While I did not travel anywhere distant this spring break, which in Azerbaijan took place during the Novruz holiday, I had the opportunity to experience first-hand some fundamental Azerbaijani customs. First, the terrible cold which has been taking down Baku’s citizenry all winter, finally hit me the last week of classes. My host mom came to the rescue with her shoebox cupping kit. American audiences might be familiar with this healing practice in Chinese medicine, but may not know that it’s also Russian family remedy—holding a flame into little glass cups and applying them to energy meridians on the back, like extreme suction cups. Cupping is supposed to help with circulation and blood congestion and basically everything. As a recipient of this practice for the second time, I was less alarmed by bizarre sight of my backside covered in purple marks than I had been at first. The cupping, plus imbibing an incredible amount of ginger tea and jam made of an unknown fruit which everyone swears by, had me feeling better immediately.

On the last day of classes, I was impromptu invited to the wedding of my university’s International Student Office Administrator’s daughter by the director of the Regional Studies Department (her own daughter didn’t want to come, so I was the surprise substitute). While I was thrilled to attend my first Azerbaijani wedding, I was also very alarmed about what to wear. I had seen enough video clips and Instagram photos to know what I was up against. I rushed out of my final Azerbaijani exam to the underground shopping center near the train station, and made the quickest shoe purchase of my life: black stilettos. I jumped on the train, speed-walked home, drank some tea and started to get ready. When I entered the white and gold baroque wedding hall two hours later, I knew my worries had not been in vain. Everyone was dressed in their sparkly finest with the tallest, pointiest shoes. The live band was playing and we were seated at a round table (one of many) absolutely covered in food. Cheeses and cured meats, multicolored Russian salads and plates of caviar, meat pastries and olives and pickles. And that was just what was on the table. Then came the fish, and the chicken, and the kebabs, and the fruit, and the ice cream, and the cake. I danced with all my lovely teachers and faculty, and though I could not feel my toes by the end of the night, I was certain, for once, that I had chosen the right footwear. People just stared at my hair instead.

Then came Novruz, and everyone was off work for a week, and there was music, dancing, and merriment, plentiful food and traditional costumes, and we cooked and ate so many pastries and sweets. I reckon Novruz is comparable to Christmas is for Americans. For weeks, everywhere I looked were semeni—decorative wheatgrass which is the centerpiece for all Novruz tables, representing new life and spring. My host mom was zealous about the semeni and it seemed like every surface in our house was occupied by wheat sprouting (out of a giant metal map of Azerbaijan, a tart tin, vases, plates).

On the night of Novruz, which coincides with the spring equinox, my host mom lit a bonfire in the alley outside our house, gleefully dousing scrap wood with a coca-cola bottle of gas. The lighting of public fires for Novruz is a tradition which dates back to Zoroastrian times of fire worship, long before Islam arrived in this region. One must jump over the fire three times, letting go of all the hard times and troubles of the past, and thus readying oneself to start the new year fresh. People pick up their small children and leap over as well. Or, they grab the kids by the arms and just swing them over instead. When our fire started to dim, we left it to the neighbors to tend and piled into a taxi to go to the relatives’ house. In their neighborhood, a fire had been lit right in the middle of the intersection. I believe it was at least twelve feet high. Looking down the street, which had been doused with water in preparation, bonfires flickered off in the distance, and fireworks sparked through the night. Our taxi dodged around the festivities and pulled up at the relatives’ house, where another huge bonfire was taking place. Neighbors of all ages had gathered, and the teenagers had rigged up a laptop and sound system playing raucous Caucasus dance music. We got out of the car and entered the party. Everyone was clapping and laughing, and the inner circle alternated with vodka-inspired older men, the great grandma, the neighborhood boys, the little kids, me and my host sisters, everyone dancing. It went on like that till 1 in the morning, with occasional breaks for sweets and tea in the kitchen.

*Neighborhood Novruz bonfire (AKA tongal).*

After fully experiencing Novruz with a family in Baku, I will say that any holiday which supports inter-generational bonfire dance parties is a holiday I can get behind. Participating in Novruz in Azerbaijan gave me new hope in collective holiday spirit, and it’s been a week to remember.

By: Isabelle McRae

Program: Eurasian Regional Language Program

Term: Spring 2018

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