BAD VIBES IN BAKU

"Where am I? How do I get out?"

"Why, this is hell - and nor are you out of it." - Doctor Faustus

It was probably after about a week of me being in Baku that I realised I had made a mistake in going, and was extremely unhappy being there. I was unable to pinpoint it, but I knew there was something very wrong with the school I was teaching in; the atmosphere was rotten. Combined with this were high prices - the pound was down 25% on the Azeri Manat since my less than reliable Lonely Planet was written, and you could pay up to 5 Euro a pint, 10 to 15 for a meal in an average restaurant - stifling heat (36-40 degrees every day), constant noise, traffic, fumes, and a generally unwelcoming vibe, Baku did nothing to charm me. On top of this, the school thoughtfully timetabled my days off to be Wednesday and Friday "So that the students have days off to give all the homework you'll give them." There, the teacher is more of an irrelevant cog in the machine than anywhere I've taught. Never did it cross their minds that I might want to have two consecutive days off so that I might explore their country (paltry though the tourist attractions are) Luckily, my students were fine - willing to learn, hard-working, diligent, if a little unimaginative and occasionally over-zealous in preaching (to me) their (state-sponsored) belligerence towards Armenia and about the Nagorno-Karrabach issue - a long-running and festering sore point which dictates everything in Azeri foreign policy and which poisons its relations with its neighbour to to the west. The government encourage and nurture hatred towards the Armenians, blaming them for almost anything that goes wrong in the country. State-controlled TV and radio stations and indeed newspapers disseminate misinformation, a virtual cult of personality exists regarding the 'father of the nation' Haydur Alieyev, whose posters adorn parks, roads, railway stations, schools, administration buildings and even bars and restaurants. Odd, considering he lost around 25% of their territory between 1990 and 1994.

I got my head down and tried to avoid the politics; difficult to do, when you are constantly being confronted with it - as well as having to deal with overly-curious queries about your marital status, (lack of) children, reasons for being here etc from anyone who speaks a few words of English. At school, there were a few odd-balls, but generally the classes were nice, which made life bearable. One student, a rather rotund, camp guy called Fared, was a kind of summer school groupie, who would turn up to my classes on days he didn't have lessons. I felt a bit sorry for him; he obviously had no life. The funny thing was though, none of the other students batted an eyelid at this, and the idea of hanging around a language school on your days off seemed nothing out of the ordinary. In fact a few students appeared to be doing very little in their lives in general, and when questioned about their weekend plans for example, would give you a bewildered look that seemed to mean "What plans? Who makes weekend plans? We don't do anything." When there were weekend trips organised to the most mundane places you could imagine, they were invariably overbooked. We went, one Sunday, to a park in the outskirts of Baku in a non-descript place called Merdakan, and virtually the whole school turned out. There were a few ragged plants and miserable-looking caged animals, including a bear pacing about in about ten square feet of space and some eagles with clipped wings. It was too depressing to imagine. It took about two hours to order all their food from a Mcdonalds, and by the time we got it back to the park, it was cold. We spent the afternoon playing a game called 'Mafia' - a kind of Azeri Wink Murder. A bit odd, as the average age of students was about 17.

