Good luck

‘Good luck’: that’s how the last Georgian road sign introduced its neighbor, 1000 meters after I passed a sign preparing us for the Azerbaijanian border. I expected that going east, countries would be found poorer and poorer, and that this process would continue until one reached Japan. Coming from Tbilisi this process accelerated tremendously, so I did not even consider this possibly changing in Azerbaijan. But hey, what did I know about Azerbaijan anyway? I knew nothing.


So how foolish had I been expecting them to stick to my assumptions? How different it turned out to be:

For fifteen minutes, the Azerbaijanian border guard had scrutinized my passport, questioning me about my visit to Armenia before I hitched a ride with an old couple who dropped me off at the first bus station. Immediately it became clear to me: here the money of the Caucasus is spent, streaming as black gold through rusty pipes straight from the Caspian sea, polluting the ground and flourishing parks. It seems exceptionally well arranged, as long as you stay on the main routes within the fences; something I, of course, did not.

Just after my second hitch left me in the picturesque village of Kachekh, I walked down the pavement until my attention was attracted by a few tea drinking fellows. The band of locals asks me whether or not I drink vodka, what I can still prevent to do at that point, and if I lack food.
“I still have some bread and jam”, I tell them the truth.
Before I can blink my eyes one of them collects money among the others and together we enter the neighboring shop. Soon after, I leave with a bag full of cucumbers, tomatoes, bottled water, bread, and a bucket of yoghurt. During the meal one of them proposes that I set up my tent on the field in front of his barbershop, surrounded by a fence against the wolves.

While I fold out my tent, Gansig joins the group of man inspecting how I’m preparing a place to sleep. It doesn’t take time before he says to his friends:
“He can stay at mine.”
I repack my bag. Four of us take a seat in a Lada, which drives us through idyllic lanes to his property. Halfway the driver asks me in Russian: “How do you say ‘Я тебя люблю’ in Dutch?”
“I love you”, I answer, after which he turns his face to the back of the car, sticks out his right hand to one of his friends and shouts: “Ey lave yoo!”
“Watch out!”, his friend answers his empathism brutally; within a hair’s breadth we missed a cow, which had peacefully been grazing the asphalt.

Good Luck!