Bribery With the Devil's Coachman

"For the first time in weeks, I found myself in a house that appeared to be a deliberate act rather than some more or less dreadful accident."

The plan (ah, that naive concept of planning) was to be in Georgia the next morning. There were several ways to attempt this from Sheki. You can no north, higher into the mountains, and catch a bus somewhere called (variously), Gakh, Qak, or Xag. Or, you can dip back down to the interior, skirting a weird finger-lake that prevents you from making a straight line, change in Yevlak, and catch a night train in Ganja. 

The idea of a train with a known schedule was very appealing to us at this point as was the idea of a city called Ganja (we made many juvenile attempts to say Azerbaijani place names in a Jamaican accent), and thirdly, it seemed culturally necessary to say we had taken "The Midnight Train to Georgia." And, thus, after the cab dumped us out at the winter vagsul, I went in search of the Ganja-bound marshrutkas while Sara bargained at a little market for walnuts. 

The only van with "Ganja" written in it was an hilarious jalopy with light blue silly putty spackled over the rust holes and a badly cracked windshield. I assumed, perhaps, it stood as a sort of rustic advertisement for the trip. Kind of like how certain Southern restaurants in the US will put a tractor up on blocks and tape a "Come 'n git it!" sign to the hood. 

It was, however, the actual vehicle we would be taking.  Well, why not? Azerbaijan! Hey, you know what, if it Gakhs like a duck... 

                                           

Humorously, Sara had some difficulty at the marketplace, when her five-manatee note was perceived to have a tear in it. Like most paper bills, when you fold it, it's vulnerable to a tiny tear at the crease, and this was of GREAT CONCERN to the lavash and walnut vendors of the Sheki Winter Vagsul. The proprietor of one bottled watery called in the vendors of the other divers lavash and tea kiosks to say the Azerian equivalent of "can you believe this raggedy-ass bill Betsy Ross tried to pass off on me?"

I had encountered something similar in Vietnam, where a crumpled bill was rejected by several servers over several days. It became a game to see who would take it. What's the big deal. Is it that they're terrified of counterfeit manatees? Is it reverence? Unless the bill is ATM-fresh, it's treated like a toxic strip.

We had other bills that passed the test and were able to load up on water and grapes. The appointed hour arrived, and we embarked on the hell ride to Ganja.

                                                       

It was kind of a perfect storm. Busted van, potholed highways hidden from Heydar, and Ireet's nightmare: a young driver! He drove like Tamerlane's hordes were on his tail over roads paved by tanks. We were constantly thrown from our seats, our heads microns from the metal roof of the van. We switched lanes, played chicken with gas trucks, and slid all over the eagle's back.

We had already agreed this would be the last marshrutka trip we would take. Sara is strong and healthy, but her long, slender frame is made for strolling along snowy riverbanks where one whispers out the names of the latest gallery sensations or which dacha one will autumn in. And thus, she suffered. Even my own born-to-toil-in-the-bauxite-mines frame was bruised from the repeated impact-stress.

My only strategy for dealing with it was to use a sort of marshrutka akido and try to finish that bulky Goltz book. I figured doing a painful thing with my mind would counteract the body terror. And it worked. I somehow made it through, and just as the author ended up falling in love with Heydar Aliev at the end, I ended up kind of liking the book! It felt like a real accomplishment!  I thought back on several complicated, lengthy monster-tomes I've melted on these journeys. Middlemarch, Shardik.

Maybe one day I'll read The Recognitions on a freighter to Turkmenistan.

                                       

We saw a giant, golden gas station rising like a temple in the middle of No Where. Startling to see it gleaming like a trucker's fantasy in those sparse surroundings. Had we struck our skulls and dreamed it? By the roadside, a man grazed a hairy pig, the first I'd seen on this trip. He, the man, had a motorcycle with a side car. I spent a great deal of time imagining the pig in this sidecar wearing goggles and feeling the wind rustle his bristles.

Then I thought, "Well, rustle my bristles!" would be a marvelous exclamation to add to my growing list of Invented Conversational Ejaculations.

Once in Yevlak where, they say, a junkyard holds a statue of Lenin sliced in half, the roads got better. Old Heydar must have supervised this section, and our bones and ligaments had the opportunity to once again segregate themselves.

And though the roads had seen fewer military parades, the traffic was heavier, and Racin' Ruslan was not to be outraced. He gunned it like there was a stack of smooth, untorn bills just over the skyline. And thusly, we ran afoul of an Azeri speed trap. Pulled over by the highway patrol.

                                         

But damned if Racin' Ruslan didn't get out of it by bribing the officer with a child's coloring book. We were amazed.

It seemed like it went:

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

No. I am eager to unload this van of Yankee meat. You understand.

"I do, but still, I must ticket you for putting them at risk."

Everyone must do their job, this I understand. I must drive, and I must do my first job as well, which is being a good provider to my daughter. Do you have a daughter?

"Sniff! I do! I miss her so much, always I am out on the road giving tickets. Never have I time to spoil her, to see her grow into woman."

I have here a coloring book. Take it to her. Let her color while she is still a young girl.

"I will take it! I will take it to my daughter, and when I am on the road giving the tickets, I will think of her at home, a crayon in her chubby fist, her tongue in the corner of the mouth with the concentrating, making a beautiful picture for daddy. I take. Go, go in peace my friend."

Thank you, my friend, and like our daughters with the coloring, I will stay inside the lines.

                                                

Who knows what happened? It was probably just a random check for his marshrutka license, but the cop ended up with a coloring book, and it had every appearance of a cunning escape.

