New friends at Qax

by James Overton

The old Mercedes bus, rusting and lopsided, swerves to avoid potholes and wandering sheep, the driver peering through the cracked windscreen. Jim dozes half asleep. Bluebirds known as "Bul-bul perch on the telegraph line running alongside the road. I wish I had brought a bird book, he thinks. He pulls out his note book and sketches the bird for later identification, the drawing wobbly because of the motion of the bus.
Numerous sheep are grazing along the verge of the road, each group of animals minded over by a stick-wielding shepherd, grizzled faces clad in worn remnants of suits and broken shoes. The road is lined with regularly planted beech and fir trees. In the distance heavy cloud hides the green foothills of the Caucasus. Up along the mountain crest runs the northern border of Azrbaijan. Russia is beyond. Abandoned industrial buildings, bearing fading Soviet slogans stand gathering weeds along the plain.
From time to time, the bus stops to pick up people, an old man gets off, some women get on. After a couple of hours, the bus trundles into Qax bus station (Avtôbusvaksal), an untidy yard fenced off by a line of stalls selling snacks and bottles. Slinging his backpack, Jim strolls uphill along the central street of the town, Azerbaijan Ulitsa. It is a narrow road lined on both sides with fir and beech trees. Rainwater flows down narrow open culverts running along both sides. Wooden columns support extensive glazed verandas, the houses extending behind. The tall verandas are panelled and as it is warm, some of the windows are open. The sun sparkles on the glass.
Jim stops to take photographs of the old houses . Watching, a friendly shopkeeper standing in the road calls "Hello! and beckons him over. Approaching, the smiling shopkeeper asks Jim if he speaks Russian. Struggling to make himself understood in his very limited Russian, Ben asks if there is anyone in the town willing to provide a home-stay for one night. After a moment the young shopkeeper understands. His face lights up and he calls across the street where a man sits in his veranda, smoking and observing the comings and goings of the street. After a brief shouted conversation Jim is asked: "How much do you want to pay?
"Two maybe three shirvan replies Jim, perhaps including lunch, he suggests tentatively. Signalling encouragement the shopkeeper beckons Jim across the road. They climb a tall staircase, remnants of an ancient coat of yellow paint are on the risers. Jim is introduced to Muhammad, greying hair cut en brosse, moustache, a friendly lined face, who welcomes both into the veranda. Taking his shoes off, the shopkeeper signals to Jim to do the same. Indicating to his visitors that they sit down at the table, Muhammad brings glasses of tea.
The veranda is high and bathed in a golden glow through the yellow curtains which hang along the windows overlooking the street. Jim drinks the tea with his new friends, adding sugar and slices of bitter orange.
"The house is over a hundred and twenty years old Muhammad tells him, and leads him around. It proves to be a cool and spacious house with high ceilings. Another veranda at the back provides a view of the tree covered mountains and over a small garden planted with cherry trees and a vine covered terrace. The bedrooms are sparse and without any of the clutter you find at home. Carpets are nailed to the walls to provide insulation. The floor boards are bare. Muhammad points to an old photo on the wall: "my grandfather he states, indicating the portrait of a moustached man in a tall fur hat. He was in the red army which took over Azerbaijan in the 1920's. He inherited this house from his own parents. When Stalin came to power, he was accused of being against the government. Muhammad demonstrates a machine gun gesture to indicate what happened next. "They took him away and shot him. Struggling to follow Muhammad's Russian, Jim nods. "Then the government too over the house and it became the town post office. But since two years there has been a new post office here. I was able to prove the house belonged to my family, and came back here. It's a very big house. Too big for a single man living here Muhammad showed Jim around. The rooms on the ground floor are empty, a few official chairs and posters remain from its previous use.
Soon there is more tea, while Muhammad prepares lunch. Watan: (this is the shopkeeper's name), takes time out from his store to sit with them. Looking at Jim's guide book, he indicates that the nearby village of Ilisiu may be worth visiting. Watan nods. "After lunch he says and returns to his pitch outside the little grocery shop, where he stands in his new grey suit, hands behind his back, hoping a customer will come in.
Lunch ,("Abed)arrives, consisting of vine leaves stuffed with rice ("Dolma). Jim hasn't eaten since tea that morning and eats the dolmas with an Azeri salad: dill, parsley and spring onions eaten by the handful with a little salt.
After a while, Watan's young wife arrives in the street below to take over the shop and he climbs the stairs to invite Jim on a drive to Ilisiu. The trip is in Watan's car, an old orange rear-engined "Zaprozhets with Georgian number plates. After taking places in the wobbly seats Ben and Muhammad laugh as the engine splutters into life on Watan's complex starting procedure which involves fiddling with a wire against the dashboard and pumping the throttle and muttering prayers. His driving style is adapted to the car which emits a dangerous squeal it is turned to the right and a noise of grinding metal when he applies the brakes. "We need to get fuel he says and Jim indicates he will contribute money for this. At the petrol station, Jim watches with interest as Watan fills the "tank, a plastic 5 litre bottle in the back held by a wire to the car body. When the can is full, he presses the fuel pipe into a hole in the plastic top. Before driving off he stops at a stand on the other side of the street where an array of recycled drinks bottles containing engine oil is on sale. The oil man pours black oil into the smoking engine. Soon they are ready and Watan drives the rattling vehicle up a road leading away from town towards the mountains. "Over there is Russia, Dagestan says Muhammad, pointing at the mist-shrouded heights. They cross a wide rock strewn riverbank on a narrow and uneven concrete bridge. Upriver stands the old arched pack-horse bridge. Jim asks to stop and take a photograph. Ten kilometres later they arrive in Ilisiu village. Big houses built of grey limestone hug the hillside. Some have oriental pointed doorways. Small Arabic inscriptions on tiles decorate some walls. In a wood above the village, stiles open the way onto a footpath towards some dark and mysterious ruins.
In the centre of the village where Jim is taking photos, a youngster on horseback in Wellingtons and sitting on a folded blanket canters uphill laughing, waving reins made of string.

(to be continued)