuristic glass pyramid of the old town metro
station, which jars with the backdrop of the old city's medieval
walls, I figure that I am in for a disappointment. But entering Icheri
Shahar, or the inner city, I soon realise that I have been too quick
to judge. I am greeted by an enormous stone head, the bust of the poet
Aliagha Vahid. Although fairly modern - he died only 45 years ago -
this is the first of many examples of outstanding statues I encounter.
On close inspection, Vahid's hair is, in fact, a collection of simple
scenes, such as men drinking, while his neck is covered not by
wrinkles but the roots of a tree. Nearby, three boys use the gap
between two sets of steps as a makeshift goal for a game of football,
a sport all locals seem to love, while a friendly down-and-out comes
over simply to practice his English and say hello.
Forget using a map in this corner of town, the disorganised tiny
cobbled streets would flummox the most gifted cartographer. There are
lots of little discoveries to be made - although at first it seems
that there are only cats and washing lines - the best of which is a
free-of-charge museum of miniature books.
The owner, a lady in her fifties who cannot speak any English, insists
on showing me around, and is even able to convey that there are 4,800
books in the museum but more in her total collection. She points out a
series of fingernail-sized works by Alexander Pushkin, and a
photograph of Boris Yeltsin, who visited the museum in 2005.
The major attractions in the old town are Maiden's Tower and
Shirvanshah's Palace, one as interesting as I have been informed, the
other as soulless as can be. The tower is a mysterious 29.5m
structure, of which no one really knows the origins, bar that it was
rebuilt in the 12th century.
Wearing battered old shoes with no discernable grip, I nearly slip on
several jagged stone steps on my way to the top, but once there I am
rewarded with a tremendous view over the Caspian. Baku isn't known as
the "City of Winds" for nothing: at this height I am nearly blown over
by fierce, icy gusts.
The palace wasn't worth the four manat - roughly £3.30 - that I paid
for entry and the right to take photographs. There's little of
interest to take a snap of here, the buildings empty, the
reconstructions of parts of this 15th century complex simply not that
impressive.
This might have been a better structure to demolish than the
south-western corner of the walls, which have made way for a Four
Seasons hotel. Sadly, there seem to be more construction firms on
their way to the old city, their mission to smooth out the irregular,
cobbled pathways.
I move on to Fountain Square, the hub of Baku's thriving shopping
district. Again, the builders have got there first, the square fenced
off for reconstruction. The famous little Passaj souvenir street to
the east of the square presently has only a handful of stalls, having
made way for painters who are redecorating the mansion arches that
cover this area.
A teenage boy running one of the few remaining stands dishes out a
lesson in the art of haggling. I ask the price of a gaudy, gold
picture of Azerbaijan, to which he replies "10 manat".
He runs off to get a less battered version and when he returns says:
"Thirteen, my boss tell me." I point out the increase in price to
which he responds "15". I eventually get the picture and some coasters
for 18 manat, though the boy suggests that I don't need the change
from my 20 manat note.
In need of a drink to contemplate the genius of the boy's sales
strategy, I pass the Carpet Museum, a massive Soviet structure that
looks like something from ancient Greece. I head for the tree-lined
promenade by the seafront. I go to Bar Xazor, a circular venue with
good views of the heavily overcast Caspian. Enclosed, I cough at the
smoke that wafts over from nearby tables, where patrons sip
jam-sweetened tea, gossip, and puff on high-tar cigarettes. I ask for
a Russian vodka. It turns out that there are 15 to choose from and
that measures are far from small despite the paltry three manat price
tag.
After that and a bottle of the Xirdalan, the light but refreshing
domestic lager, I stagger past two yellow Noddy Trains that wouldn't
look out of place at Bournemouth beach. I attempt to walk on to the
pier, but it is roped off due to the piercing winds, thwarting my
attempts to look like a male, slightly tipsy version of The French
Lieutenant's Woman.
After a two manat trip on the promenade's incredibly slow, Soviet-era
Ferris wheel, I head for dinner. I order a delicious plov, lamb with
rice that, in this case, is heavy on dill. On my table there is what
appears to be a small tub of grass, which I conclude must be a
condiment. I eat a couple of the blades and, sure enough, it's grass.
What I didn't realise was that it is the Novruz holiday, the first day
of spring, and that the grass bundle is a symbol of the event.
Grass aside, the food in Baku is filling and heavy on meat. At the
Fayton Club, for example, I order some dolma, those vine leaves
stuffed with minced lamb and rice. Inside each one there are only two
or three grains of rice, the rest is meat.
Fayton is near Heydar Aliyev Park. Aliyev was the president of
Azerbaijan from 1993 until his death in 2003 and was either the
country's saviour from post-Soviet poverty or an authoritarian human
rights violator, depending on whom you talk to. His image is
everywhere, and the statue of Aliyev waving in the park is, by night,
lit up by two sets of massive spotlights. Aliyev appears to be waving
at the hideous central bank building across the street.
My guide, Samed, tells me that the builders used several kilos of gold
to help create a distinctive colour for the glass of that building.
Unfortunately for the architect, that distinctive colour turned out to
be copper.
I visit Shahidlar Xiyabani, or the Alley of Martyrs, the Baku
equivalent of Yerevan's Yerablur cemetery. To get to the centrepiece
eternal flame you have to pass by a row of black marble rectangles
with images of people murdered during Black January, back in 1990,
when the totalitarian Soviet regime left its final mark on Baku, and
their graves.
It is a staggeringly moving memorial and a testament to the subtlety
of which this big, brash city can be capable. And if almost wilful
eclecticism is your cup of fig jam-sweetened tea, Baku is definitely
worth a visit.
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/euro pe/baku-the-touristseye-view-of-an-oilboom-city-19 74359.html