Cheese & Hams

Having been thrust into a completely different culture, little observations seem to be what I am enthralled with the most. Big things, like living in a predominantly Muslim country, bring an attitude adjustment or at least a better understanding of completely foreign concepts, but the little nuances have been the most fun to observe. A couple of things were more prevalent in Almaty, but to my delight, both have made their way across the Caspian to Baku.

Both Almaty and Baku are stocked with patio bars, lining the congested streets, offering umbrellas and comfy furniture as respite from the summer's heat. Many of these specialize in their own yummy microbrews and fresh grilled shashlyk - they call it barbeque, but it's what Americans would call kebobs. The most common appetizer is chechel, a smoked, slightly hardened string cheese, de-stringed. The chechel resembles cooked spaghetti and is best balled up in the palm of your hand and shoved right down the hatch. The sharp taste of the salty cheese, followed by a big gulp of beer can't be beat! We've had our fair share of chechel and it is consistently delicious. At every pub, sidewalk cafe or prime restaurant, you will find patrons relaxing with a cold drink, chatting noisily with their friends and sloppily eating big bites of string cheese.

(When in Rome.....)

In Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath," he describes the men as discussing their impending trip west while "sitting on their hams." Having never seen this in practice, it took me a few moments to get a visual image - feet planted on the ground, bent at the knees into a very deep squat position, literally, putting all of one's weight on the hamstrings. It seems that all of the construction workers, taxi drivers, teenagers on cell phones and even business men on smoke breaks have been briefed about sitting on the hams - keeps the seat of the pants from getting dirty and probably relieves lower back strain. I'm just not sure how they so easily spring up from that low of a crouch.

Dubai during Ramadan

I cannot recall a time when I was a minority. Maybe playing in a volleyball game at church in junior high, I might have been the only girl with the guys, but through the past 29 years, I have always been in the majority - white, blond, Christian. So, it came as a surprise to find that being in the minority can make you feel a bit like a freak.

The freak feeling came to the forefront this weekend at a most unexpected place. Having to renew our Azerbaijan visas, we flew to Dubai for a weekend of shopping (hello Banana Republic!) and sunbathing by the Persian Gulf. Like Azerbaijan, Dubai is a progressive Muslim nation and westerners are not restricted on much of anything. Alcohol and R-rated movies are readily available, newspapers are critical of policies and no enforced dress code. The biggest difference I noticed between the two: Ramadan.

Starting mid-August and lasting for 30 days, Muslims around the world honor the holy month of Ramadan, with the most devote fasting dawn to dusk. No water, no food.....ALL DAY LONG. Our hotel even recommended that we avoid chewing gum or drinking from a water bottle in public as it is offensive, but they ensured us that we would be able to find something to eat at our big destination: The Dubai Mall.

Dubai claims to have the most malls in the world, so it was only appropriate that with temperatures over a hundred degrees outside, shopping was to be our first priority. Much money spent and several shopping bags later, we strolled through the massive shrine to capitalism looking for a place to enjoy an early dinner. I cringe to admit it but, we were hoping to find a generic American based food chain - the kind that serves over-sized portions of french fries, large sodas with ice, maybe a margarita. No luck as EVERY restaurant, drink stand and cafe was closed. The lights were out at Starbucks, Cold Stone Creamery, Chili's, Macaroni Grille, even the pretzel guy was a no-show.

After scouring the mall for anything open, the guest service representative told us that for non-Muslims (saying Muslims so that it had 2 o's in it, like Moo-slims), there was a "secret" food court at the rear of the mall. Spy-like, we creeped along a dark corridor, hugging the walls, rounding several corners, finally coming to a light at the end of the tunnel and ta-da! All of the pale faces were chowing down on Taco Bell, KFC, Burger King and Pizza Hut. Sequestered behind 2-story tall drapes and 8 foot partitions were non-Mooslims wearing shorts and ball caps and slurping from large cups with straws. We had found our (minority) people!



