#gpoytw

My sister recently decided she is obsessed with going to Azerbaijan on a Fulbright scholarship after she finishes college. 

I know, I know, don't ask - obscure travel cravings run in my family, it would seem. 

Anyhow, her slew of emails and blog posts related to all things Azeri inspired me to look back at my own trip to Azerbaijan in the summer of 2008.

Overlooking the Caspian Sea in Baku, Azerbaijan's capital.

It was a different time, that era of my life in Dubai a few years ago - a time when my flatmate Eric and I used to sit down at our dining room table every Wednesday night, split a bottle of wine and scour the websites of various developing-world airlines for flight deals, vociferously debating the pros and cons of Eritrea versus Krygyzstan as a weekend getaway. More often than not, we would find ourselves bleary-eyed at 2 AM, having purchased tickets to a destination that prompted the response "You're going where? ... Why?" when we triumphantly announced our travel plans to colleagues at work the next day. 

While it was a great era, it is not one I'd necessarily want to go back to. Because let's be honest - while awesome, those trips (and, uh my life at that time) were always something of... well, a clusterf*ck.

Take our trip to Azerbaijan. 

For starters, our ghett-tastic flight left at the ridiculous hour of 3:30 AM. Packing in the middle of the night in our darkened apartment on no sleep, I took this as an opportunity to show off my supreme lack of coordination and run into a door, giving me a sweet shiner to show off for the rest of the weekend.

One ices these kinds of injuries in the taxi en route to the airport, obviously.

We arrived in Baku at o'dark hundred, found a hotel, slept for a few hours and then headed out the next morning to explore the capital's touristic delights - like... really creepy / depressing post-Soviet artwork at the Azerbaijan State Museum of History.

This kind of art should not be inflicted upon people who already have a headache due to their black eye.

After that, we stopped by Azerbaijan's "Election" Information Centre to learn a bit more about the glories of post-Soviet democracy.

Really, guys? You're holding "elections" this year? [Wink wink, nudge nudge!] Can't we at least pretend there is a viable democratic process somewhere in the CIS?

Then we got bored with doing earnest touristy things and we went out for drinks, where we met and summarily befriended members of Azerbaijan's men's junior national wrestling team.

I don't think I need to tell you that the evening only went downhill from there.

The next morning, through the fog of our hangover, we decided it was a good idea to find a driver to take us to the allegedly picturesque (damn you, Lonely Planet!) mountaintop village of Xinaliq, about five hours outside Baku.

The village of Xinaliq, in all its glory. I think as a general rule, one should try to avoid such phonetically challenging locations whilst hungover. You live, you learn.

As it turned out, not only was Xinaliq neither picturesque nor touristy in the least, there was also nothing there. Not a shop, not a restaurant, and nary an English-speaker person in sight. When we finally happened upon a lone villager walking down the road dirt path, our driver translated and told him that the foreigners were hungry (oh! so hungover and hungry!), at which point the villager offered to slaughter a goat for us for the bargain price of 100 euros... which I'm pretty sure is higher than the entire annual GDP of this region of Azerbaijan.

We thanked him but politely declined, deciding instead to head back towards Baku and "civilization." Along the way, we happened upon a roadside cafe - an Azeri truck stop, of sorts - where we had a lunch of grilled meat, fresh tomatoes, pillowy bread, and... beer and vodka, as encouraged by our Azeri driver. (Hey, when in Rome...)

Please note the ongoing wonky eye.

From our perspective, the rest of the afternoon looked more or less like this:

OH HAY Y'ALL JUST POSIN' WITH A SWEET LADA! [Falls over.]

Then we saw a roadside farmers' stand, and we remembered how good our lunchtime tomatoes had been, and how rare it is to find nice produce in Dubai... and the next thing we knew, we had decided to import 40 pounds of tomatoes back to the UAE. (File under: things that seemed like a good idea at the time after sharing a liter of Azeri vodka.)

Vine-ripened tomatoes and banged-up Louis Vuitton... essentials for the seasoned traveler.

Somehow, we arrived back in Dubai in the middle of the night with our precious cargo (somewhat) intact. And as we rocked up to our apartment sometime around 4 AM, crates of crushed Azeri tomatoes in tow, Eric looked at me with contrition in his eyes and lamented, "Gubbi... only a drunk person would think this was a good idea."

The bounty of our international harvest.

So there, I've laid out a travel challenge for my baby sister: she can go to Azerbaijan, oh yes.

But she can't say I didn't warn her about the hijinx...

(July 2008 in Baku and Xinaliq, Azerbaijan.)

Ever since I posted this photo of me in Albania back in 2005, I have been the subject of incessant sartorial mocking from Alex and our friend Amy (my #1 and #2 blog readers, respectively).

