I had only travelled a few kilometres into Azerbaijan from the Georgian border, before putting my finger on what exactly felt so different: we had not lain eyes on a single woman. Wary of drawing conclusions too rashly, I suspended further judgement until arriving at Ganja; Azerbaijan’s second largest city after Baku. By now, we had been cycling for three days through Azerbaijan, covering over 100km and passing a dozen hamlets and larger villages along the way. The total number of women sighted was by now up to seven. And the total number of women I had spoken to? Zero. Not only were women so obviously absent from the streets we had been cycling through, but they were also absent from vehicles we had passed, all passengers and drivers being male. So where, I asked myself, were the women?

By our tenth day in Azerbaijan, we had covered over 700km of road, moving away from the central road running connecting Ganja with Yavlakh and the old capital Shemakhi. We had opted for a northerly passage through the foothills of the Caucuses, turning into two awestruck guests to some of Azerbaijan’s most spectacular vistas. Verdant green pastures sparkled with the recent touch of spring and snow-capped mountains sat snugly in the distant valley, coyly retreating as we made our slow and steady approach. We had seen Azerbaijan’s most rural parts; home to sheep-herders, beekeepers and barley barons. But we had also rolled through the larger towns of Yavlakh, Ismaelli and Shemakhi. As we moved East, we began to see a greater variety of people populating the streets, and yet one bald truth emerged: Azerbaijan seemed a country of men, for men.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the café culture that touches every town, irrespective of size and density. Behind the glass, and several metres within low-lying clouds of smoke, sit a dozen men, seated in fours at tables around the café. The steam of black tea in hourglass shaped teacups mingles with the cigarette smoke. Dice, cards and backgammon boards are strewn between the teacups and bowls of nuts and dried fruit. Although not explicitly stated above the doorway or in the windows, this is not a place for women. These ‘male’ spaces are not just formalised in the cafes and the doner houses but also in the streets, where clusters of men gather by ubiquitous, clapped out Lada cars. And yet, as I walked down the street, a lone woman amongst streets lined with men, I did not feel observed. I did not feel the clutching gaze that I have felt on my back and heels walking down Bond Street, or through the Parisian metro. In fact, every time men came up to take a closer look at the bike, they brushed right past me, narrowly avoiding a hard collision. The question burned brighter in my mind: what was it to be a woman in Azerbaijan?

“I am the only one with a bike”, Nata said smiling proudly. “In my village few people own a bike, and I am definitely the only girl to ride one!” Nineteen-year-old Nata, living 50km out of Baku, was aware and proud of her role as an ‘unconventional woman’. The only teenage girl I had spoken to in Azerbaijan, and one of a handful of female athletes in the city, she encompassed the enormity of the divide existing between Baku the regions lying beyond the capital. In Baku, I had met three female cyclists – all of whom had joined clubs in the past couple of years – and were both conscious and excited by the role as trailblazers. As I sat in a rooftop café Baku, taking a break from the relentless consumption of shashlik, my eye fixed on a very striking pair of ladies wearing crisp outfits with shiny, heeled boots, perching precariously against the railings for the benefit of their Instagram followers. Greeting us in English, their faces breaking into generous smiles, I was conscious that this was a type of woman I had not yet seen in the country. “Of course we love this city! How can you not love your hometown!” They replied laughing, as I asked about their experience of the capital. “But of course we want to travel. I want to go to Asia, maybe China or Japan. My friend wants to go to India to practice Yoga.” Baku’s millennial ladies were as cosmopolitan as any other girl their age walking into a bar on the Barceloneta, or trotting along the Champs Elysees. 

So how to make sense of the gaping void between what we had observed throughout the regions, and the Chanel-clad, bag-swinging babes of Baku? The answer can be found in the rapid changes that has seized the country, particularly its capital since 2006. In the past decade alone, Baku has transformed into a dazzling metropolis boasting malls in the shape of lotus flowers and a stunning waterfront bedecked with glass towers and high-end restaurants. It is a country experiencing rapid urban growth, the diversification of industries away from oil, and its negotiation of new cultural alliances in the wake of new national borders and shifting international relationships. It is, in effect, a country in flux, and that not least affects the behaviour and lived experiences of young Azerbaijani’s growing up in a changing landscape.

Baku, rather than being the exception, may, in a few year’s time, set the standards for developing behaviour and relationships within the regions. If we are to assume that capitals lead and define the direction of a country, we may be cautiously optimistic that Azerbaijan will see the rise of a newly empowered woman, with growing dreams and aspirations. I look forward to seeing more of this woman.