“Azerbaijan?! The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you are going to Gaza!” My father’s reaction to my upcoming international destination was out of character for one not prone to theatrics of any kind. What was genuine concern was also the betrayal of a blind spot I suspect is true of many South Africans of a certain age. For boomers, the former eastern bloc is often a monolith of grey and decay, one strongman’s bad mood away from nuclear holocaust. While now-popular destinations such as Prague and Budapest have done a lot to soothe this Cold War hangover, the good
will has evidently not spread to the rest of what lies behind the erstwhile Iron Curtain. I had to send a link to dispel my poor father’s concerns for my safety during the few days I was to spend in Baku, attending my first Formula One race.
On day one, my colleague from another media house (an F1 nut) takes advantage of the access to the drivers afforded us at the Paddock Club — F1’s village of premium hospitality suites situated above the team garages, so close to the action you can fist-bump the adrenaline.
I spend the day exploring the capital, Baku. Bordering five countries, Azerbaijan’s best relationship is with Turkey, an ally and friend. The worst is with Armenia, with the last of the conflicts that have raged between the two since the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 having only concluded in 2020. In Baku, there is no evidence of this upheaval. It’s a thoroughly modern city with a Western European patina, with all the nods to capitalism a visitor’s heart may desire: shopping, culture, high rises, tourist traps, and traffic (with hooting and impatient flickering of lights but without the road rage). It also feels very safe. Security guards and police look serious but not unnecessarily intimidating, with comforting levels of visible fitness we are unaccustomed to on our home turf.
We go full tourist, visiting sites such as the Old City, a curious mix of architecture indicative of the city’s meander through the centuries, its walls brought into the present with bold, large-scale murals by artist Vusala Agharaziyeva. The work reflects Azer culture and its marriage to a city very much in the now. We also explore the Carpet Museum (Azerbaijan is big on carpets) and the Flame Towers, a designated Unesco heritage site. We are told about the civilians buried at the memorial Martyrs’ Lane (Azerbaijanis and Turks who died shoulder to shoulder in the war with Armenia), adjacent to the Highlands Park viewpoint that looks over the peachy seaside boulevard on the banks of the Caspian Sea.
A few days later, on our way out of Baku, we visit the Yahsil Bazar — a fresh fruit, vegetable, and meat market – and take in the Ateshgah (Fire Temple), built in the 17th and 18th centuries by Indian merchants on the site of a natural gas leak.
The highlight is a visit to the Heydar Aliyev Centre, designed in 2012 by Zaha Hadid, the brilliant Iraqi-born architect. Named after the country’s venerated former leader, the centre is at once a monument to Azerbaijani history and culture and a love letter to Hadid’s singular practice: curvy, sinuous, fluid, with hardly a right angle in sight. An incongruous delight is found at basement level, where 1950s and 1960s American rock-and-roll booms out of a room with an astounding collection of US and European classic cars.
As The Ronettes’ 1963 hit Be My Baby blares in the background, we read about the history of Buicks (a Model 14 from 1910 is on display). Also on show is the Volkswagen Kübelwagen, built by Ferdinand Porsche for the use of the German military. Moving through the space, we encounter staged scenes of same-era US service stations (Shell, Agip, Route 66) while a more modern Ferrari Testarossa and 1060s Jaguar E-Type appear in full splendour. Impeccably maintained, the collection belongs to the Aliyev family. President Ilham Aliyev is as much of an enthusiast as his late father, Heydar. And I get to see the cars I am here to experience the next day.
On qualifying day, we are received in a private room at Baku Marriott Hotel Boulevard, just a short walk from the street circuit. As we make our way to the Paddock Club, the route resembles red-carpet season, with young F1 fans behind barriers snapping away at everyone who looks remotely like they could be famous. With my multiple lanyards and dark glasses, I wind up on many phone-camera reels — to be deleted later, I’m sure.
It’s the eve of the actual race, and the Paddock Club is suitably buzzy with grown men whooping in F1 simulators, merch-store trade already in rude health, and servers at attention with chilled champagne and mimosas on trays. It’s 10.45am. We take a guided track tour on the back of an open-air trailer, followed by a pit-lane walk that scores us our first bit of access to the Team Alpine garage.
Later, I must pinch myself as I sit in the pit gantry — previously owned by Red Bull and now reserved for the Paddock Club experience — headset in place, locked into the qualifying action like a team principal. Hansel Crasto, our expert host, a Portuguese-Indian former race engineer with movie-star looks, keeps us up to date on the action.
We spend the rest of the day at the super suite of all suites, where F1 pampers global sponsors such as our host Qatar Airways. The food is fresh and plentiful: succulent leg of lamb, salmon steaks, golden baked Atlantic cod, Barilla fusilli alfredo, and art masquerading as dessert. The waiting staff is excellent. Like trusted wingmen, the men ply us with as much alcohol as water, and the charming women… well, if this is your first rodeo in environments of high hospitality, you could suffer the fate of the guy who falls in love at the strip club.
On race day, the Paddock Club experience amps up. In the suite, the champagne flow is reminiscent of a 1990s hip-hop party and there’s more lip filler on display than at a Kardashian family reunion. There’s also plenty of F1 celebrity spotting and we even spend 10 minutes chatting to Frenchman Jean Alesi, a former driver and F1 ambassador. Minutes later we find ourselves with exclusive access to the cool-down room, where the top three racers catch their breath before taking in the celebrations. And then we are led to the podium, where we can’t help but simulate our own F1 victory moment, spraying imaginary Moët magnums all over the show. The absurdity is not lost on us.
Moments before the race, I meander through the controlled crowds in the pit lane walk: Charles Leclerc talks strategy; Max Verstappen looks as focused as his legend has it; and George Russell flashes a smile as he almost runs me over with an electric scooter. As I walk back to the suite to watch the main race, I take a picture with Alpine team principal and relentless 1990s lothario Flavio Briatore. My head shake is slow, with the wryest of smiles. The streets will never forget.
Siphiwe Mpye was hosted by Qatar Airways.
From the December issue of Wanted, 2025
