Another Week Alone

John left for Kazakhstan a little while ago. He says he will be going over there pretty much every other week for the foreseeable future (the reason we are starting Russian language lessons on the 10th) and he gets to fly in one of these really cool planes! That's him closest to the camera....looks thrilled, eh?



I just looked over at the coffee table and the noise canceling headphones I gave him for Christmas are still sitting there. I have a feeling he might miss them on this flight.

This is his second trip since Christmas, his first being about twelve hours after I got back here from Canada. It was kind of a nice welcome home surprise, but I guess I was lucky....he had to do some fancy flight wrangling to not be already gone when I arrived.

I've begun a list of all the things I want included in my next DHL care package from home. Stupid me left my two favorite pairs of pants in the dryer back home, so I might as well throw in some more things to fill up that flat rate box. I can't get the Folger's Singles that I am going to run out of next month since I haven't seen them for sale in Nova Scotia, but I'm going to get the textbook for my summer class, some brown gravy mix, Costco canned chicken, Red Rose tea bags, the rest of my afghan yarn, and a few large boxes of Milk Bones....so far. I can send up to 55 lbs in this pretty good sized box. Maybe I should get my good Nikon sent over so I'll have it for our vacation.

John took part in the Azerbaijan Open Golf Tournament in Dubai in December. The Azerbaijan Open is held in Dubai because there are no golf courses in Azerbaijan. Lucky him won 2 round trip air tickets to anywhere in Europe and after much humming and hawing we have decided to fly to Frankfurt. From there we plan to rent a car and drive to Austria where we'll spend a week touring around, and getting touch with our inner Von Trapp. We might even go to Prague. Our plans are still sketchy at the moment but we have a week and I think we should be able to do it.

So this trip will be it until we go home in late June. I have to make it in Baku for 6 months, which I didn't really think was going to be all that tough until I found out about John being away every second week, and friends here began expressing sympathy.....extending invitations to girls weekends out in Istanbul.

I'll make it. I know I will and I'll have a new afghan to show for it. I'll be must better read, too, since I loaded my bags with books this time....plus one New York Times Crossword Puzzle Book. I have still one more set of Clay concert photos from 2007 to edit, and all of my film negatives with me to scan into digital files. My class this term isn't turning out to be much of a challenge other than the fact that I have to find someone here to proctor my midterm and my final. I'm going to try the principal at the international school but if that doesn't work out there are a ton of universities here, full of people who won't object to making a few extra manat. Explaining what I want and actually pulling it off will be the hard part. I have to get going on these arrangements soon.

Lena was here today and left about noon, before she left she passed on some very bad news. She has a breast tumor.....the "C" word being taboo in these parts. I have a bad feeling that such a diagnosis could be a death sentence here. I also have a bad feeling that early diagnosis isn't the norm here, either. Her eyes were puffy and she told me she had been crying all day yesterday. It was obvious she is very worried. Tomorrow she has another doctor's appointment and she will find out more about her treatment, but she did say she needs an operation....or in her words "cut". After she left, I had to call John to translate some of her Russian words for me, as she didn't know all of the English words to describe what she had. John asked Ali, and Ali explained what she meant, though I had at least gotten the general idea. I tried to ask her about medicines or other treatments in addition to surgery and she nodded, but I don't think that means very much.

She is worried about herself, but I think she is worried about how she is going to pay for it. It kind of mindboggles me that a country that was once part of the Soviet Union doesn't have universal health care but apparently it doesn't. Lena said the operation would cost about $2500.....a bargain by American standards but a fortune when you make $600 a month. I don't know how it all works exactly but my understanding is that doctors do get paid by the government but the pay is small and patients are expected to kick in the rest (or the bulk) of the cost. Ali told me it cost him about $500 for his wife's prenatal care and their baby's delivery. And that's pretty much all I know about paying for health care in Baku. Do they bill? Do you have to pay up front? Are there ways to work around the system?