During our short stay, Dubai seemed to be an incredible mix of culture. The service industry (shop clerks, waiters, taxi drivers, even the girl who takes orders at T-Bell) were staffed with mostly Indians and Pakistanis who all spoke incredible English, sometimes with a British accent and who were not strict Muslims or maybe not Muslim at all. They were beyond friendly, helpful and doled out frequent smiles. The locals were in contrast to this, both men and women wearing traditional dress, poised and stoic, displaying somber faces (could be the fasting). The westerners added to the mix with flamboyant personalities, loud voices and high expectations. It was a thrill to be a part of this societal phenomenon.

If I were to add my thoughts to Tripadvisor.com, I would say that the resort, La Royal Meridian, was fantastic, rivaling those treasured in Mexico. The Dubai airport was amazing in its cleanliness and organization. The Persian Gulf was clear blue with a hint of turquoise and the sand was almost perfectly white. All in all, not a bad way to spend a freaky weekend.

Scandalous

Clothing-wise I have always been G-rated, well, maybe a wild streak would be PG-13. There were the homemade daisy duke cut-offs when I was 14. A mean boy told me I was too chubby to wear them. Those immediately went in the trash. Or the leopard-print pants I wore to a party as a freshman in college. An upperclassman in my sorority told me I should "rethink my wardrobe choices." I think I went bra-less once with a halter top. That about sums up my provocative side.

Azeri women are devout fashionistas. They idolize the stiletto, skinny jean and snug blouse. It might be 95 degrees outside with 80 percent humidity and you might have to take an unairconditioned bus and then walk 8 blocks to your destination, but it doesn't matter. Style is priority. By no means would a local wear gym-type clothing or anything shorter than a capri pant.

I however am a no-nonsense, Nike-adoring, Gap short-wearing, hair-in-a-ponytail American. You would have thought I was strutting around in a bikini by the menacing looks I got for wearing khaki shorts with a 6-inch inseem. And this is while I was walking the dogs on our 5 mile morning trek/sweat session across the city. I reluctantly purchased longer walking shorts. They are quite restrictive, hit at the knee and look like something my mom wore circa 1985. And oh yes, I still wear my sneakers.

While adorning this awesome outfit, I bent over to scoop up dog poop (something else that is viewed as obscene) and riiiiiiiiipppppp, there went the seat of my new shorts. So I double-knotted my shoes, rolled the cuff of my ridiculously long shorts, stood up straight, wiped the perspiration beads from my brow and held my head high as we strolled the 2 miles back to the apartment. My bright pink panties were giving the proverbial finger to anyone who dared to look.

This one goes out to Melanie

I feel like Elaine in that episode of "Seinfeld" where a bird crashes into her hair because she has "a big freak head." Except in my case, I apparently have big freak feet.

It was on our third stop at a name brand athletic store that the sales girls just laughed outright. At least the other sales people had enough tact to just smile sweetly while they shook their heads. I had asked for a size 10 sneaker. Sometimes I can get away with a size 9, but 9 1/2 is the best and they say that for running, you should move up another half size. Thus, a 10 seems to work the best and leaves me with far fewer blisters and black toenails (why do I love running so much?). Even though the girls are of average height or even a little taller than most American women, very few wear true athletic shoes. They opt for slip ons (think Sketchers), if considering a sneaker at all. Apparently, I was one of very few who would have the audacity to ask for such an item in such an outrageous size. We went through EVERY model of sneaker available, nothing bigger than an 8! We tried the Nike store, Adidas store and several sporting goods store in both Almaty and Baku, until we finally found the last pair of size 10 in the Eastern hemisphere. Not the cutest shoes to ever adorn my feet, but I felt lucky nonetheless. Now, I just need a pair of houseshoes.....

Chivarly is dead and other Western customs RIP

I'm mourning chivalry. It's a tough thing to bury.

Baku is a progressive Muslim nation, women are free to dress as they choose and seem to be given every right and opportunity as men. I even read that universal suffrage was granted in 1919, one year ahead of the USA. Without getting too far out of my league, my personal theory is that the underdevelopment of chivalry (or is it a complete disregard?) is a religious notion held over from days gone by. Or maybe a Soviet state of mind. A combination of both? Perhaps the stories of Lancelot, damsels in distress and as of recent, Edward Cullen, which are so often told in the West, are not a cultural thread deemed worthy here.