"That strappy Limited tank top - it's so 10th grade!" howled Amy, the former New York fashion buyer. "The rolled-up jeans and Asics - all you're missing is a fanny pack!" lamented Alex, his aversion to unfortunate American travel "style" well-honed during a childhood spent amongst snooty foreigners.  

The unifying element in their respective critiques, however, was the belt: why was I wearing a belt? Not a cool, fashion-y, Michelle Obama cinched-over-the-cardigan belt, mind you, but just a no-nonsense, hold-up-your-pants belt. 

This seemed to mystify them, because apparently, belts are not cool. To hear Alex talk, in fact, belts are not even worn by women on a regular basis. I was slightly mystified, too, because it's not like I go to the closet and reach for a belt every morning in my day-to-day life. In search of an answer, I started clicking through my travel photo archives, only to find... belt... after belt... after belt?!

The belt was a travel standby in the old days, for sure:

Jesi, Italy in 2005... belted! (Also featuring sweet rolled-up jeans.)

But apparently the belt has persisted in my more recent travels, even since moving to Dubai:

Muscat, Oman in 2008... belted!

Kuwait City, Kuwait in 2008... belted!

Aleppo, Syria in 2008... belted!

Murchinson Falls, Uganda in 2009... belted!

Locked, loaded, belted - in almost every trip I have on record! And yet when I look at non-travel pictures from the same era, there's nary a belt to be found. So what I am left to infer is that the belt is some kind of subconscious travel-clothing security blanket, an assurance that no matter where in the world I am or what kind of crazy adventures await me - well, my pants? They're stayin' right where they are.

If we're being honest, my ongoing weight gain since moving abroad serves to accomplish the same thing. But carrying an extra ten pounds around my waist doesn't sound nearly as cool as being... belted!

And for my sartorial critics' benefit, one last shot of Ultimate Gubbi Travel Fashion (TM). While the belt here is obscured, the photo features my iconic rolled jeans look and members of the Ethiopian men's national basketball team, which I know will irk Alex on a number of levels. (WIN!)

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia in 2007... rolled!

One year ago today - well, okay, 367 days to be exact - two of Alex's best friends, M&B, got married to each other in the Maldives. (And no, they weren't that couple.) I figured their anniversary, along with the fact that our Dubai friends J&A are headed to the Maldives for Easter weekend (AND LEAVING THEIR PUPPY WITH US! ... but more on that later), is reason enough to bring back GPOYTW. 

View on the speedboat ride from Male airport.

In a word, the Maldives is the most spectacular place I have ever been in my life. Okay, that's eleven words... but still. It's a place that has to be seen to be believed, and if you ever, ever, eeeeeeeeever have a chance to go, I recommend you grab the opportunity with a white-knuckle grip and hold on to that mother-effer like your life depends on it. (It probably does.)

Headed to the wedding ceremony.

Of course, it's easy for me to recommend you go there, given it's only a 4-hour flight from Dubai and the couple getting married graciously covered part of the guests' stay. In which case I guess what I really recommend is for you to move somewhere within the greater Indian Ocean region and find a partner who happens to have incredibly generous friends... which I realize is no small order. But it's still probably easier than traveling 20 hours from North America / Europe and footing the bill yourself, so I stand by it.

Awaiting the champagne toast post-ceremony. I die. 

Beachside reception area... HOW CAN ANYONE GET MARRIED ANYWHERE ELSE AFTER THIS WITHOUT HANGING THEIR HEAD IN SHAME? (Also, note the shisha. Alwaaaaaaays the shisha with Alex's friends.)

Newlyweds in the infinity pool as a thunderstorm rolls in.

So to M&B, happy anniversary. To J&A, bon voyage. And to the travel and friendship gods that conspired to let us spend 72 hours in this little slice of paradise last year... thanks, dudes.

(April 2010 at Taj Exotica Resort & Spa in the Maldives.)

I heart Ukraine! (No, really...)

A couple weeks ago, I GPOYTW'ed about my bizarre spring break of 2006, when I traveled to the totally normal party-holiday destination triumverate of South Korea, Japan, and Ukraine. So I figured, as a break from Indian-wedding-blogging (of which there is much more to come), I'd post about the other destinations from that trip as well.

Here's something you guys should know about me: I really, really love Eastern Europe. In fact, let's broaden that to include anything that was behind the Soviet-dominated part of the Iron Curtain (i.e. NOT CHINA, which I DO NOT LOVE), because Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Kazakhstan were all super awesome trips as well and they're not part of Eastern Europe on anyone's map.

So anyhow. There's just something about post-communist Eurasia (better?!) that I adore. The crumbling 1970s infrastructure, the cold grey mornings, the cabbage and potatoes and dumplings, the excessive consumption of hard liquor (often during daylight hours), the surly, take-no-shit people... my infatuation is totally inexplicable, I know, but it is what it is. 

Which is how I ended up in Ukraine with my good friend Lar, who shares this bizarre love, on our spring break from grad school in London.