The following weekend, we sat for 4 hours on a bus to get to some destination in the north of the country called Quba. A nice, country place, we were told. When we arrived, it was to a muddy, grey river, strewn with rubbish. Nothing to see, nowhere to walk. Broken bottles, crisp packets and plastic littered the muddy trickle of a river. No one seemed surprised, or perturbed by this monumental waste of time. I felt really bad for the students though. What did they do? Sit down and play Mafia again. The highlight of the day was when we stopped off by a site where some skeletons have recently been dug up. The government have enthusiastically blamed the Armenians for this, and have somewhat laughably termed it as a 'genocide' - a few hundred people perhaps perished here towards the end of the First World War. While I would in no way denigrate or mock the deaths of anyone in war, to blame the Armenians for this is far too convenient, and unlikely. It's as if every tragedy, every single piece of bad luck or misfortune the country has suffered, is because of the Armenians - and due to highly-developed propaganda, the government have succeeded in creating an unquestioning populace who lap up every new slice of anti-Armenian sentiment on TV or the radio. Were there a 'Two Minutes of Hate' introduced here, it would undoubtedly go down very well indeed. The irony is that they vigorously deny the holocaust that according to any objective historian did take place against the Armenians by the Turks in 1918 - and in which between one and one and a half Armenians perished - the Turks being Azeri 'brothers' and arguably the true fathers of this half-nation. This is a policy of denial akin to a murderous ostrich putting its head in the sand, and then encouraging other, smaller ostriches to do the same. I think it was at this point that the school decided they did not like me - not showing enough hatred towards the Armenians at this point was enough to prove my pro-Armenian sympathies in their minds. "Are you going to Armenia? Why?" They would ask. One student informed me that all visitors to Azerbaijan should support Azerbaijan against Armenia, and side against them. "What did you think when Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands?" I asked. "Do you hate Argentina?" He demurred. I suggested he should read '1984', but I think the allegory to his own country would be lost on him.

I found myself in a political situation not of my making, but which I could not improve because of my refusal to bow to this machine of propaganda - overly dramatic as it may sound. I did some research. Two journalists had recently been jailed in Azerbaijan for putting a YouTube video up which mocks President Aliyev. Political freedoms have been completely eroded in the country; teachers in schools who express anti-government opinions are summarily fired, sometimes jailed. There is zero tolerance to any kind of dissent. There is no political opposition and no freedom of speech. Newspapers are gagged, the ones that I read in English were laughably irrelevant and innane. The expat community, mostly working in well-paid oil jobs, floats above the ocean of misinformation, blind and deaf to all that goes on about them maybe, but happily oblivious nevertheless. As long as oil keeps them driving around in their Hummers, why should they care? They just need to do their jobs and hang out in their expensive bars, avoiding real life. Meanwhile, Eve and I were stranded in a shady language school, no contracts and no support, and on tourist visas, making a relative pittance and unable to enjoy anything much in Baku because it sucked money out like a particularly blood-thirsty vampire. Not that there's that much to do. You can join a gym or swimming pool; that will set you back about 80 Euros a month, A game of tennis? 25 Euro an hour. A night out? Not much change from 50 Euro, if you're careful. You could go shopping - but clothes are twice as expensive as in Europe. Go for a coffee maybe. 5 Euro a pop. You don't want to have a caffeine habit here. So that leaves you with, erm..strolling around. And it's too hot for that in the day, and there ain't much to see so in fact you may as well stay at home. Which, for the last ten days, is pretty much what I did when not teaching. In a soulless flat in a soulless suburb with a hundred empty 20 storey blocks built from laundered money. I suddenly understood my students' lack of a discernible life. It's too expensive to do anything. In a city where nobody can afford to live, they don't. Well they do - literally. But beyond the basics, they don't. And if the government cannot see this and understand what a misery their oil and their inflation is making of life for the vast majority of its population, they are bigger fools than I already take them for. And that is very foolish indeed.

I descended the metro every day and thought of Dante. It was an inferno. Out of the frying pan, into the fire; a roasting flat with no air-conditioning (that worked) to an overcrowded, dark, dank, confusing metro system which stifled the air from your lungs and the very life from your soul every single morning. Rising in the morning induced a feeling of depression; leaving the house a strong whiff of oil and a feeling of physical sickness. I had the inevitable falling-out with my boss at the school towards the end of the course - an argument that stemmed from the weekend trips - he blamed me for it all going wrong - and I failed to see his point, having never agreed to lead them, and only taking part in them to assist (not knowing the places we were taking students). Nevertheless, I agreed to teach some extra lessons after strong words were exchanged, and ended up having to come in one of my days off to do conversation classes (25 to a class - chaos) as many of the students had complained about the quality of the trip and this was done to appease them. I was 'observed' by one of the school staff for 'tips on teaching' and planned a lesson about TV and the media. Oddly, one of my students had brought her 'father' to this lesson to observe it also. I didn't think too much of this at the time, but in hindsight, it seems very strange. The subject turned to the police and journalism, and at one point I was critical of the police and their corruption, and the lack of democracy in the country. One student - a refreshingly honest and bright Turkish girl -was willing to speak out, but virtually no one in the class, being observed, would admit to the problem of corruption, but I saw vigorous notes being taken at the back of the classroom.