I'll try to talk to her on Friday when she comes back, and maybe if it's okay with her, I can call her daughter to get some more details about what they are going to to do and what is available to her. I wish I felt more optimistic, but I just watched a very sad woman walk out of my gate to her bus stop.

One Ringy Dingy

I never bother to pick up the house phone when it rings since no one calling that number can speak English. There doesn't seem to be much point. I used to answer it but what ensued was just a back and forth of "Hello?" Allo. Hello? Allo. When I drop my "h's" and it becomes a volley of "Allos" I hang up. Most of the time, I find out who wants me when the line goes dead the next day....it's always the phone company wanting payment of my "debt."

Yesterday, it rang while I was downstairs. I thought about going upstairs to play a little game of Hello-Allo, because the caller was letting it ring forever, but I stayed in the kitchen with my book. This morning it rang again, and since I was right next to it, and the dog began to bark like it was an important call he was expecting, I answered it.

A few "Allo's" followed by a lot of "blah-blah-bah" in Azeri then me with a few "Sorry. English?" Then the inevitable switch to Russian followed by some more "Sorry. English?" from me. All the while the dog is barking his head off in the immediate background and I'm grateful my non-English speaking caller doesn't understand the words, "SHUT UP!!!" which are meant for the dog whose English isn't all that great either. I gave up and hung up but he called right back. More "blah blah blah" but there was someone in the background he was talking to this time. It seemed like it was really important that he communicate to me whatever it was he had to communicate but he and the other guy were laughing, so I laughed too at the whole situation. He eventually hung up on me because the Russian wasn't working either.

A few minutes pass and the phone rings again. I'm pretty sure now that this isn't the phone company calling about my "debt." This has to be a couple of guys who have figured out that they can say anything to the illiterate ditz on the other end of the line because she hasn't a clue. Just as I'm thinking about slamming the phone down, he gets out two words "telephoney money." It was the telephone company and these guys must have called around the office until they found someone who could give them two useful words in English. "Ah," says I......okay. Okay? Okay. The universal symbol of understanding.....except here it doesn't really mean that. It's actually the universal symbol of "I am pretending to understand you, so you will go away and leave me alone."

I think the sheep slaughter guy at the end of the street is branching out. Ali and I drove buy on our way to the grocery store today and there was a flock of about 8 turkeys standing just outside his hut/facility/home/meat-packing plant. I sat bolt upright in my seat and shouted, "TURKEYS!!" Ali, responds with a "Huh?" He has turkeys! Ali thinks the name turkeys is hilarious. "Like the country?" he asks. Yeps, like the country. I began to get wonderful visions of a delicious turkey dinner this weekend.

He tells me the call them "India Birds" Like the country. He also tells me they sell for around $18 a kilo. (So, the $99 frozen Butterball I saw at City Mart the other day was a bargain after all.) My chances of a turkey dinner are fading fast. But then Ali tells me he's going to stop at the guy's place and see how much of a deal he can get me on a turkey. OY! If he gets me a good deal is it kosher....er....maybe that should be "halal" to tell him I don't want the head, the feet, or anything that remotely resembles entrails to come with it? Can I send down my own plastic bag to bring it home in? Will he promise not to hang my turkey by the side of the dusty road until we come for it? Maybe I had enough turkey over the holidays.
I hope he gets rid of them before John get's back and see his favorite meal just waiting to be de-feathered for him. I think I will become a vegetarian as soon as my freezer full of Canadian beef is empty.
I haven't posted any pictures in a while......

A Corner of the Ministry Building Constructed by German POW's



Sunday Shopping



The Caravansarai in Sheki

Round Trip Ticket

I got back on Sunday night after 12 hours of being squished into to the middle seat in the middle section of the plane because the, now fired, travel agent didn’t bother to book the seats when she booked the flights. I guess she figured we would do better making a run for it during the boarding call. Unfortunately, we were still downstairs trying to get the paper ticket/e-ticket business straightened out when that first boarding call came. That being the case, there would have been no chance to lunge for a first class seat if that was the way it was done on Air Canada For some reason we had paper tickets for the Baku-London-Baku portion of this trip and pieces of printer paper with an incorrect booking reference number for the London-Halifax-London part. I am still mystified, but since we somehow had double reservations without seats….I kid you not….one of them turned out to be good, even though the reservation had never been ticketed.

