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Sinai – the lost paradise

Salman Rushdie’s book “The Satanic Verses” opens with the explosion of an airliner named Bostan, a farsi word for garden. There are only two survivors:

Azerbaijan

Azerbaijan
“Azerbaijan,” said Zaza. The police signaled us to stop by the side of
the road. “They know that Georgians have money,” said Zaza as he slowed
down and stopped beyond the police. A policeman wearing a Soviet peaked
cap smiled with a mouth full of gold teeth. Zaza presented him the
Russian passport and opened the trunk of the car with the pride of
someone who has been robbed. The policeman rifles through the vodka
bottles, the containers of gasoline, the glass items and the tea.
“Beggars,” snorted Zaza, taking out a packet of tea that drifted into
the hands of the police.
“And one of these,” said the policeman, pulling one of the glass items
out of the newspaper padded carton. “And who’s that?”
“We’re a Silk Road delegation. He is a researcher from England.”
“From which university?”
“Oxford,” I said. My father had studied there, if a university is
something genetic. Double helixes. “Why are you stopping again?”
“He wants gasoline for his car.”
“And do you know where there’s a gas station?”
“He said another 20 kilometers. Beggars, mendicants,” growled Zaza
angrily, as he smiled at the policemen and emptied one of our containers
of gasoline into the tank of the policeman’s car.
“Not all of it,” I said.
“Don’t be stingy,” said the policeman, preventing Zaza from setting down
the jerrycan while there were until the last drops of fuel had dripped
into the gas tank of the Azeri Lada.
“Beggars. Something like this couldn’t have happened in Georgia. A few
rubles instead of a fine for a traffic violation – that, yes, but not
beggary like this.”
The villages resembled their neighbors in Georgia. Tin roofs, tall
poplars, mulberry trees. Tobacco leaves drying on wires strung along the
fences around the houses.
The filling station was closed. “No gas,” said the Azeri.
“There’s no gas in Azerbaijan? Strange,” said Zaza. “And where do they
hide the oil from the Caspian Sea?” The day began to wane.
“Did you see a tchai-khan? We’ll fill up with gas first.” Zaza drove
fast along the darkening road. A red light lingered on the brown,
deserted hills. A long line of cars accumulated next to two large fuel
tanks. Zaza turned to the cavalcade and ran to the cashier to pay. Cars
tried to avoid the queue and green motorcycles with sidecars billowed
bad fuel. We filled the extra containers.
“There’s a tchai-khan over there,” said Lado and Zaza turned and stopped
in the yellow lamplight. Small wobbly tables and a few chairs under a
pergola by the roadside. On the table stood a glass bowl, and in it were
lumps of colored sugar. A young boy wearing a filthy apron set a
porcelain tchainik and Turkish teacups down on the table. I stretched
out in the creaking chair. The pleasure of the stop, the breath of
summer air, the fading light through the red tea. I was back in
Turkmenistan. “Beish,” said the Azeri. Glasses shaped like women, full
of red tea. “Is there a spoon?”
“What does he need a spoon for?” asked the Azeri.
“To stir the sugar.”
The Azeri looked at me perplexed and brought a spoon from the filthy
kitchen. Lado put some sugar under his tongue and sipped the tea between
his teeth. By my third cup of tea, I had stopped stirring in the sugar
and instead held it on my tongue, under my tongue, between my teeth,
grinding it to bits and drinking the tea, like everyone else in
Azerbaijan, when there is sugar.
Darkness fell on the road. The lights of the car were faint and
inadequate and the windshield was filthy with dust and insects. No lines
marked the margins of the road and there was no dividing line down the
middle. The black of the road melded into the night. From time to time
we would leap out of the dark into the backside of a car or a tractor
with lights that did not work traveling slowly down the road, nearly
invisible in the dark. Zaza would brake wildly and pass them honking. I
shrank into the seat. I hate driving at night in places like this. We
halted at roadblocks. Each time, our papers were checked, the trunk
yawned open and packets of tea or a 10 or 50 ruble note would exchange
