3 Azerbaijan as a country

The toilet was located outside, which made me wonder how the family manages during the harsh winter months when temperatures drop dramatically. It’s these small glimpses into daily life that remind you of the resilience and adaptability of people living in such remote mountain villages.

Being almost two meters tall, I found it quite a challenge to fit comfortably inside the outdoor toilet, which was a typical Muslim-style squat facility. It was a humbling reminder of how everyday necessities vary widely across cultures—and how adaptability becomes part of the experience when living in remote places like this.

Interestingly, even in this small village of around 2,000 residents, education remains a vital part of community life. The R. Kalbiyev Khinalug Village Secondary School, established in 1926, now serves 312 students, offering education through the secondary level.   In addition, a boarding school built in 2008 accommodates up to 300 students, with dormitories for about 50 youngsters, alongside facilities such as a sports hall and a medical office. What makes this school truly unique is its commitment to preserving the local Khinalug language — taught as a mother tongue in the early grades (1–4) through a specially developed curriculum. This dedication reflects the village’s strong desire to maintain its linguistic and cultural heritage amid a rapidly changing world.

 

Asrikdzhirdakhan (Əsrik Cırdaxan )

About 35 kilometers from Tovuz lies the picturesque village of Əsrik Cırdaxan, nestled close to the Armenian border in a region marked by both natural beauty and historical tension. Though peaceful today, this village witnessed intense fighting between July 12 and 16, 2020—one of the most serious border clashes since 2016, occurring far from the more well-known Nagorno-Qarabağ conflict zone. The hostilities caused damage to over 35 homes and disrupted essential services like gas, electricity, and community infrastructure. Visiting such a place, where the landscape speaks of resilience as much as it does of hardship, leaves a lasting impression—one that goes beyond headlines and statistics.

The threat did not end in July; artillery shelling and skirmishes continued later that year, casting a long shadow over the region. Today, memorial boards honoring fallen soldiers line the roadside — quiet sentinels of remembrance that mark the cost of conflict. As you drive through the serene and scenic village of Əsrik Cırdaxan, it’s almost impossible to reconcile its present calm with the violence it once endured. The road now feels untouched by war: buses stop to collect waiting passengers, and stray dogs lounge peacefully in the sun. Life has returned, slowly and steadfastly — a quiet testament to the resilience of those who call this place home.

Shamakhi

On our way to Gabala, we paused to take in the beauty of another remarkable place: Shamakhi, located about 122 kilometers west of Baku. As one of Azerbaijan’s oldest cities, dating back to the 6th century, Shamakhi is steeped in history — but it was a lesser-known feature that truly captured our imagination. Nestled in the Greater Caucasus Mountains are the shepherds’ caves, natural rock shelters that speak to centuries of seasonal migration and survival. For generations, local shepherds brought their flocks to these highlands during the summer months, using the caves as protection against harsh weather and predators. Perched on steep cliffs, the caves not only provided shelter but also a strategic view of the surrounding terrain. Today, they stand silent yet powerful — enduring reminders of a pastoral way of life that helped shape the cultural identity of the region. While they may not appear in glossy travel brochures, the shepherds’ caves offer a raw, authentic encounter with Azerbaijan’s living heritage and the quiet resilience of its people.

 

 

Hövsan (also spelled Hovsan/Govsan) is no longer considered a traditional village. It is now classified as an urban-type settlement (or municipality) within the Surakhany District of Baku, Azerbaijan. The first impression is difficult to put into words. Somehow, it is slightly different from other villages. Here you will find animals being slaughtered on the sidewalk, which I have not noticed in the few other villages I have visited. Raw chicken meat is being displayed in crates on the pavement, ready to be sold to customers walking by, as well as fish. Coming from a strict food safety culture and teaching this to eager students, it is often difficult to accept that people do not get sick from these procedures, or that no one ever discusses it. After a while, as the days go by, I realised that you can almost find anything in this village. There is a mall, however, not in the same terms as what you would find in a city.