It’s taken me some time to be able to complain about the abysmal service we’ve been getting from the travel agent. Despite all of wrong numbers, missing numbers, and middle seats, we’ve always managed to get where we were going when we were supposed to get there.

I, on the other hand, pulled a doozey this time around and have been keeping silent on the ineptitude of flight bookers in Baku. Carolyn and I flew into Halifax on the 8^th following an overnight in London. (Go see Les Miserables if you haven’t already…..put it on the list of ten things to do before you cash in your chips. It’s THAT good!) We were supposed to have a day and a half in Halifax and then travel to Houston to pick up the car. There was a wee problem with that plan since we arrived at the airport in Halifax on the 10^th to discover that I had booked the tickets for the 9^th, and not the 10^th. Who knew? Certainly not me! I had no idea we were supposed to be there the day before. I never MEANT to book the tickets for the 9^th. I blame my scroll wheel and am now fine with criticizing the travel agent.

In my case, perhaps booking travel should not be attempted at home without supervision……or at least without reading ones confirmation email before the day AFTER one’s departure date.

I felt bad for Carolyn who thought she was going on another little holiday and was left waiting at the altar of Continental Check-In. She told me that if her Dad was there we’d be going but I tend to think we’d be going to jail, instead.

Anyway, I just got back on Sunday like I said and I’m already working on reservations to go back at the end of September……which has sort of led to a new diversion….combing websites dedicated to maximizing those airline mileage points. I found two bonus mileage offers that I can use and weren’t sent to me by the airline or the hotel chain that is offering them….unless of course I forgot to open those emails, too. But I’m not going to think about that right now. My wounds are still a little too fresh.

Last night, we had dinner downtown and on the way home stopped into Kamran Market in search of vodka and caviar. The woman who manages the liquor wall was there to greet me with a smile of recognition, as she speaks no English. You know, you don’t really begin to feel at home until you’re missed at the corner store. A little while later I was over at the dairy counter trying to guess whether or not a particular container held cottage cheese, sour cream, or some unknown white milky substance....I heard liquor wall lady ask John where Carolyn was….not in so many words but I got the idea from the sign language. Very sweet...but why does she remember Carolyn so well? We explained that she was in Canada, got a nod of recognition, then an “America?” I guess that’s close enough.

Now, shouldn’t Russia and Azerbaijan be close enough together that the caviar labeled Russian and the caviar labeled Azerbaijan, in identical jars with identical lids be closer in price than 70 manat and 2 manat? For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why the difference in price, but then I never did come to a definite conclusion on what was in the white plastic container of sour cream/cottage cheese/ white milky substance, either.

Our shipment arrived while I was gone. I have Kraft Dinner and my pots and my pans, and the Nikon camera…which was never supposed to be in there in the first place. Everything seems to be here and only a few inconsequential things were broken. There is enough wrinkled clothing to keep Lena ironing until the sheep come home.

The gazebo still isn’t finished but gazebo master still shows up every now and again to do some work. Right now, he is building an outdoor kitchen in one corner of it. The main part still needs some finishing touches but starting that outdoor kitchen was a plus. I was all set to move until I saw that going in....a built in gas barbecue in a land where there are none…..nothing to sneeze at. I fear that my gazebo has become a casualty of the Russian-Georgian conflict.I’ve been told the landlord is up in his native Georgia and therefore gazebo master isn’t getting paid. When he isn’t getting paid, he doesn’t tend to show up for work.

Everything seems business as usual in Baku. No one seems too concerned about the goings-on between our neighbors to the north but I do wish we had gone to Tblisi in June like we had planned. It doesn’t look like we will get there, now. We went here that weekend instead. Sheki……

We stayed here..which is a story in itself....