hands between Zaza and the policemen.
“Do you know where you’re heading?”
“Lado has been here.” The utter darkness embraced the earth and the
yellow lights twinkled faintly into the night. Onward and eastward. I
looked in the atlas and I stuck my head out the window, drying to orient
myself by the stars. One or two places were signposted.
“We have to turn in a little while,” said Lado.
“Have you got the strength to drive?” Zaza stopped. “If a policeman
stops us, don’t get out of the car and don’t stop right next to him. Let
me get out and do the talking.” I sat down on the beaded mat that filled
the sunken driver’s seat. I stepped on the gas. There was no need to
release the handbrake. It was torn. The motor pinged.
“Ach!” grumbled Zaza. “Bad gas! Did you hear that motor?”
I changed gear. I strained my eyes and drove slowly, many kilometers,
less than 120 kilometers with Zaza navigating between the dim vehicles
on the road. We crossed a dark junction and turned. I looked at the
stars. We traveled north. Baku was supposed to be to the east. Or the
southeast. “Stop and ask the policemen,” said Zaza.
“Do you want to ask the police?” Police are a plague in Azerbaijan.
Trouble. Bribes.
“Yes, yes. Let’s ask.” The fear of the wide Asian spaces.
I stopped at a bridge where there was a barricade with a police hut.
Zaza went out to the policemen to ask about the road to Baku.
“This is the old road. It’s not a good idea to take it. You should turn
back and take the new road. Are you the driver?”
I got out of the car.
“He’s not from here,” said Zaza. “We are a delegation from the Shulki
Viputs – the Silk Road.”
“Does he have a license?” I held out my passport. “And the license?” I
pointed to the photograph. “Tell him that in my country the passport and
the license are the same thing.”
“And where’s the visa?” I took out the visa papers. “It’s not written
that he’s allowed to be here.”
“Baku -” I pointed to the name.
“You’re allowed to be in Baku. Not here.” He took out the pen that was
stuck in my shirt. I grabbed it and put it back. Sensitivity to the
written word.
“Get into the car,” said Zaza, getting me away from the troubles. The
policemen rifled through the trunk. Time passed. I got out again.
“How much longer will this take? The ferry is waiting for us,” I yelled
in English. Zaza looked at me. The policeman smiled and Zaza broke into
rapid speech. The policeman went over to the trunk and Zaza bestowed a
thousand blessings. We slammed doors.
“How much did it cost?”
“A hundred rubles.” Zaza turned the key in the ignition and the car
leapt forward. “Thieves and beggars. And two packets of tea. This is the
most corrupt place in all of Asia. I’ve never seen anything like this in
my whole life.”
I tried to calculate how many times we had been stopped by the police
and how much money the trip had cost us until this point. Five. No, six
times. A police car signaled us to stop by the roadside. I rolled a
cigarette and waited for the end of the negotiations, gazing at the
poplars and the stars.
“Turn here,” said Lado. Zaza turned onto the road. I hoped we were going
in the right direction. I sat in the seat next to Zaza and Lado smoked
and dozed in the back. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” said Zaza. “You have nothing to worry about.” The road turned and
began to climb the Caucasian ridge that separates Baku from northern
Azerbaijan. The car twisted into the darkness and a thin mountain rain
began to fall. Zaza slid down the slopes. From a distance, we could see
the lights of Baku. Another 80 kilometers. I looked at my watch; 11:30.
Zaza drove fast. We could see the lights getting closer. I lay back my
head and dozed off.
I awoke suddenly when I heard the noise of metal hitting stone and glass
breaking. My head hit the ceiling, the car hovered, wondering whether to
turn over or not, and finally straightened out and landed heavily on its
wheels. It stopped in a cloud of dust by the roadside.
“Are you alright?” asked Zaza.
“He got a knock on the head.”
“Those Azeris. There was a pile of sand in the middle of the road. We
hit it. It was just luck that we didn’t turn over.”
“Did you fall asleep?”
“What do you mean fall asleep?” grumbled Zaza. He examined the car. I
