INGULFED

(Notes for the Abu Dhabi Bar Mitzvah)

Archive for pictures

From the Breakwater — من كاسر الأمواج

The first of a few,
The corniche at night
Abu Dhabi, UAE

Empress Market — سوق الإمبراطورة

Faces at the Empress Market
Karachi, Pakistan

Summer Photo Series! — السلسلة الصيفي للصور

Announcing…

the INGULFED First Biannual Summer Photo Series!


Every day in August, a new photo from somewhere. No more reading! (Until September)

Fights: Preview — مصارعة: معاينة

Kushti or Pehlwani, south Asian wrestling; this time, in dirt
Just off Corniche Road, Rt. 103
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
(More on this later.)


Emirati bullfighting
Just off the Corniche, Rt. 99
Fujairah, United Arab Emirates
(More on this later.)


For a different kind of fighting:
Video from Afghanistan

حيوانات ضارية في دولة الامارات — UAE Wildlife

On the road from Nahwa, an Emirati exclave within the Omani exclave Madha, itself squeezed between various bits of various Emirates. The donkey may, in fact, be Omani.

“Hee haw.”
Nahwa
Sharjah, United Arab Emirates

عيد الفصح عند اليهود في ابو ظبي — Passover in Abu Dhabi

It happens. At least now it does.

“Seder”
Somewhere
Abu Dhabi, UAE

Sri Lankan Intermission: Photoblog

Click to make really big

Girl in the Temple 1, 2, and 3
Temple of the Tooth
Kandy, Sri Lanka
All photos ©INGULFED.com

More pictures from Sri Lanka here…

Send-Off/Kickoff — توديع\بداية

For the next week or so, to send you off into the new year, INGULFED will turn into a photoblog with a picture or two posted every day. So spend your precious vacation time reading something more worthwhile, like Proust… or Twilight. To kick things off, here are some photos from the FIFA Club World Cup Final between Inter Milan (F.C. Internazionale Milano) and TP Mazembe Englebert, the cinderella story from the D.R. Congo.

Mazembe had a full brass band, permanent cheering line (unfazed and unfaltering down one, two, three goals), and zebra pelt in their section.

Goran Pandev draws first blood. (13′)

Eto’o’s got groceries. (17′)

Presented by Etihad.  Stewardesses. Merry Christmas.

Azerbaijan Five: Lost and Found — أاذربيجان خمسة: مفقود وموجود

Previously, in Azerbaijan:
Azerbaijan One: The City — أذربيجان واحد: المدينة
Azerbaijan Two: The Escape — أذربيجان اثنان: الهرب
Azerbaijan Three: The Trick — أذربيجان ثلاثة: الخدعة
Azerbaijan Four: Rest (and a little paranoia)

We had maps. We had names of towns along the route. We had the word “where”. And we were completely lost.

According to our screenshot map, there were two roads out of Sheki toward Yevelax, a town at a junction from which a road would head south into uncharted (for us) territory. One of our friendly pedestrian human GPSes pointed straight, convinced us left was right, and we sped off down a narrowing road into the kind of scenic countryside correct directions always seem to miss. We had intended to retrace our steps from the night before, but with this our first experience in daylight, we assumed the mountains around us were the shadows we had seen the night before, that the wide open fields had been the deep black emptiness. But nope, we were just going the wrong way.

We slowed down in the early morning cow traffic to film a rush hour chat with the cowherd. He was delighted to speak to the camera, and I understood the question “what channel?” “Ameriki” — easier to agree than to attempt the truth.

“Azerbaijan kharasho!” I said, Azerbaijan good! He didn’t agree. Not good. President not good. Clearly, the man controlling highway traffic to get his cows out to pasture couldn’t care less about political censorship — or political fallout from his high-profile media appearances.

Just when things started to look wrong we found another junction, one not on any map, where men at a service station pointed back the way we came — “Yevelax.” Or, it seemed, we could take the road Google didn’t know about (still paved) and hope for the best.

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Azerbaijan One: The City — أذربيجان واحد: المدينة

(Click photos to make big)


Stocked with only a hostel address and a belly full of McDonalds, we boarded an airplane in Dubai, half full with Brobdingnagian body builders and others who looked like they knew where they were going. We didn’t. Shouldn’t I feel like I’m going home at long last? said the Caucasian in me. It is, after all, the Caucasus. But the feeling didn’t take, and I settled in excitedly for our trip north (“it’s north right?”) — to a capital city whose name I’d learned a month earlier, in a country I couldn’t yet place on a globe.

Baku is calculated city filled with spontaneous people. Or is it the other way around… somehow, in the hustle and bustle that surrounds and penetrates the walls of the millenium-old “Inner City,” a sense of order prevails — the sense that someone knows exactly what’s supposed to be going on. The popular section of downtown near İçəri Şəhər (ih-cherry sha-har), the “Old” or “Inner’ City, could compete for most fountains per-capita, with wide, immaculate stone boulevards reminiscent of Vienna or Fritz Lang’s “Metropolis”. In this small section of town where Medieval meets Soviet and the urban plans of a new and liberated city, folks mingle to the sounds of construction and cultures smashing together.

But a traveler also gets the feeling that most of the smashing is in yesterday’s history — that Persian traditions, Turkish culture and Russian influence have already been absorbed, and that the modern result is a cocktail that is almost exclusively Azeri. This is not like the New York of today, where we eat sitting on the floor to “try something new”. This is like the New York of tomorrow, where we pick up tacos with chopsticks because it’s what we’ve been doing for years.

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