This is Carolyn and our lovely hostess, Arzu. She gets the gold medal for constant hovering...

No trip to Sheki is complete without a visit to the interactive museum....they encouraged us to climb on the antique carriages and sit on the furniture holding the antique weapons....

We checked out the handpainted interior of the Sheki Palace.....


It had beautiful stained glass windows....
Places to shop for the latest in fashion...
Household necessities...
And some absolutely beautiful scenery...
Breakfast under the trees on the way....

I'll keep this last on under wraps until the next post....

Jack and His Hammer

I don't know if someone screwed up during construction or if the next door neighbor just wants a moat around his house, but he has hired a couple of guys in suits to create a two foot wide trench around the very wide perimeter of his very large house. They are creating it with a jack hammer. They are jack hammering every morning beginning promptly at nine, seven days a week, no exceptions. Seven days a week includes Saturday and Sunday even here in Baku (which may be normal workdays for all I know) BUT I think every noise disturbed citizen deserves a couple of days relief every week, no? They can give me Monday and Tuesday, fine with me.

And because I promised in my last post....

We had to pay a dollar for the privilege of seeing what was under the blanket.

The Road to Qebela

The original plan was to drive up to Quba last month but my severe little case of Baku Belly put the kibosh on that idea. We decided to go once I had recovered but then Ali found out that a good stretch of the Quba road is down to one lane so he came up with an alternative. We'd go to Qebela which is on the west side of mountains, where Quba is on the east. He assured us it was a very beautiful place, lots of green, lots of fresh air and lots of sunshine.....he didn't mention the lots of mother's brother's children part till we got there. Nope, nothing about the cousins.

We got up early and left at 7:30 AM. I don't think I've seen Baku from the early bird's perspective before and there were definitely fewer cars on the streets which might be worth getting up for if there actually was someplace to go before 10:00 o'clock. This is not a divided highway. This is a pretty typical arrangement of the vehicles on the road out of Baku, except closer to the city there are a lot more cars.....some of which want to drive on your side of the road....facing you.



Love the open back trucks full of bricks. Makes those uphill climbs through the mountains WAY more interesting! We only had about 5 close calls.....each way. About one per hour of road time, not too bad. The terrain around Baku allows for a lot of visibility....couple that with a 3.8 liter engine Pajero (gas is still very cheap in Azerbaijan) and you've got the makings of a nice fairly safe ride. Once you get used to it.

Carolyn didn't get used to the skinning of sheep on the side of the road, though I was doing okay with that aspect of our trip by the second or third one. This is a little less graphic than most......but you get the idea.



I think I saw more sheep on the hoof and on the hook than I have ever seen in my life. My main goal that day, however, was to avoid getting any on my lunch plate.....no matter how good someone swore the kebabs tasted.

The distance from Baku to Qebela is 200 kilometers. A trip like that should take about two and a half hours, but since the road is a teeny tiny thing full of humps, bumps and switchbacks......


.......not to mention various and sundry forms of domestic wildlife, it took us five hours.


We made a few pit stops along the way, the first one for breakfast at this place that looked like a picnic park but was really a restaurant.


You just park by your table, a few guys come over, talk to you in a foreign language but get the idea that since this is a restaurant, you want something to eat. They bring you a nice table cloth, some cutlery and dishes, and a pot of tea with lemon. Pretty soon some fried eggs show up in a cast iron pan, as do warm loves of bread.....you've got breakfast. They keep the warm bread coming which is one of the very best things about Azerbaijan.....warm, stone-baked-over-a-wood-fire, bread. When you get up to go they come and tell you how much, you pass them a few bills, and you're done. It was actually quite lovely and the smell of the meat cooking on their big barbecues was amazing...though I knew damn well it was a sheep who had gotten up that morning thinking about nothing more than a little grazing time on the hillside...but such is life in the mutton belt. Ali judges the quality of a restaurant by how many sheep they slaughter, on premises, in the morning. I guess the more sheep, the more popular the place. Simple math.