took the headlamp out of my knapsack. The car looked alright, except for
the windshield which had fallen out when the car body was crushed by the
blow. I looked at my watch. Half past midnight. By the western calendar,
it was Friday the 13th. I’m not superstitious. There are combinations
that one should be careful about and not travel on unmarked Azeri roads
with closed eyes in a battered Lada with sunken seats, a pinging motor,
worn tires and brakes that work. Sometimes.
Zaza headed east through the old city. Two teenagers directed us to the
sea. We passed the Azeri parliament building. Large ships bobbed above
the shore of the Caspian Sea. A smell of petroleum and caviar. The local
hotel was full. Zaza drove to another hotel. “Full,” said the reception
clerk. “Don’t worry,” said the doorman.
“How much?”
“150 rubles.”
“And there’ll be a room for the three of us?”
“Wait here.” We took our knapsacks out of the car and the doorman led us
to the seventh floor of the hotel. Zaza counted banknotes into the
doorman’s hand. I spread the thin mattress and the sleeping bag on the
floor, leaving the beds for Zaza and Lado.
“Would you roll me a cigarette?” asked Zaza. “I like to smoke when I sit
on the toilet.”
Baku
A gray morning hung over the large square beneath the hotel. From the
high floor, the Caspian Sea stretched gray and flat. Flame-topped oil
rigs to the south. Baku, on the tongue of land that sticks out into the
sea fed by the Volga and the Kura and and hundreds of streams and rivers
that flow down from the Caucasus and the Iranian ridge, curved at the
old quarter. Opposite it was a park, and to the north, in the harbor,
dozens of ferries and freighters lay at anchor. A train whistled. To the
south, on the mountain, antennas and transmitters bristled. The
mountains that ringed the sea were gray-brown and empty. Zaza lay on his
back, limbs akimbo, and snored. Lado snuggled into the blankets.
I woke Zaza up. He awakened quickly, pulling on his filthy jeans and
lighting a cigarette. His eyes were red. Lado kept on sleeping.  “Let’s
call the academy of sciences and then you’ll go over there and I’ll go
see about getting the car fixed. Yesterday I asked the doorman where
there’s a garage around here.” He went into the bathroom, showered and
came out. “Do you have any toothpaste. I forgot mine.”
We went down to the third floor for breakfast. The scarcities of Moscow
had not reached Baku. Black sturgeon eggs to the one side of the butter
and red ones to the other. I buttered the bread and laid on the caviar
with a spoon. Breakfast with the Georgian nobility. The waiter brought
hard white cheese with yoghurt poured over it, and omelets. He poured
coffee into our cups. We stirred in sugar. Friday, Septemebr 13, started
out just fine. “Three rubles,” said the waiter. Six for two.
We went down to the square. Zaza called the academy. “They’re waiting
for you.” I shouldered my knapsack and got into a cab. I said the name
of the street and the faculty. The cab climbed slowly through the Baku
streets. The new city was built on the dry yellow hills. Up until the
1920s, the Russians were unsure of the fate of their Tsarist empire. The
British who were in Persia invaded with their Indian regiments and took
Baku. Ten local commissars were slaughtered by the Whites. Then, for
reasons best known to London, the British decided not to conquer central
Asia, leaving the Red Army to defeat the Whites and take control of
Baku. The large cities of central Asia were centers of struggles. Baku,
Tashknet. The new city was build high on the cliffs that adorn the gulf.
>From above, the ships on the quiet gray sea that stretched to the
horizon were visible. A closed sea that looks like a lake on the maps.
Its width, at its narrowest point between Baku and Krasnovosk on the
eastern shore, is 300 kilometers. I paid the driver when I got out, as
is customary in Soviet cities. He smiled. I asked him where the history
and archeology buildings were. “Here, here,” he pointed at a cluster of
neoclassical buildings. The classical as a symbol of bad taste.
Trade routes passed through Baku and Azerbaijan, crossing through
Afghanistan and Iran, coming up through Ardebil and Tibriz to the Kura
River valley and from there to the mouth of the Fazis River to Poti on
