A Cossack in Qazak*

I really wish I had just gotten over my distaste for humidity and really just got ‘er done in Azerbaijan, but unfortunately I didn’t and I have had to live with the consequences ever since.  I got so little done there!  After I got back to Baku from Quba, the next morning I went to the bus depot and bought a ticket to Ganja, thinking I might enjoy myself there.  Upon entering the bus depot, I discovered that it was highly unlikely that I would enjoy myself there.  I think it was raining or something made me not want to exit the bus so I paid for an extension to the end of the line, which I think was Tovuz.

The Tovuz terminus was actually quite a run down affair and I was actually a little regretful I had decided to take the bus there.  I kept walking out of town in the direction of the Georgian border and I stopped in at an internet café to make sure I was on track.  The kids in the internet café (as usual playing some sort of war game) loved me and would not let me leave (Azerbaijan.  They didn’t want me to leave the country at all) and I promised them I would return.  I’d still like to, because as I have mentioned there is a lot I seem to have missed. 

So I walked towards Qazak and I hadn’t made it too far out of town when a marshrutka stopped for me.  It was empty so I was a bit hesitant, but for days now I had been practicing how to scream “No!  That is NOT the price!  It costs X manat to go from (blank) to (blank) and this is the not the accepted fare!  I will NOT pay that!” in Russian and I was just itching to use it.  I was so trigger-happy.  So as we inched towards Qazak I was getting so pent up ready for the impending scream-fest that when the marshrutka stopped and I handed him 50 kopek, he smiled, and swatted his hand in a gesture to indicate it was on the house.  Of course, this gesture also knocked the money out of my hand and I never did get back 25 kopek and I presume it’s lost forever somewhere in the woolen blankets covering the bolted in seats of that orange Mercedes van.  

Qazak is, as the name suggests, full of Kazakhs.  Or at least it was.  No one can really be certain any more where anyone is in the former Soviet Union.  A popular past time has been to take people from the Caucasus and other troublesome regions and ship them to Central Asia.  I believe some Kazakhs were shipped to Azerbaijan.**  In any case, the town was really nice and the entire centre seemed to be composed of huge parks with outdoor seating and people sitting around drinking tea, or playing pool, or having shashlik.  In fact, I kind of wish I had stayed the night there but sometimes when I have my mind set on something I will achieve it come hell or high water. 

Both Hell and high waters seem to have manifested themselves in the form of a TWO KILOMETRE long truck lineup at the border to Georgia.  Or it was more like 5km.  It was friggin’ long is what it was.  After leaving Qazak on foot, I caught a ride with a great truck driver who took me to a gas station where we hung out for like 30 minutes while he smoked and did whatever, and then we got on the road for 5 minutes and hit this enormous lineup.  He also tried to get me to throw his old Coke bottle out the window but I refused and carried it all the way with me to the border where I could find a garbage can.  

He apologized for not being able to take me to the border, and I apologized for how his day was going to be wasted in this traffic jam, and I continued to walk towards the border.  I passed all sorts, doing all sorts of activities, and there were trucks from everywhere trying to get through.  I made it to the border but was totally disoriented on as to where I was supposed to go because the crossing was being completely overhauled and I foolishly went into the building that had absolutely no personnel working in it and I came out the other side and realized that I was entirely in the wrong place.  No sooner had someone started screaming at me and soldiers rushed at me with guns that I used that ol’ western charm, flashed a white and toothy grin and said in about as clueless-American-tourist as one can get, “Sorry, where is the crossing?”  They took my passport, passed it around, took me to various offices, and then a young soldier personally escorted me to where I was supposed to go, which was a corralled section down the hill.  

Down the hill by the river was a temporary crossing, made up of a portable and some wire fencing.  The soldier, probably 18 years old, asked me if I had an iPod.  Instead of saying, “B****, please, I have two” I coyly hinted that I might.  He told me to give it to him.  I upped the coy factor and said, “No.”  He said okay.  My main take-away from this experience is that being coy always wins the day.  And while no one else finds it funny, you can write about in your travel diary later and then post it to a blog three years later and still find it extremely funny.  

*I've frequently been referred to as being a cossack in the past.  Partly due to my steely blue eyes and striking features, and partly (mainly) due to the way I can devour an entire loaf of bread in one sitting with my bare hands.  
**Or it's actually full of cossacks.  I have no idea.  Very little research went into this one.