It may have been the weather, or simply typical teenage behaviour; either way, I chose not to ask. Instead, I focused on finishing my egg-white omelette which the cook had put a significant amount of care into making and brought to my table to enjoy with a mug of steamy, frothy soy latte.
'Miss, no one wants to go on the cultural tour' is how the morning started, to which I retorted, 'fine,
you're going.' I didn't raise my head to meet the eyes of the messenger, Umid, therefore, I am in no position to judge whether his reaction was shock, disappointment, anger or something else.
I had not prepared myself for that one, though I was ready, as group leader, for any other kind of emergency.
Shortly after, another messenger came by with the same message. No response, no discussion and no compromise. 'We are meeting at the agreed time and going on the cultural tour' was my sole declaration.
And so it happened that we were met by a professional tour guide in the city center to show us the highlights of Quba. The Meydan is a small square with benches and willow trees with a few, supposedly, retirees basking in the sun. We walked noisily past them to the Juma Masjid - a small mosque built in the 19th century, as we were told, in typical Quba province style with a single minaret outside. With no activity going on inside we were able to spend some time admiring its intricately ornate 16-meter dome.
After the short visit and lecture, we put our shoes back on and continued towards the carpet museum, our next stop, but not before the students had refilled on junk food as if they hadn't just left a whole breakfast buffet.
We walked past Sakina-Khanum Mosque built from red bricks in 1854. As the guide informed us, the
lady after whom the mosque is named had been a prominent woman in Quba, married to Abbasgulu Bakikhanov (1794 -1847) - an Azerbaijani writer, historian, journalist, linguist, poet and philosopher, descendant of the ruling Khanate of Baku and nephew of the last khan of Baku. It is an eye-catching building on the main road certainly warranting a few queries.
We finally made it to the carpet museum about three minutes away. Our presence was met with women hollering at one another which was translated to me as, 'there are guests here, there are guests here, come on down.'
It is said that carpets from Quba are among those that stand out among
Azerbaijani carpets. The room smelt of fresh wool and a few women were seated at looms; their fingers moving deftly as they intertwined different colors of yarn knot by knot which would become the full size, beautifully designed carpets we saw in the showroom. We were informed by our guide that in 2010, the traditional art of Azerbaijani carpet weaving was inscribed on the list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of the UNESCO.
As would be the case, our visit was the highlight of the day, or possibly the week, or in the history of the museum with my presence, as we noticed people coming out of their homes waiting for us to pass by, probably notified by others aware of our presence in the small town. The room was well lit with natural light and a vase of divine-smelling, freshly-cut, pink roses on a table exuding a special charm which I'm sure helped bring joy to the weavers hearts whenever they looked at them or had the opportunity to take a whiff. We took our time to look around and be shown the looms, the work, the wool and the wonders of the carpet museum. Our farewell was received with nostalgia and of course, a request to be immortalized digitally on phones equipped to do so.
A short two-minute walk further was the no-longer-operational, more like derelict hamam with its unique beehive-shaped dome made of brick. As abandoned buildings go, it had its fair share of overgrowth and garbage. Our guide lamented on the state of the place telling me that the government must do more to preserve places such as this one, which must have been of a certain prominence in its heyday. I couldn't agree with him more; having to go up and down rickety steps which might give way any moment and longing for a machete to cut my way through the overgrowth just to see the dome close-up, all the while being extra cautious not to fall through a hole and catapulted into despair.
We ended up spending about three-quarters of an hour at the hamam where there was not much to see except admire the ruins of a building of a certain historical significance that no one had taken the trouble to restore or maintain. As it turned out, my students became the RSPCA of Azerbaijan and took the time to free an abandoned, tied up, or possibly entangled stray dog. Their job was commendable as the dog could be heard whimpering in pain while they worked hard to free it. We all cheered as they proclaimed their task accomplished and we were free to head on.