the shores of the Black Sea. Rice, pepper, cotton, cinnamon, spices,
precious stones, perfumes, ebony, ivory, silk and dyes were transported
along the trade routes to the markets of Erope and Asia Minor. Even when
the other land routes closed down after the discovery of the sea route
by Vasco da Gama in 1498, the city continued to flourish, because even
the sea link around Africa could not compete with the land route to Baku
and from there north to Astrakhan at the mouth of the Volga on the way
to the heart of the Russian Tsarist Empire at St. Petersburg. “The
Martinoff Academy Bridge,” I said to the guard. He picked up the
receiver of the heavy black telephone and dialed slowly.
I stood at the entrance to the Baku Historical Institute and waited. A
young man came down the steps, greeted me and led me upstairs through
the floors of the large, antiquated building to the professor’s office.
A short, jovial-looking man stood up behind a desk and smiled and
stretched out his arm for a handshake. Four others looked at me,
smiling, from behind desks. They did not look busy.
“Ekspeditizia Shulki Vipots.” I had a letter.
He sent one of the desk sitters to summon an interpreter. One of the
girls left the room and came back with a dish of fruit. Grapes, peaches,
apples and pears. I pinched off a grape. A tchainik and cups. An older
woman wearing a red dress entered the room smiling. She shook my hand
and sat down opposite me.
“Akademi Ashurbili.” Martinoff made the introduction.
A young man in gray slacks and a white shirt entered the room. He had
brown eyes, black hair and good English. A graying heavy-set man of
about 50, wearing a faded brown suit, followed him in. We shook hands.
“He is a professor of historical geography. I thought it would be good
if he were here too, if you are interested in the Silk Road.” The
geographer spread out a map. A dealer in ideas along the whole route.
“I would like to present you my book,” said Ashurbili, taking a purple
bound volume from an old leather briefcase. She inscribed a dedication.
“This is a book about trade links along the routes and about the Indian
traders. There is a summary in English at the end of the book.”
“I will also give you my books, about Caucasian Albania,” said
Martinoff, as he signed the inside covers of three volumes, and the
geographer also pulled out a book of his own. “My book is about the
feudal era in Caucasian Albania, the Christian era.”
“When did the Christian era begin here?”
“From the fifth to the seventh century, Albanian bishops built churches
in Jerusalem. Salman ibn Rabia from Syria got here in 642 and conquered
Azerbaijan. But up until the tenth century it was still a Christian
country and there were Monophysites, Diophysites and Nestorians in
Azerbaijan.”
In the seventh and eight centuries, there was a struggle for the control
of the region between the Abbasids who linked central Asia and North
Africa into a huge empire and the waning Byzantines. In 791, Zubeida,
the wife of Haroun al Rashid, the legendary caliph of Baghdad, founded
Tibriz and called it Harnina.
And Jews. “The sources talk about 3,000 Jewish families at Akuba, north
of Baku. To the west, there were Zoroastrians. Before the Christian era,
there were 20-26 Caucasian and Turkish tribes who were under Persian
influence. In the sixth century BC the Scythians passed through here but
did not conquer the region, although there is a theory that there was an
independent kingdom here.  In the fourth century, Alexander the Great
destroyed Achaeminid Persia and the Albanian state was founded. Kabla,
250 kilometers west of Baku, was the capital. Alania then had links with
the Greek-Hellenistic world and with Armenia, Georia and the nomads in
Daghestan north of Baku. The name Albania was given by the Greeks –
Herodotus, Strabo and Thalmes.”
“And where did the Silk Route pass through here?”
“One route came up from Afghanistan through Ardebil in Iran, and from
there north to Astrakhan through Shibran, which was founded in the
fourth century. There is a synagogue there from the ninth century with
Jewish symbols. Did you know that there is a center for Azerbaijani
Jewish studies in Leningrad? Another route went through Tibriz to the
Nechevan, Yeravan and Tbilisi to the Black Sea and across the Caucasus