My biggest case in point has literally been slammed in my face. Just two steps behind the previous person entering the building? Do not expect the door to be held, propped or extended open. The invisible sign says, "fend for yourself" or maybe a stretch, "you are not welcome here."

When squeezing through a narrow walk way on a busy street, a woman should not expect that she will be given special clearance. Instead, fight with elbows to push through. Or, use the 4 bags of groceries that you're hauling for extra effect. Allowing a mother pushing a stroller and holding hands with a toddler to finish crossing the pedestrian crosswalk, forget about it! She should instead stand in the middle of the street and wait for a sparse opening in traffic to dash to the other side. And finally, little old ladies "babuskas" should not be given a single courtesy. Instead, bump into them on busy sidewalks, honk at them as they shuffle across the road and give them a broom and bucket so that they can sweep the gutters for 8 hours a day.

(Note that in this picture, the babuska was not just bent over to sweep. She walked like that permanently.)

Venting about the lack of smiles is futile. Complaining about crazy Baku drivers is worthless. Getting furious over horrible service in restaurants is not worth the effort. But the death of chivalry, now that's something to be saddened by. You never know how much you'll miss it, until it's gone.

How I almost met Jason Bourne

There's a scene at the beginning of the second Jason Bourne movie (we're big fans!) where Bourne and his girlfriend are living in some shack right off of the beach in Goa, India. The camera pans around to show the curtains blowing in the sea breeze, one bathroom with a rusted pedestal sink and a small room with cracks zig zagging each wall. There are few furnishing except a bed and no decor except a framed picture. I remember watching this part of the movie once and saying to Kyle how freeing it must be to live on the beach, with few possessions, just loving each day as it comes.

Later in the movie, Bourne is inTangiers and there are several scenes where he's running from rooftop to rooftop, crashing through people's open apartment windows. What struck me then were the vibrant colors of the buildings, the laundry drying precariously on clothes lines strung between dwellings and just the busy hum of the city.

I can honestly say that Hollywood can make anything look attractive and exciting, because having lived both scenarios this past week, it is not at all what it is cracked up to be.

Our unceremonious arrival to Baku from Almaty featured a very rustic apartment that had not seen a mop, broom or disinfectant in years. The a/c was blowing hot air, washing machine door would not open, front door would not lock properly and the elevator was broken. Mentioning that the apartment was at the back of an office building and having to parade the dogs through people's actual office corridors, is beside the point.

Wanting to cry, I instead put all of my energy and sweat into making the apartment habitable. But by the end of the third day of "Bourne Living," I was done. Over it. Ready to call it quits.

By shear determination (and the fear that I might actually fly back to the states), my wonderful husband secured a normal apartment with all of the modern things that make life wonderful. A washing machine/dryer combo! Dish washing machine! Full-sized refrigerator! Air conditioning! English-speaking TV! Internet! Showers without mold! Pillows that were bought in the past decade!

I will be just fine in Baku.

Change of Plans

Just over a week ago, Kyle was suddenly notified that his Kazakhstan work visa was being revoked. With their current laws, you can only be in the country for 60 days total in year without having a work visa. That was day 57 that we found out.

Day 58: booking flights for us and two dogs to Baku, Azerbaijan, where Baker has another office serving the Caspian region. Scrambling around Almaty to get correct paper work so that dogs can leave the country.
Day 59: via the internet, finding a temporary apartment in Baku that would allow dogs
Day 60: packing up, departing Almaty (love those customs officials!), arriving Baku

The city is quite beautiful with many parks and green spaces. Architecture and the overall feel of Baku reminds me of Madrid, although, it is more arid with some trees, mostly scrubs and is situated right on the Caspian Sea.



The city has developed a fantastic boardwalk area that rivals any in the USA. Outdoor cafes, fresh juice stands, a ferris wheel, bumper cars, all lend to a family-friendly atmosphere. Lovers walk arm in arm and old men sit on park benches in the shade. Opposite the boardwalk, Versace, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, et al, line the street, a little imposing and visited by only the wealthiest or their personal shoppers, who are dropped off by private car directly in front of each store. Others of us shop in boutiques a couple of blocks away.

Despite some major difficulties this past week (see following blog), we have decided to stay in Baku instead of returning to Almaty. So, now I write from the Middle East? I need to Google that.