We eventually arrived in Ganja, mon! We didn't know we were there until Ruslan said "Ganja!" to us in a way that made those syllable translate to "get the fuck out." We found a taxi guy and were again amazed to discover that maps and addresses are useless in this culture. They really only seem to know what they know. You can only ever name hotels or restaurants or government buildings. The precision of an address and the visual of a map are as useless to getting you where you want to go as tryin' ta shove a flip flop in a vendin' machine.

Ya know what really rustles my bristles? When a tourist waves a flip flop at a Coke machine and expects a cold soda to drop out of it.

It's really like they mostly only take folks to Tofig's house and back.

                                          

He dropped us off near our apartment but not exactly. Sara was able to contact our host, and he arrived in an SUV to drive us the single block to where we would be staying. It was sweet. He was like, "You are from Seattle? I have been! I have eaten in the Spice Naydle! I have been to the coffee museum! I have seen the Bill Gates and the Boeing!"

He was very nice, and the apartment was in a marvelous old block-long building with crooked stairs and splashes of blue paint. We liked it very much, though it was, of course, only intended to be for about an eight-hour rest before the flight to the train station.

There were two cute little beds with Cars stickers for the boy bed and Princess stickers for the girl's bed. Way to be gender-normative, Azerbaijan! Fluidity is a lot to ask of a culture still recovering from Soviet and Armenian conflict. I'm sure the concept of "traditional order" is a comfort to them.

The Wi-Fi didn't work, so we went out in search of food and a signal. Made our way to a cute little park ringed with busy shops and restaurants.

                                                 

Ended up with a comical amount of rotisserie chicken and a giant pizza with hard-boiled egg and peperoncini toppings. It reminded us of those Boboli things they sold in supermarkets in the...90s?
The staff at the chicken place thought our presence there was hilarious. Ganja doesn't get a lot of tourists in what, I guess, is the off-season, and when it does, it's probably not this neighborhood.

They were nice. And we found a little tea place that was also nice. With nice wi-fi. We used it to try and get train tickets, but it didn't work right, so we decided the best thing to do would be to go to the train station right then, rather than risk trying to buy a ticket at 4am.

And so... we walked over to where a whole troop of orcs were smoking their long pipes, but ain't a one of 'em ever heard of the choo choo. We were super wiped out from lack of sleep and the torment of the marshrutka, so it took us a long time to remember to look in the guide book. By this time we were completely surrounded by men shouting at our driver their ideas of where we probably wanted to go.

We found something on the map (useless!) and just said a word under the picture of a train. Everyone repeated the word with a sound like 'Ahhh, this is what that wanted! We have done it! Back to the long pipes!"

                                                

Cab took off, and flipping through the book, we realized we had asked him to take us to some sort of Islamic shrine many miles out of town. I went into a kind of frustrated panic and tore through the grimy index looking for the one-page "useful phrase" section for the word "train." No luck!

I drew a train track and a little engine with smoke coming out and handed it to the driver at a stoplight. He made a sound like, "Cute. My daughter also likes to color. I never see her. She will be a woman soon, and I will miss it."

Thumbed harder through the book. Found it! Train station!! Poked the driver again to show him. The penny dropped. Or, as they say in Azerbaijan, the manatee dove into the sulfur bath.

We were let off at the train station. Where, again, there was an enormous building but only one little window. An old dude in a military-style uniform sat behind it slowly.... slowly....deliberately placing slips on paper between two other slips of paper.

"Hello," I oinked, "Tbilisi."

                                                      

He spoke no English and tried to close the window on my fingers. He made sounds that may have meant "try digital!" (Sara's guess) but we had tried that, and the digital, she no work. So I was like "Tbilisi?" and he got up and left.

We sat on a bench to plan our next move and Station Man came back with the cops. And us without a coloring book. A young officer spoke perfect English, however, and was very happy to help. I wrangled out the details while Sara went out in search of an ATM.

There was all sorts of trouble with the guy needed to know my "father name," which is, I think, the equivalent of a middle name. That's what I gave him anyway. Surname, Given Name, Father Name. You patriarchal for this one, Caucasus. I expected him to put a Cars sticker on my passport.

Sara came back justifiably flustered by the complete nonexistence of cash machines. And why, really, would you want there to be a cash machine around a train station that only takes cash? She found a machine that lets locals pay their energy bill, and a machine that lets you buy a lottery ticket with your bank card, but no, you know, bank.

BUT, the Young Officer came to the rescue one more time. He got a taxi driver to change American money for manat! Cuz had a fat roll of manatees in his jeans and was only too happy to help. Young Officer even looked up the current exchange rate on his flip phone!

                                           

And, thus, we had our tickets! Cabbed it back to the crash pad to crash. Diverted to a tremendous market where we got rid of the Torn Bill! Loaded up on water and chocolate. Such a candy aisle this place had.

Back home, the shower was either lava or ice with no "warm" setting, but we hadn't had hot water in a week, so we enjoyed the scalding. Then, a refreshing five hours of sleep, and it was time to walk out into the smoky Ganja night. 3am, don't you know.

Packs of stray dogs ruled at this hour, and we knew equal parts fear and amusement. We didn't want to get bit, of course, but it was surreal to see weird mismatched breeds Incredible Journeying around the park. We even saw a dachshund with an hysterical hot-dog shadow howling along with his mates.

Cabbies slept in sleeping bags in their front seats, and we tapped one awake. By now we knew very well how to tell him where to take us.