My final week passed pretty uneventfully, and my last day arrived not a minute too soon - I was delighted to be leaving and getting back on the road. On my penultimate day, I asked the school to pay me my wages in Euros - the Azeri Manat not being a currency exchangeable beyond Azeri borders. My final day came and went with the predictable lack of goodbyes from school staff, though I was touched that some of my students genuinely seemed sad I was leaving, even getting a gift from my IELTS class. Having cleared my desk, I went to get paid from the finance guy - my gutless boss had made himself scarce. I was presented with an envelope - which contained Azeri Manat - and about 30% less money than I was owed. Needless to say. I protested. Loudly. My boss eventually turned up, looking sheepish but defiant nonetheless. After a lot of argument, and about an hour, during which I said some things to the school management which were non-too flattering, I got the money I was owed (the school disingenuously claiming they had agreed to pay me in US Dollars and not Euros), and walked out of the school for the last time - but not before being accused outright of teaching 'Pro-Armenian propaganda' to the students, bizarrely, though not by now entirely surprisingly. I never got paid in Euros though - I suppose I was just glad to get my money at all. I had a meal with Eve, related my story to her (which no doubt set a lot of alarm bells ringing for her - she had another week still to teach), wished her luck and went home to pack my bags. Next morning, first thing, I left Baku - as I thought then, for the last time, glad to be escaping the heat and heading to the coolness of the mountains for a few days before crossing the Georgian border before my visa expired. I had two very pleasant nights - in little mountain resorts called Lahic and Sheki, both presenting very different sides of an Azerbaijan I had begun to hate whilst in Baku. I felt rain on my face for the first time in weeks, and I could sleep under a duvet at nights - odd pleasures indeed. Lahic - a coppersmith town which contains a Persian-descended population which speak Farsi - and Sheki, with a fantastic old caravansarai (silk road-era inn) made of stone and timber, made me feel like a human being again. Seeing greenery and clouds again, I felt Georgia approaching. Finding out Newcastle had demolished Aston Villa 6-0 further lightened my mood.

Not wanting to risk anything, I made sure I got to the border in good time on the final day of its validity - the 23rd of August. The border town, Balakan, a dismal place with suspicious-looking cops and over-eager taxi drivers - nothing whatsoever going on except for a trickle of cross-border traffic. I stepped off my rickety mini-bus and was approached by a guy who offered to take me to the border; oddly, he seemed to expect me. I didn't think anything of it though, and accepted his offer. He drove me - alarmingly fast - to the border - whilst ranting about foreigners in Azerbaijan, how much he hates Armenians, Americans, and, oddly, Poles. He claimed to like the British though, and the Japanese. I was extremely happy to get out of this weirdo's car, and trudged the last few hundred metres to the border from where the road ended. As I got to the little border policeman's office, I could see Georgia: a few yards away from the country I had visited a month previous, and loved; and now, I realised, missed. As I reached down into my pack for my passport, I heard one guard say to another in Russian 'eta dzurnaleest' - 'this is the journalist' - and my heart skipped a beat. How could they know? They knew I had written a report of the Karrabach Baku v Wisla Krakow football match? That was impossible, surely? My mind raced. Then it struck me. I remembered the school boss shaking his head and saying "You still don't understand how things work in this country.." which I took to mean that in work, you are supposed to accept any rubbish you are told to do. And here were the results of not doing - now I understood. I knew what was coming. "You visa - it is not actual", the border guard said in stumbling English. "Yes it is - look - 23rd, today," I said, pointing at the 'valid until' date. "No - 30 day visa - you enter on 23 July - 30 days after then is 22 August - yesterday," he smiled triumphantly. "You one day late." Trying not to lose my temper, I stood my ground and argued this ridiculous detail was no impediment to my leaving the country, and demanded to be allowed to go past them and leave. "No - you cannot, our computer says no," he said, unwittingly paraphrasing Little Britain. Impotent with rage, I lit up a cigarette. Impasse. Finally I relented. "Ok, maybe I can pay for this problem," I suggested, expecting no more than a $50 'fine' (bribe). "Yes, you pay", he said. "Where?" The guard beckoned over his shoulder nonchalantly. "Baku." I was being asked to travel back to Baku - which was over 560km distant and had taken me three days to travel from - to obtain an extension to my visa. I was speechless. "What?" I spluttered. "Are you joking? How much will it cost?" The smug official shook his head. "Wait a minute, I check with my boss" he said, which I took as encouragement; surely the senior border official would not enforce this nonsense? A dignified guy appeared, three epaulettes on each shoulder. I was wrong to feel encouraged. "You leave here now or we call police," he said flatly. "You go Baku - taxi. $300. You buy extension - $400" - he pointed at a prowling, pernicious-looking driver a few yards away. "Oh? You paying?" I asked, sarcastically, knowing I had lost. As I retreated past the office, I saw a photo-copy of my passport lying on the guard's desk; my school, I realised, had sent it and alerted them. A half-forgotten exchange with one of the school's administrators entered my head from a few days previous - in which he was very anxious to find out the exact date I had entered the country. Eve later told me the school had revealed to her they had friends amongst the border officials.

