Is that Alaverdi?

Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Modern Century A 1972 photo of a Georgian family picnicking near a medieval monastery, part of a series taken in this retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art.

We walked into eastern Georgia across a wooden bridge reinforced with rusty iron beams that boomed as huge tree trunks slammed into the pillars. The low crossing spanned a wild white water river that had recently flooded. Most of the flooded channels were now dry but their scars were unmistakable. The main river that was delivering the wooden gongs however, still tumbled out of the Caucasus with purpose. It was late autumn and definitely wasn't warm. The not so far off peaks were already heavy with snow and down in the valley that year's wine had already been pressed and would be soon ready to drink.

As we crossed, the guards spoke with my wife in the international language of Real Madrid footballers, perhaps covering for the fact that they couldn't find Spain in their early 90's computer, perhaps mildly interrogating her, maybe flirting, maybe a combination of all the above.

My passport received barely a grunt.

We were crossing from Azerbaijan, a country in which we had just spent four of the eventual 12 months we would spend astride the Caspian. Crossing a border that technically hadn't existed under the USSR, but one that now marks one of the unofficial lines between East and West, between Christendom and Al-Islam. President Bush had stopped in the Georgian capital on his Freedom tours, his henchmen Cheney and Rumsfeld had only visited the oil terminals in Azerbaijan.

We picnicked near where I think the above photo was taken. Is it Alaverdi?

Fetish cloths hung tied from trees that had lost their leaves and we saw a family enjoy shashlyk freshly cut from a recently slaughtered lamb hanging from a nearby tree. Picnicking in this part of the world is serious business. Neighbouring Iranians have it as a national sport.


My wife joked that we were now in a 'Christian' country and visiting the church with the towering spire wouldn't be a problem. Full of Georgian wine, she confidently walked through the thick defensive walls where she was quickly informed that her trousers were not acceptable and that she would have to wear a dress provided at the gate. The dangerous cleavage and come-fuck-me white boots of Islamic Baku burned in her memory as she wrapped a scarf around her already covered legs.

The picture(s) above brings back memories that not even the most insistent 'tamada' can erase.

Sakarvelos gaumarjos!

The Statue of Liberated Woman

Last night's Minaret exhibit was not only a chance to share some photos that I've taken on my travels but an opportunity to retrieve and relive some dusty memories that had been lying forgotten in my 1.0 memory chip mind.

During the evening, a few astute visitors were quick to notice an early Soviet-era statue that features prominently in one of the photographs, thus refreshing my memory in regards to one of my favourite emblems in Baku, Azerbaijan.

While living in the city, my wife and I lived just off Nizami square/Metro stop in the infamous 'Beysh Barmak'. Baku's first 5-story building (thus the name) that was stodgily yet sturdily built during the years of Russian rule. The window panes hadn't been changed since the 5 year plans, allowing the winter wind free access to the flat, but it was a handy address that every taxi driver knew...especially given the fact that I speak no Azeri or Russian, no matter how much vodka I drank.

At the time we lived there (2004-2005), the neighbourhood was central yet far enough out of the actual centre to not have been gentrified beyond recognition (judging from this 2008 photo of the same, the creep has arrived). Local bars still sold cheap local beer with chickpea tapas while shashlyk, kebabs and piti were still the stalwarts of the menuless restaurants. Life teemed under the square in one of the most claustrophobic markets I have ever encountered and villagers sold fresh produce on street corners a few blocks away.

Just next to our building was the Ministry of Foreign affairs. An intriguing place clogged with sparkling black Mercedes that spoke well of the civil servants amazing ability to save while officially earning around $100 a month. The view from our outside balcony stretched beyond the corrupt cars and onto a panorama littered with shaky rebarless 30 story brick towers being built on the earthquake prone clay leading down to the Caspian. The view from our inside balcony however was another world, a quiet refuge of cats and Chechen refugees hanging their coloured washing.

But the most interesting feature in the neighbourhood was precisely the statue that the exhibit's keen-eyed visitors had pointed out.

Standing proudly atop a very Sovietish plinth smack in a fork in the road is the Statue of Liberated Woman, more familiarly known as the Woman Throwing off her Veil....strategically placed by the Soviets in front of the Iranian embassy and bank.

An interesting symbol in a country filled with young people eagerly looking back to their religious roots (even creating facebook groups to destroy the statue) and in the process melding tradition with newfound faith. 21st century fusings of pre-islamic traditions like cleansing jumps over fire with Saudi and Iranian prostelyzing are becoming dogma for some while others are lost in the blind rush to capatilize on the oil boom set to run dry. I mostly use the past tense because change is happening fast.

Hopefully the daring woman looking out to the below sealevel sea isn't lost in the process.

The Liberated Woman

Minarets

Alminares
Iluminando las minorías. Un viaje desde Granada a Malasia

Fotografías de Troy Nahumko
La Traviata. Inauguración: 15 de abril de 2010 a las 21.00 h

Los minaretes, elegantes antenas espirituales hechas por los hombres,
se elevan hacia los cielos para proclamar la fe musulmana a sus
seguidores. Símbolos islámicos conscientemente creados para
ser diferentes a los de las otras dos religiones monoteístas que la
precedieron. Los distintos paisajes, culturas y ramas han modelado su
silueta, pero todos han sido diseñados para iluminar a sus creyentes.
Hoy han sido convertidos en símbolos de otra índole y en lamento
para aquellos que creen que sus derechos han sido de algún modo
infringidos por la mera presencia de estos faros teológicos en el
horizonte europeo. No son símbolos colgados en la esfera pública,
sino símbolos religiosos firmemente asentados en el terreno de la
vida privada. Símbolos minoritarios que suponen el mismo reto al
pensamiento mayoritario que los autobuses ateos y su derecho
a cuestionar creencias sobrenaturales. Incómodos símbolos para
algunos que, sin embargo, debieran estar permitidos en los estados
laicos modernos.

A rough translation of the above:

Minarets - elegant man-made spiritual antennas that reach into the sky to proclaim the Muslim faith to the heavens and its followers within earshot. Islamic symbols consciously different from those of the two monotheistic faiths that preceded it. Landscapes, cultures and differing branches may change their shape, but all are designed to shine the light on its believers. Today they have been converted into symbols of a different sort, a rallying cry for those who believe their rights are somehow infringed by the appearance of these theological lighthouses on the European horizon. These are not symbols hung in the public sphere, but religious symbols firmly planted in the grounds of private life. Minority symbols that present the same challenge to majority thought as the Atheist bus and its right to question supernatural beliefs. Uncomfortable symbols for some, but ones that must be allowed to be heard in modern secular states.

Notes from the Road: Easter in Caceres

For some it's Easter egg hunts, for others meditations on torture and resurrection, others still a time to be 'seen' showing their penitence in hooded processions...for me it means that the simple fact of walking to my house becomes an ordeal.

Crowds clog the tiny arteries of the old town here in Caceres, while supposedly beatific onlookers become less than Christlike thinking that I'm cutting in front of them rather than simply walking home.

Matador Travel's Notes from the Road recently published a walk of mine home.