to Russia. In the middle ages, the route went from Kazakhstan to the
Volga, Dervan and Genja, a city that was founded in the ninth century
north of the Caspain Sea that became a center for porcelain objects that
came from China.”
“When did the Jews get to Azerbaijan?”
“Ah,” said Martinoff, Persian speaking Jews came to the western side of
the Caspian Sea in the fourth century. A peach?” He cut the peach into
quarters. The fruit are beautiful in Baku. Who makes what – the people
the route, or the route the people who live alongside it? Alexander set
up cities everywhere, measuring with his eye where the routes would go.
“Two thousand kilometers of road passed through Turkish territory along
which stations and fortifications were built in the 6th, 7th, 12th and
13th centuries,” said the geographer.
“Caravanseries from which the Arab settlements developed. In the 6th and
7th centuries, hundreds of churches were founded along the trade
routes.” Like in Sinai. Like in Cappadocia and everywhere the regime
wanted to established its military and political hold. In the name of
God. In the name of the hapless struggle against the Abbasid empire that
gained control of the sphere of influence and the trades of the
Byzantines who had pushed the Nestorians to smuggle silk from China in
the 5th century, with the silkworm cocoons hidden in the bamboo waling
sticks they used on their march from the Middle Kingdom to the shores of
the Mediterranean Sea. “Baku was founded only in the 8th century.”
Al Muqadasi, the Arab geographer, described the trans-Caucasian cities
famed for their silks, their fabrics and their carpets. Shamali adds
wool and dyes produced from worms. When in the 11th and 12th centuries,
before Genghis Khan and the Mongols who destroyed everything, he
described Albania in terms of a “golden age.” Like Georgia, its neighbor
to the west, here too there was a kingdom with nobles and a royal court,
but because it lacked for silver, it minted coins of gold. The golden
age ended with the Mongol conquest, which recreated reserves of paper
money imported from China and the minting of gold money stopped.
The silk routes served as a source of wealth and were raided by the
Mongol and Turkish tribes.
The huge wastelands of central Asia, the Turkmen Desert and the
Mongolian steppes, were like a huge turbine that produced explosions
which swept over Asia from end to end.The Mongolian nation of the Yuan
dynasty. And the Timurids of Timur the Lame from Samarkand and Aqbar who
fled in order to establish the Mogul empire in India. And Muhammad with
the Arab tribes who moved westward and eastward more than any other
power born in the desert.
“In Baku there were markets from books that came from China, Iran and
western Europe. Ties between Russia, the Balkans, Italy, the Arabs and
the Turks passed through here.”
“Did they cross the Caspian Sea in ships?”
“Thor Heyerdahl visited Baku and studied petroglyphs depicting ships. He
said that the boats on the Caspian sea were very different from those on
other seas, because in petroglyphs from the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans
the sun was in the center of the picture and the Caspian Sea the sun was
in the north. This lead him to conclude that the stone paintings here
are 15,000 years old,” said the geographer.
“Yes,” said Martinoff, “they have found hundreds of harbors from various
periods along the Caspian Sea. Have some grapes. They’re excellent.”
Marco Polo and Ibn Batuta describe the ships that crossed the hundreds
of kilometers between the Turkmen Desert and the Gulf of Baku and the
other cities along the seashore.
“There were also ties between India and Azerbaijan,” said Akademi
Ashurbili. “Indian merchants traded from ancient times through
Afghanistan, Iran and Azerbaijan. That’s why a temple of fire was
erected in the 17th century not far from the city.”
I took my leave of the University of Baku. Marinoff took out a hundred
ruble note and ordered the Jewish interpreter, a student of Azeri
history to go down to the street to catch me a cab to the museum. I
inquired as to whether the Jews of Baku were worried by the collapse of
the old regime. “I don’t sense any fear,” said the interpreter. “We
don’t have any problems with the Azeris.” The cab twisted down the road,
