Baku

If you look out from the upper floors of the modern high-rise buildings oil money has bequeathed to central Baku you see the Azerbaijan of the future; the Azerbaijan the government wants to present to the world. Past the steel and glass monoliths reaching to the sky lie the outer fringes of the city, teeming with commercial and creative energy while in the distance the tan landscape, dotted with small holdings and oil derricks vanishes into the horizon. On the other side the Caspian Sea, the source of so much richness, lies peacefully glistening like purest quicksilver, marked only by the occasional ship or the dot of an oil platform out near the edge of the world. Up here a quiet hum and pleasant air conditioned chill shields visitors from the heat, just as the thick plate glass reduces the noise to mere whispers far below. Outside, flags flutter proudly in a silent breeze that can offer no relief to those tucked away in an artificial environment in the sky.
But those tucked away cannot remain so forever. Sooner or later the automatic doors at ground level will hiss open and they will step, blinking and coughing into the street. For Baku in summer is a hot, dirty and dusty city that is clogged by traffic and choked by the pall of smog that hangs over it. Within minutes clothes begin to stick as the close, clammy heat seems to reach into bodies and draw sweat out leaving ugly wet patches on crisp shirts and droplets that form on your brow before running down your neck. Screams from car horns wrench the air every few seconds over the general roar of traffic that begins with the dawn and lasts well into the night. With the roads so congested any journey around the city can take hours by road and a walk of any length means greater exposure to the heat and blackening of the lungs from the polluted air. This is why most walks through Baku’s heaving streets are short and lead straight to the beckoning doors and gaping mouths of the metro system, where journeys can be completed in cool darkness underground, where the sun and smog cannot penetrate and swift trains make a mockery of the congestion above.
Since the metro stations are such vital hubs, with thousands of people passing through the busiest every hour, they attract traders and beggars in equal measure. The approach to stations is through mini-markets of stalls thrown up each morning where all manner of goods are sold: vegetables fresh from village plots, stereo sets, spices and plastic tat of all descriptions. Newsvendors lay papers and magazines on the floor around the entrance that flutter in a fierce breeze that blows out of the black doors like the breath of a vast monster escaping from its lair. Once you are through the heavy doors the sounds from outside are instantly muffled and fade to a background murmur. The rattling from the escalators draws first your eyes and then your feet to the slippery metal tongues that draw you down into the mouth of the beast in a shuddering mechanical swallowing motion. The clattering and clanking machinery gives off warm smells of oil and grease that are nonetheless like the scent of roses on the nose after the stink and smoke outside.
Descending to platform level takes a few minutes during which the tube you are passing through, angled and sloping down, limits your view to the gaudy and bright adverts plastered to the walls. Then, suddenly, the large and spacious platform is revealed as you slide down to meet it. Despite the many lights hanging from the ceiling on long chains there is little light down here, the lights being mostly ornamental. Long shadows dance along the platform among the subtle glints given off by dull brass works that line the walls. On closer inspection these can be seen to be ornate frames of intricate paintings all but invisible due to age and fading but still proudly portraying the now dead and almost forgotten socialist paradise Azerbaijan strived towards not so many years ago. Memories of the Baku above you can make this feel like an archaeological find, evidence of a primitive belief system that crumbled long ago leaving almost no evidence of its existence at all.
The metro seemed crowded when you were being forced through narrow doors and onto escalators with hundreds of other people but down here, on the wide platforms the people seem to melt away until you are only vaguely aware of them in the half gloom. At the far end of the platform a digital clock, glowing unnaturally bright, counts the time since the last train and usually well before it has reached three minutes a low rumbling that grows louder by the second can be heard down in the depths of the tunnels. Eventually it bursts out with a roar that celebrates its freedom and the train gently slows and rolls to a stop. The doors loudly slide open and a few people step out onto the platform. The rolling stock on the Baku metro is old and uncared for, when you get on the train the seats are scratched and torn, missing springs and uncomfortable. Panes of glass are missing from some windows, which makes the ride noisy and windy, and the wooden flooring of the cars is scuffed and beaten. This wood has caused several fires over the years and the American embassy even warns its citizens not to use the ‘unsafe’ metro system, although the road safety statistics for journeys above ground are even worse. That aside, when the train eventually pulls into your destination there is a frisson of relief as you step back onto the platform and leave the rocking, windy train cabin behind.