I turned on my heel and ignored the driver. 5Km with 30kg on my back to the train station - I knew a train was going back to Baku overnight (9 hours). The train station, which I reached after about an hour, cursing the whole way, was deserted; there didn't appear to be anyone on the train. "At least I'll get on this, no problem" I thought. But as I walked to the ticket office, the woman behind the window put the shutters up. "Niet bilety" she said - no tickets. I went on to the platform and attempted to obtain a ticket from one of the mini-mafiosa who worked in the carriages. No dice - they simply were not going to let me on the train. I asked if I could obtain a ticket for the next day. No. The next? No. When? In one month. Even if, and this is very unlikely, the train happened to be fully booked that evening, the chances of it being fully booked for the next month from this sparsely-populated area were zero. I knew then that I was involved in a game of cat-and-mouse with the state, and that my freedom of movement was being impinged upon - the border officials had clearly alerted the train station and ordered not to let me on. Now, I was genuinely scared. I was in an existential position, a Kafka-esque struggle, with nobody but myself to rely on; had I accepted a ride from one of the many vulture-like 'taxi drivers' waiting outside the station (one offered me a ride back to Baku for twenty dollars) I am quite sure I would have been driven somewhere, robbed and left, literally, to the wolves. The 'militcja' (police) would not have lifted a finger. I trudged with my pack, aching on my back, back to Balakan, as it was getting dark. Several unfriendly youths jeered at me as I walked past "Toureest! Toureest!" they mocked. I had never felt lonelier - or more vulnerable. There was one hotel in town; a depressing place above a petrol station called Az-Motel. I am certain they expected my arrival. I had to pay three times more than the advertised price (the hotel was empty though). They demanded I hand over my passport before permitting me to stay; I had no choice but to give them it. I had a completely sleepless night, worrying that I would wake up to find my passport had disappeared; not even sure I could make it out of the town - at least, not by public transport anyway. I awoke - well - got up after several hours of tossing and turning - at 6am, got showered and dressed and walked downstairs. To my great relief, my passport was returned without problem. I got in a taxi and sped to the next town - 20km away - Zaqatala - and eventually found a bus there back to Baku, 9 hours in a lunpy seat in stifling heat and with a soldier sat suspiciously alongside me.