Lekit Village (Qax rayonu)

On our way to Qax, we passed several small villages nestled in dense, lush greenery. Regrettably, we didn’t take the time to stop and explore these inviting landscapes. Still, I noted down a few village names to research later. One that stood out was Lekit.

According to my sources, Lekit is home to Api Delta, a renowned family-run beekeeping farm founded by Badraddin Hasratov, a former shepherd, and now operated with his sons—true masters in the world of apiculture. What began as a modest family pursuit has blossomed into a thriving operation of over 300 bee colonies. Their colorful wooden hives, scattered like vibrant gems across the surrounding meadows, offer a picture of both productivity and harmony with nature.

But Api Delta is more than just a honey farm—it is also a hub of education and tradition. Visitors are invited to walk among the hives, observing both modern beekeeping techniques and historical methods, which are thoughtfully preserved in a small open-air museum along the woodland edge of the property.

Since 2022, the Hasratov family has offered interactive honey-making workshops, allowing guests of all ages to engage in the full process—from hive to jar. To deepen the experience, they have opened a guesthouse with rustic yet cozy cottages, providing the perfect base for those who wish to immerse themselves in the rhythm of rural Azerbaijani life.

Api Delta is also the home of Bahar, a talented artisan and family member who leads jam-making masterclasses. Using fruits, herbs, and flowers from her expansive organic garden, Bahar crafts traditional jams, pastries, and natural remedies. Her culinary skills and commitment to fresh, locally-sourced ingredients have earned her a reputation that stretches well beyond the village.

Qum

Hidden within the quiet forests of Qax, the Basilica of Qum stands as a silent witness to centuries gone by. Known locally as the Qum Bazilikası, this ancient stone structure tells the story of early Christian worship in Azerbaijan, its weathered walls merging harmoniously with the surrounding wilderness. Though time has softened its features, the basilica retains a quiet dignity—its understated elegance and enduring presence evoking a sense of reverence. It feels like a forgotten chapter of history, patiently waiting to be rediscovered by those with a curious spirit and a love for the past.

Sheki (Şəki)

One long weekend, we set off for Sheki by taxi—a choice we soon came to regret. Between the driver’s questionable approach to road safety and his complete lack of English, the journey felt more like a test of nerves than a relaxing ride. If you truly want to enjoy the route to this remarkable town, we strongly recommend taking the overnight sleeper train in business class instead (see our Zaqatala journey for more). Though not as sleek as a modern express, the train offers its own quiet luxury—falling asleep to the rhythmic hum of wheels on track is a timeless kind of comfort. (Further details can be found in the Transport section.)

Upon arrival, another small hitch awaited us: our taxi driver, who was also supposed to act as our guide, was cheerful but knew little more than we did. Thankfully, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Left to explore at our own pace, we discovered that Sheki rewards the unhurried traveler. To describe the town in a single word: charming. Wandering its streets feels like stepping into a small European village—but with a distinctly Azerbaijani soul. Cobbled lanes, carved wooden balconies, and weathered stone houses lend it a timeless ambiance—both foreign and strangely familiar.

Sheki is a place to indulge the senses. Tucked-away restaurants serve piti, a rich, slow-cooked stew served in earthenware pots, alongside the town’s famed pakhlava—layers of pastry steeped in syrup and tradition. Don’t leave without a silk scarf, either: Sheki’s heritage as a silk-weaving center lives on in every thread. From the serene courtyards of old caravanserais to the kaleidoscopic stained-glass windows of Sheki Khan’s Palace, the town speaks in the language of craft, history, and understated grandeur. Sheki is not merely a destination—it is an experience stitched together by elegance, resilience, and heartfelt hospitality.

