azerbaijan
Two weeks in May 2025 with a borrowed red Niva: Baku arriving as a bay of lights, the mud volcanoes at Gobustan, a hillside that has been on fire longer than anyone's grandmother remembers. I rode standing on a GAZ bed up to Xinaliq and spent the last morning looking for a radio museum that does not appear to exist. At gate six the same form got printed in the other direction, and that was that.
15 entries, newest first.
2025
Gate Six
· Two weeks later: the borrowed Niva handed back washed, the same form printed in the other direction, and a night that belongs to the airline.
The museum that is not there
· A last morning in Baku spent looking for a collection of radio equipment that does not appear to exist, and an afternoon of coins in an oil merchant's palace instead.
The Roof at the Pass
· Last day in the Caucasus: shepherds' picnic, a saddled horse, dogs off duty, and one red roof used as a sun deck.
Primroses, Mostly
· A flowering slope after the passes: one hour flat in the meadow with the season, dressed for the occasion, which required little.
Above Xinaliq
· One of Europe's highest villages from the rocks above: stone roofs, snow ridges, and air with edit privileges.
The Truck to Xinaliq
· Standing room on a GAZ bed with the whole village delivery run: dust, grins, and the best public transport in the Caucasus.
The Bridge That Swings
· A cable footbridge over a wide stony river: plank arithmetic, a swinging horizon, and one wind-blown selfie tax.
The Bus Stop Mosaic
· A concrete pavilion with a folk mosaic and no bus due: waiting as an art form, notebook open.
Back for the Flames
· A second evening at the burning hill, alone with the whole seam: repetition as a research method.
The Hill That Burns
· Yanar Dag at dusk: a slope that has been on fire longer than anyone's grandmother remembers, and a hand held to the planet's pilot light.
ДС-158
· An abandoned asphalt plant with its type plate still legible: industrial ruins as regional literature.
Mud, All of It
· Gobustan's breathing ground: a crater of grey clay, one researcher fully committed to the material, and no laundry plan.
Baku, First Night
· Two hours over the Caspian, a borrowed red Niva at the airport, and a bay of lights introducing the city all at once.
Manas at Three
· An almost empty hall, the tripod wedged between two rows of blue seats, and the odd cheerfulness that only a night departure produces.
The Only Way In
· Land borders closed, so the trip begins at a counter in Manas at two in the morning, with a paper stub and a field nobody has needed since 1998.