An Azeri Misunderstanding

My trip to Baku to visit a pal who works there was rather eventless until I met Colonel Godunov, the source of one of my worst ‘why ever am I here? ’ moments.
Col. Godunov, who is Russian, ‘I was VERY senior in KGB but after misunderstanding I now live outside Russia’, was the head of the local civil defence authority. My pal’s company had recently won a contract to work with them and the Colonel wished to thank him, his colleagues and their wives. It was to be dinner, we were told, and being in town I was invited along too.

About twenty of us, with partners or wives, were mini-bussed up into the hills behind Baku where we enjoyed a rustic meal, more caviar than I’d ever seen, more pomegranates than I ever want to see again, lots of booze, and a great view of the city lights in the distance . A generous gesture from the Colonel we all agreed. As we piled into the minibuses for the trip back to town, the Colonel announced he was taking us ‘somewhere else’ – we assumed a view point or possibly a place for coffee. Not quite right.
A tortuous drive on bendy roads with no crash barrier and few lights on other vehicles took us to a place that looked like the hall in my mother’s village. No bring and buy sales here ‘though – well not exactly anyway. The Colonel ushered us all – women included -into the hall. It was a brightly lit room about the size of a tennis court. There were eight or ten doors leading off the hall and on a stool by each door sat a blonde woman. It was the Colonel’s real thank you – he had set up a brothel for us. A pop-up knocking shop. “Enjoy it” he instructed.
The reaction of our happy and now oddly sobered-up band was mixed. A few giggles, some rapid intakes of breath, one scream of horror but mainly silence. As one we shuffled back out into the yard. The Colonel was enraged – he had completely lost face and had no idea why. He disappeared.

The buses had gone – we were stuck at midnight in the middle of nowhere with ten Russian hookers. The journey down to Baku via walking and flagging down cars seemed to take hours. The next day my friend who was the Colonel’s main contact was subject to telephonic abuse that varied from the threat of the contract being pulled, the anti corruption police being informed ( dodgy territory for the Colonel I think ), the boys being sent round and all our visas being cancelled. None of these actually happened of course and finally the Colonel offered an apology for his ‘cultural faux pas.’

Oddly every Russian and Azerbaijani to whom I have told the story has been appalled by it and the word most generally applied to the Colonel is ‘дурак’ – best translated as ‘idiot’.