One of the most memorable stops on our journey was the Kish Albanian Church, perched serenely on a hill just 5 kilometers north of Sheki, in the tranquil village of Kish. Reaching it required a steep but rewarding walk, and partway up, a smiling local offered us bright red apples—crisp, sweet, and the perfect refreshment for the climb. Often referred to as the Church of Saint Elisha, the site carries deep historical resonance. According to legend, it was founded in the 1st century AD by Saint Elisha, a disciple of the Apostle Thaddeus, who transformed this sacred space from a pagan temple into one of the earliest Christian places of worship in the Caucasus.

The church we see today dates to the 12th century and features an architectural blend that bridges Caucasian Albanian and early Christian styles. Its circular form and distinctive red pyramidal roof speak to a transitional phase in Albanian church architecture during the 9th to 10th centuries. Beneath the surface, archaeological excavations have unearthed evidence of spiritual activity dating back to 3000 BC, suggesting this site has been sacred for millennia.

Today, the church stands as a beautifully restored museum, preserving its ancient character while welcoming visitors into its story. Inside, artifacts such as pottery, jewelry, and early tools whisper of civilizations long past.

When we visited in November, the air was crisp but not yet cold, and the surrounding mountains remained bare of snow. The setting was peaceful, with rolling hills and fading autumn greenery wrapping the church in a calm stillness. It felt like stepping out of time—an ideal place to reflect, not only on the layers of history beneath our feet but on how moments of quiet beauty leave the deepest impression.

Zaqatala

We boarded the overnight train to Zaqatala—an experience etched vividly into our memories. Arriving at the station just before midnight, we made our way to the VIP lounge, a place we had passed many times before, peering curiously through its doors and wondering what lay behind. That night, curiosity gave way to experience. The serene elegance of the lounge stood in quiet contrast to the usual clamor of the station, offering a peaceful interlude before the journey began.

This very station had once played a role in someone else’s story, too. Not long before, we had watched as a film crew transformed the familiar platforms into a movie set—lights, cameras, and actors bringing a scene to life. We never learned the name of the film, but whenever we recall that evening, it feels as if we stepped momentarily into our own cinematic moment.

The VIP lounge itself felt like a well-kept secret. Hidden behind a polished wooden door, it opened to reveal a gracious hostess and an atmosphere of understated luxury. Soft lighting bathed the room in warmth, with plush armchairs inviting quiet reflection beneath chandeliers that glowed like echoes from a bygone European salon. Golden accents shimmered subtly, and Azerbaijani tea was served in delicate armudu glasses, honoring the rich tradition of the local tea ceremony.

Everything was composed with care—an oasis of calm before the rails called us onward. And when our train was ready, we were personally escorted to our compartment, gliding through the station like unexpected celebrities. That night, the rhythm of the train carried us into the mountains, but it was the grace of that lounge that stayed with us—a moment of stillness before the journey resumed.

Arriving early in the morning, we were greeted not only by the crisp mountain air but by the quiet charm of Zaqatala unfolding before us. Here, the past lingers gracefully. The old and the new coexist effortlessly in this picturesque town, nestled in the northwestern corner of Azerbaijan, near the borders of Georgia and Dagestan. Surrounded by the lush greens of the Greater Caucasus Mountains, Zaqatala feels like a hidden village from a storybook—a place where life continues at its own measured, unhurried pace.

What first caught our eye—beyond the dense forests and open meadows—were the houses. Each one, whether simple or grand, wears a steel roof that gleams silver in the morning sun, built to withstand heavy rains and mountain winds. But the true artistry lies in the details: the gutter pipes. Far from being merely functional, they are often ornate, curling in decorative flourishes along the walls like silent vines of sculpted metal. In Zaqatala, even rainwater is guided with grace.

Together, the landscape and craftsmanship offer a gentle reminder: in this peaceful, green corner of Azerbaijan, beauty is not rushed. It is shaped slowly—roof by roof, pipe by pipe—through the quiet persistence of generations.