Twenty-three pairs of footsteps, not counting the guide's, echoed down the ramp at the memorial erected to honor those massacred in a bout of ethnic cleansing. The mass grave containing the remains of 400 souls was discovered during renovation works of the stadium built on that site. The museum guide informed us that as a kid he had played at that stadium, unbeknownst to him or his teammates, on top of the remains of those whose lives had been so brutally and sadly taken away.
The walls of the walk down the ramp were adorned with framed pictures in black and white of well-known Azerbaijaini figures of eminence in politics as well as the arts.
The large, cold, silent hall was presided by a sleek black rectangular marble structure in the center, which we were informed represented the departed. Another group had come in behind us but they seemed to have breezed through the memorial as they left before us. The voices of the students echoed in the hollowness of the hall where more pictures were displayed. The solemnity of the place demanded more respect, regard and reverence, however, I think that at fourteen, with your hands clutching on firmly to the junk food you will be ingesting once the talk is over, none of that is on your mind, or your list of priorities, for that matter.
A blue, lined-book of condolences stood on a lectern where I scribbled a few words which were accompanied by a signature or two of some students. One had to be informed that a book of condolences is not where you sing praises to your new school, but I presume such lessons are yet to be learned.
The stark interior contrasted heavily with the greenness of the exterior in the early summer weather. The apple trees had started bearing fruit and the cypresses stood tall and erect in their thinness hoping to gain some volume with the passage of time. One could not help but think about the barbarity that took place at this site about a hundred years ago. As we walked to the actual remains of bones and skulls, the guide informed us that the perpetrators had specifically chosen this spot by the Gudyal River with the expectation that the river would gradually wash away all the remains, but alas! it was not to be. It stayed intact as a testimony and a lesson to future generations in the hope that such atrocities may not be repeated.
Viewing the chamber housing the remains concluded our tour - a lesson which the students would have retained at varying degrees. Personally, I hoped the retention would be high. Our guide asked me if I'd liked the mass grave. I would like to think he wanted to know if I appreciated the memorial for the dead.
'I don't think there is anything to like about a mass grave' I said to him. 'It is tragic, very sad.'
He agreed with me and I hope we understood each other. I couldn't say I liked it. I thought it was a good deed to honour the dead, but like...We walked back through the memorial garden, up the marble steps and on to our bus for lunch following the guide's directions.
Seating 24 people in a local restaurant without a reservation turned out much easier than I had
anticipated. A helpful student had informed me that the name of the restaurant was named after a typical Azerbaijaini dish. 'Shah Plov'. Plov, it turns out is not exclusive to Azerbaijan; Russia has its version as well. Hazel Plush, a travel writer for The Telegraph, described plov in one of her articles as "a greasy poor man's risotto of lamb, raisins, carrots and onion". I beg to differ on that note since none of the plovs I've had bore any resemblance to what she had described.
The presentation of the plov at this local restaurant was just as Tugay had described it. The rice and other ingredients are wrapped and cooked in lavash, a thin unleavened bread. The dish is then presented as if were a cake and sliced accordingly with the contents pouring out slowly, the waft and the vapour testifying to it provenance. Not everyone ate plov, but all ate to their hearts' content.
Thus, concluded the cultural tour of this city located in a fertile region of northeastern Azerbaijan in a best known for it forests as well as its production of apples and fine carpets, located at about 170 km from Baku.
We missed out on many other places planned for in the itinerary, however, the weather was a great deterrent. We missed the picnic in Nizami Park and only drove through Red Town on our way to dinner, where cows shared the road with vehicles as you would see in India.
'Miss, no one wants to go on the cultural tour' is how the morning started, to which I retorted, 'fine,
I had not prepared myself for that one, though I was ready, as group leader, for any other kind of emergency.
Shortly after, another messenger came by with the same message. No response, no discussion and no compromise. 'We are meeting at the agreed time and going on the cultural tour' was my sole declaration.
After the short visit and lecture, we put our shoes back on and continued towards the carpet museum, our next stop, but not before the students had refilled on junk food as if they hadn't just left a whole breakfast buffet.