descending from the yellow clay cliffs and the apartment blocks, passing
by the old city, dropping us at the museum. The museum was written in
Azeri and Uzbek. I went out into the wide boulevard that runs along the
edge of the park beyond which is the gray sea. I waved. The enchantment
of cheap money. The cab dropped me at the entrance to the hotel. Zaza
sat in the restaurant near the door reading a newspaper.
“Interesting?”
“I bought two newspapers. One Russian and one Azeri.” Both newspapers
were of four pages. The paper was of low quality. In contrast to the
quantity and quality of newspapers in America and Europe, the Soviet
newspapers looked small and gray. Zaza signaled the waiter to bring tea
and ice cream.
“What’s happening with the car?”
“I have to go get it at 4:00. He wants 700 rubles for the window.”
“And that’s alright?”
“I told you that in the Soviet Union everyone knows that Georgians have
money so people are willing to do anything for them.”
“Where’s Lado?”
“Sleeping.”
“Since yesterday?”
“Lado can sleep a lot.”
Lado appeared at the entrance of the hotel, sporting sunglasses and the
soft peaked cap and his short, stringy gray beard on his long face. He
poured himself some tea from the tchainik and stirred in some sugar.
“Where are you going from here?”
“I’m going back to have a look around the old city.”
Lado blinked with sleep heavy eyes and stirred his coffee, mixing the
sounds of the metal spoon on the sides of the pocelain cup with the wail
of sirens.
“Shall we meet at six?”
“Yes,” said Zaza. “You don’t want to come to the garage with me and from
there we’ll drive to the old city?”
“No. I’ll walk there.” It has never happened that acar has waited ready
at a garage.
I crossed the parliament square. The walls of the old city stood grim in
the waning day. The walls were built by the Khan of Baku in the 19th
century. Azerbaijan, like Georgia, was a land between the two great
blocs of the Byzantines and the Iranians. However, while Georgia
remained Christian and feudal, in Baku, which was full of trade that
came up from Iran, Shirvan Shah Halil Ola built his palace in the 15th
century. Not a large palace, but a lovely one. Children sat on the
doorsteps of the wooden houses and couples chatted at the entrance to
the palace, between the upper courtyard where official ceremonies were
held, and the houses where people lived. The minaret of the Ki Kubad
mosque closed off the courtyard and below it stood the bath house, and
next to it, the dome of the mausoleum of Sa’id Yihye Bakuwi , the
dervish who was the court scientist. Like the Moguls wo spread southward
to India in that period, the Asian princes and rulers encouraged the
sciences at their courts. The snobbishness of the regime. A small kisok
stood by the gate. I looked for a map of Azerbaijan and Baku.
“You speak good English.”
“I’m an English teacher,” said the woman who was selling at the kiosk
and who was in charge of the small museum inside the walls. “But I don’t
have much opportunity to practice, so few tourists come here.”
“How much is the map?”
“Forty.”
“I took out 40 rubles and laid them on the counter.
“No, no!” she said with amazement. “Forty kopeks.” For a moment I forgot
where I was.
“Ah,” I said, “how do I get to the Maiden’s Tower?”
“It’s down there, through the alleys, the children will take you.” She
called to some children.
“Twenty rubles and we’ll take you!” said the children. I remembered. I
went down the alleys to the Maiden’s Tower, the tower of strength above
the Turkish baths. From the top of the tower, the domes of the
caravansary stood out. Thousands of Indian merchants came to Baku, where
they stayed at the caravansary and bathed at the nearby Turkish bath. It
was they who established the temple of fire in the 18th century, which
is today in the middle of the oil fields. Thus spake Zarasthustra. The
Indian traders were the excuse for the British intervention at the
beginning of the 20th century, because the Indians were citizens of the
Raj. The diamond in the crown for which the great game was played
throughout Asia between the British agents and the agents of the Tsarist
empire and their Bolshevik heirs. The British conquered Baku with its
Indian troops that came from Persia. During the 1920s, Britain was still