In the quiet streets of Zaqatala, one curious sight never fails to catch a visitor’s eye: rows of trees with their trunks painted a striking white. At first glance, it might appear purely decorative—perhaps a quaint village tradition to brighten the landscape. But this simple whitewash, made mostly from lime, serves a more purposeful role. It protects the trees like a silent guardian: deterring insects from climbing the bark and shielding the trunk from the sun’s harsh rays. In spring, when warm days are followed by cold nights, the reflective paint prevents the bark from splitting under sudden shifts in temperature.

Yet beyond its practical function, the whitewash speaks to something deeper. It is a quiet symbol of care and pride. Painting the trees becomes an act of stewardship—a way for the people of Zaqatala to honor the land, as if dressing the trees in crisp white coats to mark the changing seasons.

The next day, we travelled to Qax and İlisu. On the way to Qax, we came across a scene that felt straight out of another era: a car, tilted sharply at a 45-degree angle, balanced precariously on a single wooden stick. This wasn’t the aftermath of an accident—it was a local makeshift service station. Without access to hydraulic lifts or modern garages, villagers here employ a more hands-on, inventive method. By tipping the car sideways, they gain full access to its undercarriage, making repairs or oil changes possible even in the most remote settings.

It’s a practice that might cause health and safety inspectors to wince, yet there’s something deeply admirable about it. It speaks to the kind of practical wisdom and resourcefulness that defines life in rural Azerbaijan. No high-tech equipment. No mechanic’s overalls. Just balance, skill, and a well-placed stick—proof that in places like this, solutions come not from what you own, but from what you know.

If you need more than just a vacation to restore your spirit, İlisu is the place to go. Nestled in the northwestern Qax District and embraced by the blue-green folds of the Greater Caucasus, İlisu is a pocket of peace known for its fresh mountain air, pure natural springs, and timeless tranquillity. Once the heart of the İlisu Sultanate, the village still bears traces of its history—ancient stone bridges and the crumbling remains of a medieval fortress.

Visitors are drawn to its traditional stone houses, quaint tea gardens, and winding trails that lead to waterfalls and scenic viewpoints. İlisu offers a rare blend of natural beauty and cultural depth, making it a hidden gem for both nature lovers and history enthusiasts. As we strolled along a narrow mountain road, pausing to admire an old house, the warmth and hospitality of the locals reminded us once again: here, every path leads to kindness.

 While we were taking photos, a man approached us and kindly offered to move his car so we could get a clearer shot of the old house. As we stood there, admiring the 200-year-old house, he warmly invited us in for tea.

His little son welcomed us with a warm smile and a handshake, while his wife and mother quietly prepared traditional Azerbaijani tea. Soon, a beautiful plate was placed before us, neatly arranged with an assortment of local sweets: candies, Sheki pakhlava, and a delicate treat known as pishmaniye, a type of Arabic-style cotton candy. Unlike the fluffy pink candy floss seen at fairs, pishmaniye is made from fine strands of pulled sugar mixed with flour, giving it a light, airy texture that melts in your mouth, yet with a subtle, slightly nutty flavor. Common in Azerbaijan, Turkey, and Iran, pishmaniye is often served alongside tea as a gesture of hospitality, adding a touch of tradition to moments shared with guests. As our time was limited we did not stay very long, but the experience will be remembered a life time.

Baku, the Old and the New

When you open your eyes in Baku—24 meters below sea level—you might easily mistake it for somewhere in Europe. Although the capital of Azerbaijan is unique in countless ways, it often reminds visitors of a blend of European cities, with its elegant architecture and modern development. Baku is a city of contrasts—charming and immaculately clean, where ultra-modern skyscrapers rise beside centuries-old stone walls.

Set along the Caspian Sea shoreline, at the edge of progress and tradition, Baku carries two symbolic names: Black City and White City—like piano keys composing a symphony of transformation.

The Black City (Qara Şəhər) was once the pulsing heart of Baku during the oil boom of the 19th and early 20th centuries. Its lifeblood was thick, dark oil—gushing from the earth, spilling across streets, and seeping into every corner of industrial life. Smoke curled from chimneys, soot blackened stone and skin alike, and the air was heavy with the roar of progress. It was a city of wealth and exploitation, of mechanized labor and industrial grime—a place that grew,  but never promised grace.

