Had the egregious boy quizmaster on Teachers’ Day not asked the capital of Azerbaijan, I might never have known of its existence; perhaps not until it was announced as the host of the 29th UN Climate Change Conference (COP 29). An uncomfortable commotion had ensued back then because the answer was Baku, which happened to be the moniker of the original quizmaster. He was my housemaster, a kind and caring teacher who couldn’t help but lace every sentence with a gentle “you know well.” The quizmaster of the day, a senior boy, went unpunished for his impertinence—Baku knew when silence was the best riposte.  

That isn’t to say he subscribed to the old adage, Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden (speech is silvern, silence is golden). Baku spoke, and when he did, he could guilt your very skin into a state of tranquil saintliness. Whether his words flowed or his lips stayed still, his hands were always in motion—wringing and twisting, as if channeling some deep, inscrutable energy. To an outsider, it might have seemed like a Machiavellian tactic to control boarding school boys. But in truth it was nothing, just a quirk, maybe a way to stay warm in the Mussoorie chill. 

Negotiating COP 

Much speechifying and silencing and hand-wringing went on in Baku. Shylocks of the developed world got away with even less than what they had promised in 2009 (taking inflation into account). This was expected. Anyone who thought the jowly shadow of the new President-elect could be trumped was being orangely optimistic. Especially since COP 29 was about money—and wringing funds from the developed world was about as fruitful as Don Fanucci’s attempt to squeeze Don Vito in The Godfather Part II. 

The COP edifice is built on great expectations, followed by a glacial process of reaching consensus among a school of fish that couldn't be more mismatched. It often ends in a David Dhawan-like scamper, but viewed from a broader angle, COPs also resemble ghost stories—a genre of repetition, a genre of unfinished business. 

These discussions have rightly been dubbed the "Olympics of negotiation", but that image isn't shaped solely by what happens in the sanctum sanctorum of the Blue Zone. It’s also about the scramble—delegates jostling for coffee, food, buses, taxis, water, charging points, and a decent place to rest for the night. On most counts, Baku scored well, except on taxi-wallahs; they were worse than Delhi's.

There was talk of Baku not marketing itself well to tourists, and that seemed partially true. Yet, the parts I explored, especially the Old Town, were charming, The Levantine cuisine stood out, with some dishes reminiscent of Kashmiri flavours (the plum-based meat is highly recommended). Such similarities are a nod to the great exchanges of the Silk Route and the region’s rich Perso-Turkic past. Interestingly, today Baku is the Bangkok of the Caucasus, especially for middle-aged men seeking the sheets. 

Nizami and the American 

COPs are also addas for for parties, conversations, and suited-booted networking. In one such event, while mingling with a set of COP regulars and after a drink or two, I found myself on the mat with an American who had said something denigrating about Nizami, the great Persian poet. I dissed all American poetry in return, and with the warmth of whatever I was drinking, delivered a lecture I’ve since forgotten, though I hope he hasn’t. 

Nizami was born in Ganja, a few hours from Baku, and his Khamsa is a treasure of Persian poetry. His works like Khusrau and Shirin and Layla and Majnun remain unparalleled for their depth, imagination, and psychological insight. In an era when women were often relegated to the margins, Nizami celebrated their strength and intellect, making his heroines complex, virtuous, and bold. His poetry—a synthesis of romance, philosophy, and humanism—left a legacy that influenced Indian poets like Ghalib and Bedil. In Baku, where an upmarket street bears his name and a massive statue stands in his honor, his spirit feels alive, offering a counterpoint to the city’s harder edges. 

Black Gold and the Caspian Sea 

It’s a curious thing for a city that owes its very existence to fossil fuels to host a COP. In the late 19th century, Alexander II auctioned off Baku’s oilfields, igniting a frenzy that made it the "Black Gold Capital" of the world. By the Soviet era, its nationalized oil industry had become a critical cog in the USSR’s petroleum machine—a legacy layered with tales of colonial opportunism and corporate maneuvering. 

In the post-Soviet era, Baku became BP’s stronghold. With the Soviet Union in disarray, Britain’s energy giant, backed by Margaret Thatcher’s charm offensive, swooped in to strike lucrative deals, laying pipelines, and inking the so-called "contract of the century." For BP, Baku became a steady source of profit—projected at ￡23 billion by 2050—and a linchpin in its global operations. Yet this prosperity came at a cost: displaced communities, trampled human rights, and an emboldened authoritarian regime. 

The city has always been a stage where state and corporate interests blur. In the 1990s, BP even partitioned part of its office for British diplomats, raising a Union Jack outside—a symbol of colonial nostalgia repackaged for a post-Soviet world. Today, fossil fuel profits keep flowing, even as Azerbaijan builds solar plants to power... its oil industry. Climate action, of a sort. 

Meanwhile, Baku’s political prisoners multiply, and its oil wealth funds opulent homes in Mayfair and Knightsbridge. At COP 29, the fossil fuel lobby was out in full force, even as the world edges closer to climate disaster. 

Baku lies on the shores of the Caspian Sea. At first glance, the Caspian appears as a grey, wrinkled vastness—not distinct from memories of other seas, but like a residue of dreams of other seas. Beneath its surface lies an intricate story. Once teeming with Caspian seals—the only mammals endemic to its waters—the sea has seen their numbers plummet from nearly a million in the early 20th century to as few as 43,000 today, ravaged by pollution, disease, and falling levels. 

Just days before the conference, a life-sized sperm whale installation appeared on Baku Boulevard, drawing both fascination and shock. Though symbolic—sperm whales haven’t inhabited these waters for millions of years—it was a stark reminder of the Caspian’s ecological fragility. Today, the sea struggles to sustain even its iconic inhabitants, with seal die-offs tied to pollution and weakened immune systems. 

Endgame 

Amid this ecological and political theater, the absence of key leaders underscored the dissonance of the moment. None of the leaders turned up for COP 29, except for British Prime Minister Starmer—unsurprisingly, given BP’s deep ties to Baku. France boycotted in protest against Azerbaijan’s actions in Armenia, a bitter conflict that casts a long shadow over the region. India also stayed away, a decision that seemed to serve its purpose. At the eleventh hour, it managed to deliver a self-congratulatory speech, positioning itself as the protector of all developing nations. 

Departures from such places can feel like desertion, a judgment on the people and the city left behind. But life moves forward. The COP circus has packed up, leaving the Caspian to ripple on, undisturbed. Baku will remain, as will its contradictions—a city of oil, culture, and hand-wringing, where the hard journey of reckoning with the past and future continues. 

After all, the real action is always right here, where we stand. COP 29 is over, but the harder journey has just begun—for everyone. 

Nikhil Kumar is a climate communications specialist and an independent writer