We happened to be there during the first national elections since the 2005 Orange Revolution, so there was ample opportunity for Ukrainian patriotism (see above) and electioneering (see below). 

With a one of the many life-sized cutouts of candidates that dotted Kiev. 

Beyond elections, the trip also included a lot of the typical high points of any visit to Eastern Europe, such as contemplating state suppression of religion under authoritarian rule (note artillery in foreground and church spires in background)...

... playing with Kalashnikovs (in this case fake, though you wouldn't know it from the guy's attentive expression) ...

... and (uh, maybe drunkenly) feeding feral cats which then tried to attack me, causing me to flee (pictured here).

Note that I am wearing the exact same coat-scarf-gloves combo in every picture from the 5-day trip. Eastern Europe is awesome, but that shit is cold, even in March. 

(March 2006 in Kiev, Ukraine)

We interrupt this week's coverage of My Boyfriend's Best Friend's Big Fat Indian Wedding to bring you... a GPOYTW featuring My Boyfriend's Best Friend's Big Fat Indian Wedding!

Specifically, let's discuss my white-girl failures at the proper application and wearing of henna, which is applied to the bride and her girlfriends at the mehndi ceremony the day before the wedding celebration.

It all went smoothly in the beginning, glass of sangria by my side, as one of the henna-ladies painted my hands with what looked like a frosting tube filled with thick, brown, gooey dye.

Finished product!

Dangerously - think post-manicure wet nails times a thousand degrees of finesse and risk - you have to hold your hands up in the air completely immobile for about 30 minutes while the thick brown paste-like stuff dries, at which point you rub it off to reveal the orange-stained designs that are left underneath.

Of course, as soon as I got two steps away from the table I promptly forgot about the drying process and lowered my hands to pick up my drink (what?!), thereby smacking the top couple inches of henna with the bangles I had been adorned with upon arrival and necessitating a minor major touch-up.

In the end though, I survived (another) 30 minutes of immobility, and the finished product was a fitting addition to my over-accessorized wedding ensemble the next day. 

When in Rome...

(November 2010 in Delhi, India)

In light of, you know, recent geopolitical developments, I figured I would revisit my trip to the front lines of the Korean conflict for this week's GPOYTW. 

Back in 2006, my good friends Mel and Jules and I met up to spend a week traveling around South Korea during my month-long Easter break from grad school. Given our shared nerdy-Georgetown-IR past, we of course had to do the requisite tour of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) that separates North and South Korea - because, you know, nothing says "WOOHOO SPRING BREAK PARTY ON!!!" like a day-trip to the last great frontier of the Cold War, which also happens to be one of the most heavily militarized areas on earth.

(Although come to think if it, I spent the rest of that spring break on a snow-covered, vodka-soaked trip around Ukraine during their heavily contested presidential elections, and then on a week-long senior citizens' tour through the temples of Japan with several dozen elderly Japanese Buddhists... so maybe the DMZ was the most "normal" of my "vacation" activities that year.)

Anyhow, here we are at an overlook point with binoculars trained on North Korea. I'm not exactly sure why Mel and Jules are wearing midriff-bearing tops for the occasion (oh, as a trio we've made some questionable fashion choices in our day), but I am pleased that we're at least posing in correct racial order (blonde girl + Asian girl --> halfie in the middle). 

This meeting room in the border town of Panmunjom officially marks the frontier - the door on one side is guarded by a ROK (South Korean) soldier, pictured here, and the door on the other side is guarded by a DPRK (North Korean) soldier. The official border actually runs across the negotiating table in the center of the room, but just for "fun" you can walk past the table and onto the North Korean side - as long as you don't walk behind the DPRK soldier, which is presumed to signal that you've decided to defect to North Korea. (I may or may not have gotten caught up in a whirlwind of picture-taking and accidentally come very close to doing this - there but for the grace of Mel pulling me aside is this blog called "Gubbi of Arabia" and not "Gubbi Loves the Dear Leader!")

As touristy as the whole DMZ experience was, there was also a very palpable sense of tension and gravity to the place, and that was at a time when relations between the two Koreas were experiencing a relative thaw. So here's to the Korean people, on both sides, and here's hoping that cooler heads prevail...

(March 2006 in the Korean Demilitarized Zone)

GPOYTW*: "The Least Interesting Travel Photo I Will Ever Post" Edition.

(Fittingly posted a day late because the internet crapped out in my hotel last night when the generator shut off.)

So, this is me today. Touring a groundnut oil production factory in Kano, northern Nigeria. Are you bored yet? 

How about now?! 

Now?!

I feel sort of guilty that I have so few exciting photos to post from a supposedly badass destination like Nigeria ... but there's only so sexy you can make downstream value-added agricultural processing sound.

I guess there's probably some kind of dirty joke to be made with "groundnuts"... maybe?

That's all I have.

(November 2010 in Kano, Nigeria)