Somewhere along the way, I'm not sure how far up the road we were but it couldn't have been more than an hour out of Baku, Ali pulled the car over to the side of the road and jumped out. He said he'd explain when he got back. We were sitting next to a green building with a garden and there were other cars parked along the road with us. In the garden there were families taking photos and people seemed to be quite dressed up. Carolyn and I looked at each other in total bewilderment...."Why are we stopping?" We looked at John, from whom we expect an answer....he shrugged. When Ali returned he didn't exactly fess up the reason for the sudden stop until I pressed him for an answer. Apparently, this was the house of a relative of Mohamed and he stopped there to pray. I guess those wrong side of the road drivers are even more scary from the front seat.

I took these photos along the way. It was hard to believe the transition from arid steppe - practically desert - into beautiful lush, green mountain sides. Things were growing! Lots of things. See the little tiny sheep way over yonder?



This is a winery but I think a little vodka first, before the passing of the corkscrew, might improve the vintage. Of course, alcohol would kill anything.....and I'll call this a vintage winery. Go look for it at Kroger's.


Can't fault the scenery, though.





Sometimes it's hard to imagine that there are still large areas of this world mostly undiscovered. The tourist traffic is very light over here, though I think there is a move on to change all that. Resorts are being built. I'm glad I've been able to see these places as the really are......in a real people living their lives kind of way. The other day Carolyn said it was a privilege to see these things before the commercialism hits and it changes forever. Well......I'm going to confess to wishing there were enough tourists and sufficient commercial demand to create a need for toilets with bowls and seats. Those would be nice despite the fact that I now know exactly what the liquid capacity, and the relative strength of my bladder is.

Knowing that I wasn't going to find a regular, or as Ali says "normal," toilet anywhere outside of Baku, I kept a close eye on the fluid intake once I'd left the comforts of home. Not having a Tim's or a Starbucks along the way helps but having tea with relatives doesn't. This is the sign that announces you've made it to the Qebela Region.


There is a sign for juice a few hundred meters beyond it. That pomegranate juice pictured on the right? I highly recommend it, next time you're in the neighborhood.


There was no sign of the relatives until we stopped at a construction site along the highway. Since there is no word for cousin.....we met Ali's mother's brother's son. He owns a restaurant. (I wish I had a picture.) In the spirit of Azeri hospitality, he wanted us to come to his restaurant but since we had only eaten an hour and a half before, and we could sense that we would soon make it to the town of Qebela we begged off. Well, we actually made our apologies to Ali, who we assumed made our apologies to his mother's brother's son. After the exchange of few pleasantries and handshakes we were all off in our respective vehicles. In a few minutes, it became apparent that we were following Ali's mother's brother's son's red Lada. I quietly tapped John on the shoulder, flicked him a quizzical eyebrow, at the same time responding to Carolyn's quizzical eyebrow with a shrug.

I think you have to get used to the not knowing. Turned out that plans had been made for us to detour to Ali's mother's brother's son's village which was just a short way from Qebela. There would be a very nice river there and good places to take pictures. Sounded good. Before we left the main road, however, the red Lada pulled over and we pulled in behind it. More quizzical eyebrows are passed around the backseat while Ali got out and conversed with the son of his mother's brother. The plans had changed and we were getting a rain check, the MBS couldn't make it after all, he had something to do......but son of mother's brother's son (who was driving the red Lada) would lead us to the village. We followed him down a tiny dirt road spotted with chickens, littered with goats, and owned by a herd of cows. I'm thinking this is going to be a very cool village.