We walked past Sakina-Khanum Mosque built from red bricks in 1854. As the guide informed us, the
We finally made it to the carpet museum about three minutes away. Our presence was met with women hollering at one another which was translated to me as, 'there are guests here, there are guests here, come on down.'
It is said that carpets from Quba are among those that stand out among
As would be the case, our visit was the highlight of the day, or possibly the week, or in the history of the museum with my presence, as we noticed people coming out of their homes waiting for us to pass by, probably notified by others aware of our presence in the small town. The room was well lit with natural light and a vase of divine-smelling, freshly-cut, pink roses on a table exuding a special charm which I'm sure helped bring joy to the weavers hearts whenever they looked at them or had the opportunity to take a whiff. We took our time to look around and be shown the looms, the work, the wool and the wonders of the carpet museum. Our farewell was received with nostalgia and of course, a request to be immortalized digitally on phones equipped to do so.
A short two-minute walk further was the no-longer-operational, more like derelict hamam with its unique beehive-shaped dome made of brick. As abandoned buildings go, it had its fair share of overgrowth and garbage. Our guide lamented on the state of the place telling me that the government must do more to preserve places such as this one, which must have been of a certain prominence in its heyday. I couldn't agree with him more; having to go up and down rickety steps which might give way any moment and longing for a machete to cut my way through the overgrowth just to see the dome close-up, all the while being extra cautious not to fall through a hole and catapulted into despair.
Twenty-three pairs of footsteps, not counting the guide's, echoed down the ramp at the memorial erected to honor those massacred in a bout of ethnic cleansing. The mass grave containing the remains of 400 souls was discovered during renovation works of the stadium built on that site. The museum guide informed us that as a kid he had played at that stadium, unbeknownst to him or his teammates, on top of the remains of those whose lives had been so brutally and sadly taken away.
The walls of the walk down the ramp were adorned with framed pictures in black and white of well-known Azerbaijaini figures of eminence in politics as well as the arts.
The large, cold, silent hall was presided by a sleek black rectangular marble structure in the center, which we were informed represented the departed. Another group had come in behind us but they seemed to have breezed through the memorial as they left before us. The voices of the students echoed in the hollowness of the hall where more pictures were displayed. The solemnity of the place demanded more respect, regard and reverence, however, I think that at fourteen, with your hands clutching on firmly to the junk food you will be ingesting once the talk is over, none of that is on your mind, or your list of priorities, for that matter.
A blue, lined-book of condolences stood on a lectern where I scribbled a few words which were accompanied by a signature or two of some students. One had to be informed that a book of condolences is not where you sing praises to your new school, but I presume such lessons are yet to be learned.
Viewing the chamber housing the remains concluded our tour - a lesson which the students would have retained at varying degrees. Personally, I hoped the retention would be high. Our guide asked me if I'd liked the mass grave. I would like to think he wanted to know if I appreciated the memorial for the dead.
'I don't think there is anything to like about a mass grave' I said to him. 'It is tragic, very sad.'
He agreed with me and I hope we understood each other. I couldn't say I liked it. I thought it was a good deed to honour the dead, but like...We walked back through the memorial garden, up the marble steps and on to our bus for lunch following the guide's directions.
Seating 24 people in a local restaurant without a reservation turned out much easier than I had
The presentation of the plov at this local restaurant was just as Tugay had described it. The rice and other ingredients are wrapped and cooked in lavash, a thin unleavened bread. The dish is then presented as if were a cake and sliced accordingly with the contents pouring out slowly, the waft and the vapour testifying to it provenance. Not everyone ate plov, but all ate to their hearts' content.
Thus, concluded the cultural tour of this city located in a fertile region of northeastern Azerbaijan in a best known for it forests as well as its production of apples and fine carpets, located at about 170 km from Baku.We missed out on many other places planned for in the itinerary, however, the weather was a great deterrent. We missed the picnic in Nizami Park and only drove through Red Town on our way to dinner, where cows shared the road with vehicles as you would see in India.
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