The first thing I did in Baku was go to the British Embassy to let them know the situation I was in. Though clearly shocked at the pettiness the officials had stooped to, they told me they were technically in the right and could indeed charge me pretty much what they wanted. I was flabbergasted that a government could treat foreigners in this way, and told them in no uncertain terms that I thought the country was completely corrupt, and that I felt my movements were being monitored, my freedom of movement impinged upon. The official looked concerned but could not do anything much except assure me I would be able to leave with the extension. I spent the next two days in Baku frustratingly going to various offices - which were spread out and in different outskirts of the city - getting my extension sorted. First of all I was sent to a false address, an office which no longer operated for the function of visas, and was given misinformation as to where to go next by a bunch of jobsworths who appeared to enjoy the predicament I was in. I finally found the right office, an imposing place miles from the centre - and then had to go back to a bank in the centre to pay the penalty before returning with the receipt. Another visit to the British Embassy the next day to inform them which train I would be catching and that I wanted them to inform the Azeri authorities they knew about my situation; and to check my papers so that there could be no complaints on returning to the border. I contemplated flying, thinking it might be a safer way out, and a place where I would be less likely to encounter threats, bribes or corruption. I ruled it out firstly on price grounds - this whole episode had already cost me several hundred pounds - but also because by this stage I was already so distrustful of Azeri officialdom that I simply did not want to let my bags out of my sight before crossing the border and getting out of the country. In the event, despite my heightened sense of paranoia, the train journey went pretty hitch-free and I was not given any troubles on the border, though I am certain the attendant had a very close eye on me throughout the journey. My last night in Baku was weird though; on three occasions, strangers came up to me and started political conversations - one guy at the station bar started berating the government and invited me to contribute - something similar happened as I was sat on a bench on the Boulevard just as was about to leave Baku - and on the train, two 'journalists' came up to me and started telling me they worked for an underground anti-government magazine. I walked away from them all; at this stage, I simply did not know what hazards could arise from talking to anyone. When I finally crossed over that border out of Azerbaijan and into Georgia,and was welcomed by the Georgian border guard, it was about as relieved as I've ever felt. I allowed myself a couple of beers as the train waited on the border, gratefully bought from a passing babcia; it was 11am. I had missed at least two nights sleep, wasted four days and god knows how much money. But I was happy, and more than any time before cherished my sense of freedom, which for the past four days, for the first time in my life, ridiculous as it might sound, was under threat.

Looking back from the comfort and safety of hindsight, and on the other side of a border, it seems like a bad dream. The past, someone once said, is another country. In this case, it very literally is, for Baku is stuck in a time-warp. Yes, in a superficial way everything has changed since 1989 - but look beyond the new flash cars, the sprouting blocks of flats, the oil-induced gust of optimism and peel below the layers. Look at the Soviet-era detritus laying around the outskirts of the city, in the god-forsaken Abseron peninsula, or on of any of the beaches lining the Caspian Sea, piles of rubbish, seeping oil and an environmental catastrophe that not only does no one care about, but most willingly and callously contributes to; look at the nepotistic, undemocratically-elected government and morally bankrupt police force who accept bribes left right and centre; look at the climate of fear, suspicion and misinformation; look indeed at the propaganda, the state-sponsored hatred of Armenians and a government who jail journalists who dare to mock them. Look at posters of Haydur Aliyev everywhere you go; a cult of non-personality - the 'father of the nation' (an ex-KGB shoo-in who set up a kind of modern khanate for himself by the Caspian in the post-Soviet chaos), unquestioningly worshipped by a dull-minded, docile populace fed lies and unable to separate the truth from fiction because of an obsessively-controlled media. Look at school teachers being paid 250 Euro a month in a city which is as expensive as London, so that nobody with a decent education would ever think of educating, keeping the general intelligence of the populace down, as you would, say, in an African dictatorship. Look at cameras everywhere, in the streets, in the metro, in restaurants, train stations, in classrooms for goodness sake. Look at blocks of flats guarded and locked up like prisons. Look at the unhappiness etched on people's faces. The bitterness. The hate. This is 1984. You are, very definitely, being watched, no more and no less than in Soviet times. In a country where you cannot be sure you will be able to leave because of an administrative error on your passport - be afraid - be very afraid.