I was a little perplexed when the red Lada pulled up to a large pair of solid steel gates and we pulled up behind him. There was a bend in the road just beyond the driveway with the solid steel gates and the son of the son pointed, out the window of his car, in that general direction. I assumed that meant the village was that-a way....and he was done with us and going home for his lunch. But no, we drove inside the gates and Ali explained that this was the village of his relatives. There were a few houses surrounded by walls and connected with gates between them. Carolyn gave me the "what are we doing here?" look, John was totally enjoying himself and I flipped through the latest edition of "Go with the Flow for Dummies". I noticed there was a turkey tied by his leg to a tree. There was a barn with a real live hayloft....


and something I had read about and heard about in fairy tales, but never seen in real life.....a haystack.


And then I saw the outhouse....


"Go with the Flow for Dummies" had no reference on what to do when faced with a hole in the ground outdoor facility. I had to revert to Plan A which was curtail all fluids. This, at the same time a table was being moved out of the house to a nice shady spot under the trees. I knew in my bladder of bladders.....er.....heart of hearts that this meant tea. It would be a great insult to refuse, an embarrassment to Ali ,and a dishonor to his family. We had tea....and fruit....and cakes....and cheeses.....and cookies.....and jam.....and juices....and Coke & Sprite. Yep, Coke & Sprite. All set under a big old tree in the yard with the turkey kept at bay by the rope on his leg. The table was set with a white lace cloth and the cups were made of fine porcelain.

Other relatives came out of their houses to meet us. A small group of grandsons peeked at us from a distance but scampered off giggling when we spoke to them. We met several women who magically appeared out of nowhere. (I think a cell phone alert had gone out.) None of them came out to join us for tea but I think the presence of so many hands was the reason it was set up in minutes. I don't THINK they were expecting us....but maybe they were.

Ali, John, Carolyn and I sat down to the table and our afternoon feast. We weren't there long when Ali's mother's brother's son showed up after all. He was the only member of the family to sit with us for tea. I think he is the head of the household village. I managed to sip on a cup of tea, eat a few cakes for absorption purposes, and after a little bit of group picture taking we were on our way. Following the red Lada.....to the river. This is the river.....

The rivers in the mountains in Azerbaijan only fill with water when the spring run off fills them. During other months they are rocky bedded streams. It took us another half an hour of driving to get to the river.....that was supposed to be just around the bend. On the way we passed shepherds dressed in the traditional shepherd's costume......the suit.


And since a whole half hour had passed since we had anything to eat or drink, it was decided that we needed to have something more. The river destination was the restaurant of mother's brother's son but I knew I couldn't even have so much as another spot of tea, and I was wondering why we had up and changed venues......except for the fact that the view was downright amazing. But tea is liquid, and should not be consumed in mass quantities on road trips.....especially within earshot of a waterfall. That much was in "Go with the Flow for Dummies." It was in the Chapter "When You Really Have No Way to Deal with the Flow." I got out of there without having anymore tea. But it sure is hard to just say, "No."

When we finally get back on the main road, and I think we are just about to finally get to Qebela, I find out that we had passed through Qebela before we stopped at the "village." I remembered a market, and some mini-marts but I didn't exactly see anything historic....but so be it. I was pushing the limit and still had five hours drive to go. We turned around and headed back to Baku, making only one major stop on the way.

I wanted to buy fruit and in doing so met three of the most charming women ever.


I've never had as much fun buying produce as I had that day. They sell fruits and nuts and homemade preserves, and their fingers and hands are stained black from the dye in the nutshells they have been handling all of their lives. The woman on the left offered me berries from the bag and, not knowing what they were or why her hands were as black as coal, I didn't want to take any. She kept trying and Ali kept trying to encourage me saying, "gift." And then it hit her.....I wouldn't take the berries because I thought her hands were dirty. She wiped them on her skirt and her sweater to demonstrate that they were clean, and Ali explained to me about the dye from the nuts. Ya learn something new everyday they say. That day I learned that my smiley little poker face isn't as good as I thought it was.

We bought some nuts and tomatoes and apricots. I took lots of pictures. Carolyn being younger and braver tried all of the samples offered.


I have no idea what half of this stuff is.