the greatest imperial power of all. Had things fallen out just a bit
differently, it could have conquered the Tsarist empire in central Asia.
Zaza was waiting for me at the restaurant. “How was it? Would you like
some tea?”
“Very nice. Is the car okay?”
“Lado took it down to the port.”
“Where’s that?”
“Just over there. There’s a ferry today at 6:00 and tomorrow at 11:00.
When do you want to go?”
“There are a few more places I want to see here.”
“Hurry, hurry!” Lado appeared. “Haven’t you packed yet? They’ve agreed
to put us on the six o’clock ferry.”
“Do you want to leave now?”
“We’ll miss the ferry,” said Lado, as he was swallowed up in the door to
the hotel.
“Is there anything else you want to see in Baku?”
“Let’s go,” I said, burying Zarasthustra’s temple. Things that you skip,
you don’t catch up with later on. We loaded the bags into the Lada with
its window welded in place and its body straightened. Lado zoomed into
the traffic, headed towards the terminal, crossed iron tracks, wharves
and jetties, and went up onto a wooden pier that led into the gaping
backside of the ferry.
“Where to?” asked a man in a white uniform.
“To the ferry,” said Lado, pressing 30 rubles into his hand.
“Okay,” said the man and his official peaked cap turned towards the oily
polluted water.
“How do you know how much to pay him?”
“Half of what Zaza would have given.”
“Is it all bribes?”
“The official price is just a few kopeks. But no one knows what the
official price is. If you want to get onto the ferry, you have to pay.”
“Is that the ticket?”
“No. This is for using this pier.”
The huge ferry was jammed with cars and trucks. Lado drove cautiously,
as the iron tracks that bring the train into the ferry passed between
the wheels of the car. A large truck exhaled bad gasoline smoke ahead of
us. The day waned and the sun went down behind the precipitous yellow
hills of Baku. “Will there be room for us?”
“Yes, yes. The man in charge of loading saw that our license plate is
from Georgia.” The truck ahead of us squeezed in and accelerated in
behind him to the belly of the ferry, at the very edge. A truck laden
with fruit stuck its tail in and unloaded crates of plums and apples.
Zaza took a handful. We chewed black plums. cables were untied and
gathered up. The ferry hooted and began to slip away from the dock. At
the edge of the ferry, but the receding water a man stood and yelled at
the loader.
“What’s all the yelling about?”
“He just came to take a tow hook. His truck hasn’t arrived; it got stuck
on the way and then the ferry began to move.”
The loader refused to whisper into the walkie-talkie he held and stop
the boat.
“What now?” I asked as the ferry stopped and began to go back.
“They’re bringing it back to shore.”
“The Soviet Union,” I whispered with a smile, as the ferry offered its
back end to the dock and the man leapt on with the iron tow hook. We set
off again.
“Let’s go up,” said Zaza. “You watch the car,” he said, leaving 10
rubles for the loader. “We’ll be right back to get the knapsacks.” We
passed between the lines of cars and went up on deck. From the first
deck to the second and from their to the cabins near the bridge. “Here,”
said Zaza. The Azeri sailor opened the door. “Just let me take out my
things. You have two keys here.” Pictures of naked girls and beds.
“How long is the trip?”
“Tomorrow at six in the morning we get to Krasnovosk,” said the Azeri.
“Do you have any clothes to sell? Shoes?”
“No,” said Zaza. “We don’t have any clothes to sell.” The Azeri stood in
the doorway and looked at the knapsacks and bags.
“You got cigarettes maybe?”
“Sure, sure,” said Zaza, and offered a cigarette to the Azeri, closing
the door and locking it.
“How much did you give them?”
“Two hundred and fifty rubles,” said Zaza. “Do you think that’s a lot?”
“I don’t know. It’s a nice suite.”
“Ha,” said Zaza, “I told you, we Georgians know how to get organized
anywhere.”
The ferry slipped out to sea. We went out to the rear deck. Tchainiks of
tea stood on the filthy tables. Azeris, Turkmens and Uzbeks spread
dinners on the tables and the lights of Baku, adorned with bursts of
flame from the surplus gas of the oil rigs, receded westwards.
Eastwards, across the sea to the Turkmen desert.
On one of the isles in the