Out of that soot-streaked past, a vision emerged. Baku White City, built atop the scars of its industrial predecessor, stands today as a beacon of modern urban renewal. Where machinery once groaned, now glass towers shimmer in the sun; where oil once pooled, green parks breathe with life. It is eco-conscious, luminous, and thoughtfully designed. Baku did not erase its history—it transformed it. From the residue of Black City, White City was born—a cleaner, greener, and more humane future layered atop the raw ambition of its origins.

Each day, walking home from the metro station, I used to pass a traditional wool-sorting workshop, tucked inconspicuously between apartment blocks. It was a surprising sight in a city so modern. Inside, large bundles of raw wool lay atop wooden tables, and skilled hands moved patiently through them, separating soft fibers from debris in a rhythm both ancient and meditative. The earthy scent of wool, the soft rustle of fibers, and the quiet determination of the workers created a scene seemingly frozen in time—a whisper of a slower, more tactile world, preserved amid the glass and steel of the new Baku.

Baku weaves the old and the new with the precision of a master carpet maker, blending contrasting threads into a single harmonious pattern. Each layer—historic architecture, futuristic design, enduring traditions, and modern innovation—fits together like colors in a finely crafted mosaic, creating a city that surprises and captivates at every turn.

This unique fusion of past and present is not merely preserved—it is actively and joyfully celebrated. In the narrow, winding streets of the Old City, centuries-old mosques, caravanserais, and fortress walls whisper stories of empires long gone. Just beyond, the futuristic silhouettes of the Flame Towers rise proudly, while the sinuous lines of the Heydar Aliyev Center embody architectural daring and national pride.

Traditional carpet shops, blacksmiths, and bakeries continue their quiet work beneath the reflective glass of modern towers. Each district tells a different story—some ancient, some newly unfolding—yet they all interlock, much like the threads of a handwoven Azerbaijani carpet.

This seamless interplay of history and progress is what gives Baku its distinct identity: a city where every street corner presents a contrast, and every step reveals another layer in its living mosaic.

Many parks in Azerbaijan carry a charm all their own, some modern, others still echoing the structured layouts and stone monuments of Soviet times. One thing remains unchanged, though: Azerbaijanis love the outdoors. From sunrise to late evening, people fill the parks, sitting on benches beneath tall trees, chatting with friends, or simply watching life unfold around them. And almost always, there’s the rhythmic click of dice from a Nərd (Backgammon) board, the most beloved pastime among Azerbaijani men, often played slowly over endless cups of strong, black tea.

This brings us to an interesting observation. While tea is a national ritual, especially in the countryside, the çayxana (tea house) is still largely a male domain. In many smaller towns and villages, you’ll find clusters of men gathered around traditional pear-shaped glasses, sipping tea sweetened with sugar cubes, as they talk politics, village news, or simply pass the time. For us, as a couple, this made it difficult to join in tea houses are not always welcoming to mixed company. Despite our shared love for a good cup of local tea, tradition quietly kept us watching from the outside.

In Azerbaijan, tea isn’t just a drink, it’s a doorway to conversation, community, and a slower, simpler moment. But as visitors, we sometimes found that door only half open. Yet, as Miryam Alizade, a former international student, once reflected, in Azerbaijan friendships seem to form with remarkable ease.

 If you are a crow lover, here you will find many Hooded Crows, shouting joyfully to each other while waiting for an opportunity to scavenge food either from a dustbin or hoping that someone will offer them something to eat. Once they trust you, they will be your friend and come to you when you sit in the park.

In Baku, city regulations require rubbish bins to be placed no more than 100 meters apart in main urban areas. It’s a small but thoughtful detail that keeps the city remarkably clean and pleasant for both residents and visitors.