Sometime in the early evening we made it back home safe and sound. I did a fair bit of complaining about the suspension in the Pajero both up and back. I think every bone in my body was rearranged and during the 12 hours we were gone. But "Go with the Flow" says to take that experience and translate it into a lucrative bull riding career. There are things out there with a less comfortable ride I'm sure.


And they come with a driver, too.


Love the suit.

Gazebo Master

I wonder if Azerbaijan has any military jets. I sure hope so because a half dozen or so flew over the house the other day in formation, did a big loop out over downtown then came back over the house again. If there aren't any military jets in the heavy artillery bag, then I'm curious who was dropping by for a look see. I'd bet, whoever it was has heard about this.



It isn't a base or a barracks, despite its size. It's just a gazebo....well, not JUST a gazebo. It's more like the granddaddy of all covered outdoor spaces. I might have to rename it a band shell. Ali tells me that you can cruise along the boulevard in the evening and hire musicians to play at your parties right on the spot. They'll climb into your car, and go right on home with you for a pre-negotiated price. If Ali is smart he'll take John and cruise the boulevard on my birthday. I think a little quartet action in honor of turning...um....yeah....that old......would complement those roses very nicely. Did I ever mention that the number of flowers in bouquets have to be odd for happy occasions and an even number is for sad ones? John learned that little tidbit when he bought Aynur some roses on the Azeri equivalent of Secretary's Day. Ali gave him a heads up and so he had to go in and slip one out of the bouquet on her desk while she went to search the office for a vase.

So, about the gazebo.....a perfect example of be careful what you wish for. The neighbors in the twin house have one, the twin house being the identical but mirror image house that faces us....we have the same landlord. I saw their gazebo when we looked at this place back in October, and asked if we could have one, too. The landlord agreed but when John moved in here in December, only the stone foundation was in place. The landlord explained that it was too cold at the time to send master to build our gazebo. He would do it in the spring. Fair enough, no need for a gazebo in January or February anyway. Gazebo master turned up in early April and so began the framing of my summer palace, the place I would barbecue week-long wine marinated, mallet-pounded, flat slabs of cow before it got too hot to be outside without air conditioning. The place where we could wile away summer evenings before my next trip back to Nova Scotia where the black flies make it impossible to sit outside after sundown.



Well, now it's almost June and the promised completion date of April 30th has come and gone. It's a good thing I didn't start any cow slabs soaking in anticipation. Master's been building this thing alone and by hand. He has notched each piece of lumber with his little hatchet. He's got his table saw set up in the vacant lot next door. He doesn't have a plug on the end of his table saw cord, so he's stripped the insulation off its end to expose the bare wires which he sticks into a socket in my little mechanical house.....which is close to the main electrical panel and the main gas line. He's afraid of my dog....way more than he is of the building inspector. Oh...wait....I don't think there is a building inspector. Duh!

This isn't the dog he's that he worries about. This is the poor mangy cur from a few blogs back. Her pups are gone...somewhere.....and she's now living alone in the vacant lot among the building materials and construction debris. I call this picture "Her Master's Voice."



I'm getting pretty weary of living in a construction zone. Master's been showing up here and there, doing a little work, then disappearing for a few days. He leaves his tools and debris all over the side yard of the house. John hammers the big spiky nails out of the boards he leaves laying around on the grass. This whole gazebo thing is getting old and I wish I had never asked for it in the first place. Maybe gazebo master is just like our contractor for the basement renovation in Newfoundland and has three other jobs on the go in addition to ours. John's theory is that he isn't getting paid. When he gets paid, he shows up. When he doesn't, he stays home. I know I have seen him padding about the neighborhood in his construction slippers every now and again, and wondered why he wasn't over at my place pounding some boards. I'm beginning to think John is right and it's time to go after the landlord to get this thing finished. I think he is expecting the next six months rent at the end of the week. I'd call that decent leverage. Whatever the reason he hasn't finished this thing yet, it just goes to show you that getting a construction job done even close to on time is universal...one of the commonalities of all mankind. There should be some basis for world peace there. Someone just has to think up the right angle.