“Azerbaijan,” said Zaza. The police signaled us to stop by the side of the road. “They know that Georgians have money,” said Zaza as he slowed
down and stopped beyond the police. A policeman wearing a Soviet peaked cap smiled with a mouth full of gold teeth. Zaza presented him the
Russian passport and opened the trunk of the car with the pride of someone who has been robbed. The policeman rifles through the vodka
bottles, the containers of gasoline, the glass items and the tea.

Ajami, Jaffa, Intifada 2000

At midnight the  loudspeaker at the edge of the Hassan Arafe mosque in Ajami started to bellow out guttural calls. Ajami is Jaffa’s Mediterranean Arab village, between the port and Bat Yam. A neighborhood that has  10,000 inhabitants. All the lights went on at once. Terror and tension stood in the air as excited voices called out to each other beneath the window  car motors revved into life, and people started running toward the mosque.

Teror in Sinai

I didn’t sleep all night. Couldn’t. I was hoping that silly little Egyptian hope that it was a propane cylinder. I wanted, so bad, the

The funny Story of Ednan El Rul


On May 4, 1948, Battalion 52 of Brigade 5 (Gi-vati) reached Aqir and informed the residents of Aqir that they would have to evacuate the village and go south, in the direction of Gaza. Grandpa Ghul took the cane given to him by Grandpa Skolnik and made his way to Ekron.

India!

India!

India is the greatest adventure one can think of, Mysterious and unsolved although the hundreds of thousands travelers who visit the subcontinent every year and comes back, each one of them with a private smile that hides the inability to explain those who were not in India why is he or she smiling.

It is a riddle of magic and colors that shocks the visitor and turn her (or him) into an addict – hidden valleys in the Himalayas, palaces and painted cities in Rajasthan, full moon in Goa, spiritual supermarket in Puna, Holiness & death in Varanasi, the south with the wonders of Madurai, Rameshwarem & Mamalapuram. Ganja in Prvati valley. India

Crazy Honey


She wanted to circumnavigate the Black sea and I told her I shall meet her in East Turkey and bring her to Zaza after the big sun eclipse.
Zaza is a knight. His great great great grand father was also called Zaza Tsitsishvili. He was Knighted because in the end of a day’s battle he cut the Seljuk lines, cut the head of the Sultan, held the hair of the severed head in his teeth so he can cut his way back through those who were not impressed by his deed.
Zaza is a wonderful reason. at least like the Black sea, The crazy honey or the Argonauts.

Tsur shezaf hangs his washing on Nachlat Binyamin lines

In the Beginning god differed heaven from water. Then he created earth and a place to wash clothes – a place for gossiping, soaping, washing, and drying in the sun to beautify the court and the street.
When we stopped (the ones who did) to dry the laundry in the open, we gave up some very old and comforting thing that is even more ancient then the washing machine & the electric dryer.
The exhibition brings laundry back to its natural place. Reviving the color which is hidden behind the politically correct laundry covers that turns the city into a gray, descent, boring space.
There is nothing like a good pair of underpants to remind us where we are coming from.
The Nachlat Binyamin Fair ground – the art & handcraft market of Tel Aviv & the junction with the Carmel market & Shenkin street, or the old port of Jaffa is the natural place to dry laundry

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