Zaqatala

I arrive in Zaqatala with 15 manat left. I find a share bed for 5 manat, leaving me with 10 manat to reach Georgia. Next to the hotel I stay is the local mosque, the following day is the holiday of Eid/Bayram. I want to go to the mosque during the holiday, so go out as soon as I find a bed for the night to see if it’s feasible.

Mosque in Zaqatala, Azerbaijan.

Attached to the mosque is an Islamic school where I meet a fellow by the name of Mohammed (what are the odds?) and we get into a long discussion about the existence of god and the purpose of faith. I tell him about how little manat I have left, he tells me that it’s no problem, the following day is Eid and Allah will take care of me. He invites me into his house for the night and tells me he’ll feed me and give me any money that I lack to get to Georgia.  I’ve already prepaid my accommodation so I agree to meet him the following day at the mosque.

Strolling around in the evening after Mohammed and I part ways, I’m drawn to the WWII memorial.

Next to the run-down memorial is a run-down looking cafe. The sun has almost set, it’s dark and a couple of rough-looking guys invite me to join them. One of them, covered in tattoos and with the appearance of someone who’s done time and been in a lot of fights introduces himself as Raphik. Our discussions gets to the story of how the guard on my train tried to plant heroin on me to have me busted by Kazakh soldiers for drug trafficking.

From there Raphik tells me other tricks that they could have pulled (concealing heroin in their hand, reaching into my pocket and pulling it out or distracting me and planting it in my bag) and I become a little apprehensive trying to figure out who I’ve gotten myself involved with. He goes on to tell me about some of the things that went on in Russia during the bandit times (after the fall of the USSR) and mentions that he was in Moscow for quite some time in that period. I don’t ask whether or not he participated in the stories he tells.

I tell him about my encounter with Mohammed and how he said Allah will take care of everything at which point Raphik’s expression turns completely serious.

Raphik: This person you just met told you Allah will get you to Georgia without any problems. Do you really trust someone you just met when they tell you things like this?

Me: Yes, I can see that he believes in it so much that I believe in it also.

Raphik: Follow me.

It’s late in the evening, the streets in Zaqatala are unlit. Raphik is covered in tattoos and has a few scars from street fights. He’s told me a few stories of fights he’s been in. I don’t even hesitate when I get up and follow him into the dark streets. As we walk, Raphik ignores all the “normal looking” characters and gives a greeting to the “rough looking” ones. He quickens his pace and I follow. We stop at a house, he looks up and down the street, opens the gate and says I should go inside. Would you have followed him?

I go inside the house to meet Raphik’s family, his wife and son, older brother with wife and son and also his parents. They’re in the the middle of dinner when we arrive. Raphik retells the story of how we met, of my travels and of what Mohammed had told me. Raphik’s father tells me that he would never follow someone like Raphik if they asked him to follow them, which is why he could never travel like I have.

We eat dinner for the next hour and in the process, I realise just how little money the family has. Raphik long ago stopped his life of crime to raise a son with his wife. His outward appearance still puts people off meeting him. His generosity is unimaginable back home, but completely typical in Azerbaijan. After we finish eating, I offer the last of my money to Raphik for his generosity, he tells me to put the money away before I upset him, that Mohammed was right, Allah will look after me and that I should go to mosque the following morning.

The following morning, given the lack of shower in the share room, I cleanse myself in the sink of the bathroom, put on the last change of clean clothes I have and head to mosque. Mohammed is nowhere to be found, I walk around for a bit, come back and find the mosque is now open, I go inside to find what I estimate to be several hundred men listening to the imam. I do likewise, praying as the people around me do.

After the final prayer as I’m walking away from the mosque to my room to grab my bag, one of the men outside the mosque who saw me the previous day talking to Mohammed tells me that I’m not leaving without sharing breakfast with them and points me in the direction of the cafeteria.

During breakfast, I find Mohammed, serving tea and breakfast to everyone present, when he sees me, he smiles and tells me that he knew that we’d meet here. Allah is looking after you Ivan, I still remember those words.

During breakfast, I meet some of the other students of the school who let me know that since Mohammed’s father died, both he and his mother have to spend every spare minute working in order to put food on the table, a fact that I’d been oblivious to. How can one man be so poor and yet offer everything he has to a complete stranger he’d met the day before? I have such an amazing respect for my friend.

I parted ways eventually with my humble friend and made it to the border of Azerbaijan for a grand total of two manat, leaving me with another eight. I show my Russian passport on the Azeri side of the border, this border guard, rather than try and extract a bribe quizzes me extensively about life in Australia and whether it’s possible to get work there. His colleague joins me and I give them advice on how to apply for a working visa to Australia, they wish me well in Georgia and I wish them happy festivities.

At the Georgian border, I show my Australian passport, laugh at the fact that their passport scanning machine has a sticker saying Department of Homeland Security and give a solid thankyou when they say “Gamar Joba, Welcome to Georgia!”.

Just as Mohammed said, Allah got me to Georgia…