And speaking of universal, while I was sitting here yesterday contemplating the fact that I grew up believing mig jets flying overhead were a very bad "duck & cover" kind of thing, I heard chanting coming from outside my window. Lots of chanting that began to get louder and closer. I got up and looked out the window in time to see a funeral procession making its way down my dusty little road on foot. At the beginning were the pall bearers carrying a pallet on their shoulders. A body on the pallet was wrapped in a gold colored tapestry shroud. I called Carolyn to come see and we stood back from the window, out of sight, and watched....about two hundred men, but not one woman, make their way past our house. Carolyn asked me does who shows up if a woman dies? I didn't have the answer to that one.

Finland Finland Finland

That's the country for me.....How strange, that when the kid and I got to the Air Canada check-in counter to drop off our bags there were 3 strapping guys in light blue and white hockey jerseys ahead of us in line....and when they turned around, emblazoned across each of their chests was "Finland." Doesn't matter if they were in Halifax for the international hockey championship. It made me kind of nostalgic for New York City, the end of Clay's run in Spamalot, and well, I just wanted to break out in some sort of fish schlapping song. The kid said she'd harmonize as long as I didn't actually schlap her with a fish (as if I would ever schlap her in the first place). What an auspicious start for the trip back here to Baku. That was on the night of the 12th, about 9:30. At 2:00 AM on the 14th we landed in Baku along with a plane load of people from Scotland returning for their rotations. Not a Fin in sight.

John and Ali were waiting for us to get through the immigration lines....Ali with the usual bottles of water in to give us as we came through the sliding glass doors. He is the coolest of dudes, seriously! I'm glad I went hunting for those Cadbury Mini-Eggs he likes so much when I got home. They weren't easy to find, a week past Easter, but eventually some turned up at Joe's Corner Store on Main Avenue.

I've been back for 2 weeks, and I'm rethinking what I was previously thinking about 6 weeks being too much time to be away. Maybe 6 weeks isn't so long after all. But....I have to add a proviso....a good dose of Baku Belly can make anyone want to run for the hills (as well as the bathroom). I swear from now on I am only eating local food. Something gets lost in translation when local meets western. Going back over what I ate in the last few days, there was only one difference in what I had and the rest of the family didn't....I knew I should have gotten the double cheeseburger like everyone else.....but no.....I had to have that other murderous thing. Luckily there were 3 Cipro left in the bottle and when that last one is gone at 3PM this afternoon, someone is going to have to make a trip down to the SOS clinic to reload. Must always have Cipro in the cupboard.

Speaking of local food, the whole gang from the office had dinner, last Sunday, at an Azeri restaurant where we had a choice of dining in an outside hut, an inside hut, or in the grand hall. We started in an outside hut but figured it would later get too cold and moved inside to the Grand Hall. Inside, there would be live entertainment and dancing beginning at 8:00. The food was delicious and the service incredible.....and hilarious....at the same time. The food was presented in serving dishes on the table, just like a big family dinner back home, but picking up the dishes to serve yourself is a no-no. Just so much as reach for a dish and a waiter magically appears gently removes it from your hand and spoons what you want onto your plate. The same goes for the drinks. There was an assortment of juices and water laid out at one end of the table and the waiters were continually topping us up.....even with the Miller Genuine Draft. I have no idea what most of what was in these little serving dishes but it tasted fresh and pretty darn good.

It was a very fancy place that also caters to weddings. The kid is still trying to figure out the logistics of a wedding dress and this.....


Yes, that's a squat toilet. I somehow think pants and the squat toilet might be tougher, especially without practice. The kid figured it out when she just couldn't hold it anymore thanks to the non-stop flow of the MGD. I totally stopped the beer when this situation was first reported. But I have been wondering, ever since, if bathroom duty falls to the maid of honor or the mother of the bride.