The metro system has dangers beyond potential disasters that could befall you, though. In fact it is a mistake to think, just because the heat and pollution have been left behind and above, that when you enter the metro system you have found a place of refuge, for there a threats and dangers here too, although here they are not vague and climatic but precise, real and uniformed. Each metro station is patrolled by several policemen who either stand around in groups looking threatening or move among the passengers, swinging their truncheons and trying to determine the best way of getting the next bribe. These men see their role as to protect and serve as with any police force around the world, but they are protecting and serving not the public, and certainly not you as a foreigner, but rather the vested interests of a corrupt government and mafia style gangs. Western dress and tourist paraphernalia mark you out as prey to these people as sure as a big dollar sign hanging over your head and in my experience they are quick to pounce.
I found that it was almost always at my destination stop that I was approached, usually as I made my way back to the surface. A policeman would appear suddenly, either alone or with a partner, and I would feel the ominous tap on my shoulder. A swift salute would follow with the inevitable request to follow them. The questioning would never take place out in the open, where crowds of watching people could get in the way, but in quiet rooms tucked away with no witnesses. I would be led away with everyone wondering what the white boy had done to draw attention from the police but careful not to let their eyes linger, snatched glances would be followed by an acute interest in the patterns on the floor or the faded paintings on the walls. After being led through the station the police would hold open a door and I would step into the seclusion and isolation to await what would happen.
I should point out that naked greed was not the only motivation the police had in singling me out. While I was not waving a camera around my head and gabbling loudly in English, my lighter skin and western, if tatty clothing, clearly marked me out as a foreigner. For all the gleaming brightness of the high rises up on the surface foreigners are still a novelty for most Azeris. The first thing the police demanded to see was my passport. They spent some time going through this, only briefly checking the appropriate visa to ensure I was legally in the country and then spending the rest looking at the other stamps and visas and fingering the gold leaf on the cover. After the passport they made me empty my pockets and searched me. Before they ensured that I was not carrying any concealed weapons or smuggling drugs their attention was drawn, entirely and inexplicably to my wallet, upon which they pounced with the eagerness of a lion upon fresh meat on the savannah. I usually rely quite heavily upon my various bank and credit cards where possible, and Baku having a plethora of ATM’s I never had much money on me at any one time, and what I did have was in Azeri Manats, not the dollars they were looking for. From my point of view as the victim of robbery and corruption the looks of disappointment on the policemen’s faces when the opened my wallet and found only small amounts of their own currency were almost comic, the childlike eagerness replaced at once by sadness and a certain frustration, as if I did this on purpose to spite them. On the other hand, from a more objective point of view the grinding poverty of these men’s lives and structural weaknesses of their country they were exploiting to bring home some extra money were tragic more than comic. This level of analysis came later, however, at the time I was merely trying to escape with as much of my money as I could.
After the perfunctory search and examination of my wallet came a few questions. These were fairly simple and asked in Russian, which I can cope with when the questions are basic. The first was usually why are you in Azerbiajan? A fair enough question but whenever I explained I was a tourist they never believed me, after all why would a rich western tourist be taking the metro? Questions about the amount of money in my wallet usually came next and I would try and explain the use of a bankcard. They would then look at the little piece of plastic that could give so much riches to me but keep it from them with a mixture of wonder and resentment. Most occasions would then end with us parting amicably, them smiling and waving at the curiosity that had wandered into their grasp but then cheated them of reward, and me grating my teeth and fervently hoping never to see them again. On the one occasion that I had a barely significant amount of Azeri currency on me I parted with the policemen and then waited until I was sufficiently far away before counting it. Lo and behold some of it was missing, not a lot its true but enough for me to bear a grudge.
The descent into the metro was a tired search for refuge and solace, an attempt to leave the troubles of the surface behind. Unfortunately this is to take shelter from a storm in the lair of a beast and the return to the surface is a hectic flight in fear of pursuit. The same streets that not so long ago drove you away now receive you back, what was uncomfortable has become welcoming. Wherever you emerge in the city Baku’s shining new skyscrapers will be visible, framed by the Caspian sea behind them and either glinting in the sun or glowing brightly at night. They can seem to embody the energy and enthusiasm of the ‘new’ Azerbaijan, one that looks to the future as a petro-state, rich, influential and at peace with itself. The contrast between that image and the greedy, grasping smiles of the corrupt policemen on the metro can seem stark and unbridgeable, as if the foundations of those skyscrapers are being eaten away from below and will soon collapse. The truth, however, lies somewhere between the two extremes, where the towering high-rises represent real hope for the future and corruption and sleaze are a warning from the past. The oil money flooding into Azerbaijan means that the country has two possible futures, one where money and influence vastly increases the potential for crime and corruption, and one where stability and prosperity make them memories as faded as the revolutionary murals in the metro. It just remains to be seen which way the country is going to go.