&&ot&ot ;html> Notes From Hairenik: A Blog About Life in Armenia

Notes From Hairenik
September 25, 2005
Here Comes the Bride....

Ariga Grigorian and I were married over a week ago, on September 17, at St. Gayne Church in Ejmiadzin. The wedding was followed by a reception at a really beautiful place called "Ashtarak Lij" located in Ashtarak, which featured a small pond in place of a lake as its name suggests with geese and ducks swimming in it. The campus is quite large with various nooks where people can meet and enjoy a nice time eating and dancing in a forest-like setting.

The wedding was a huge success--the ceremony was emotional, and the food was great along with the company. I'll try to write more about it at a later time with photos.

Photo of Ariga courtesy of Onnik Krikorian

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 11:39 AM.
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September 19, 2005
My Building Was on Fire
Today while at work our system administrator Arthur came in and told me that the building in which I live was on fire. It didn't sink in at first as I thought he was joking, but he assured me that he was dead serious. I went running down towards Republic Square and saw that Nalbandyan Street near the metro station was completely blocked off by about three large fire trucks. Three more were in the back of the building, wedged in the space between the entrance passage and the small secret village that is situated there.

I live on the third floor of the “Gastronom” building, directly across from the Republic Square metro station. From below I could see the billowing smoke rising from just behind the “Gastronom” sign that spans across the middle of the roof. It turns out that a wooden shed caught on fire when one idiot neighbor decided to make a barbeque up there. The fire thankfully did not spread to the lower floors, although our building entrance is completely filled with water. But at least the stairway is now shiny clean.

Although I was very concerned, people in the building were not. The roof is above the fifth floor, and I saw a family come out onto their balcony to see what was going on. They all looked up in turn, shook their heads, then went back inside without a care in the world. I told a fireman that they should get those people out of there, but he said that "it was not yet necessary." Armenians love to live on the edge, especially when it's time to eat the sacred “khorovadz.”

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 5:08 PM.
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September 12, 2005
Only 5 days left…
until the big day. My parents arrive on the 13th and I can’t imagine what they will expect. My mother first came to Armenia in 1969 as part of a tour group, when they first started letting tourists in. Much of the time I think she or her cousin, with whom she was traveling, was sick. The rest of the time they were on limited excursions with strict supervision or confined to Republic (then Lenin) Square, as they stayed at the Hotel Armenia, which has recently been transformed into the Marriot Armenia. My father has never been here. Aside from my parents, only my dad’s brother will come from overseas to represent me at the wedding.

The thought of my parents visiting Armenia seems surreal to me for some reason. There was much resistance from them in the past to come, but when they met Ariga back in April when we visited Boston, they did not hesitate at the thought of attending the wedding, as we wanted to get married either in Vanadzor or Ejmiadzin at the time. We picked the latter and the ceremony will be performed at St. Gayane, which truly is a beautiful church, dating back I believe to the 13th century, although I am not certain.

In any case, it will be an interesting experience, especially the part about getting married. It’s something I’ve wanted to happen for some time, but now that it’s happening it seems silly in a way. Ariga and I both behave like 10-year-old kids when we’re together, sometime causing scenes when in public, so I can’t imagine how we’re eventually going to raise children. So long as “vochinch” does not get in our way, I suppose things will work out just fine.

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 8:16 PM.
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Yesterday I was pulled over...
Yesterday while driving around in a fruitless search for barbeque grills in the Shengavit district I was pulled over by a traffic cop. I was driving at the speed limit but he decided to pull me over anyway, as traffic police generally pull motorists over at random.

Police corruption is a huge problem in Armenia, as it has become an accepted system. When motorists are pulled over they expect to pay a $2.00 bribe on the spot to continue on their way without incident. If you don’t offer the bribe, the police could make problems for you. They can inspect your car on the spot and give you a hassle for a broken taillight, even threatening to impound your car or remove your registration plates. The corruption throughout the police system has become laughable—it is literally joked about on television comedy shows. A couple of weeks ago a police spokesmen for the Yerevan police department at a press conference denied that any form of extortion of bribes existed, whether by traffic police or vehicle registration/inspection (see my blog entry “Tekh Osmotr”). That wasn’t supposed to be a joke but….

I did not get out of the vehicle to present my papers with a 1000 dram note wedged in between. When I am pulled over I always remain in my car and wait for the policeman to approach. He introduced himself with a pathetic salute, announcing his name and rank. Traffic cops wear an army green police cap with a red band that always looks too big for their heads, a short-sleeve blue shirt during the summer months, and military gray or black pants. They sport a black and white striped baton that they swirl around like Charlie Chaplin’s tramp did with his cane, then suddenly point it at a motorist to pull over. I handed him my papers—the vehicle “passport,” the title, and a translation of my driver’s license as well as the original. He inspected them, then instead of sending me on my way after noticing that I am not an Armenia citizen from reading my license, he started to hassle me.

This sometimes happens. Twice before I was hassled about my driver class being “D”, when in Armenia it is “B,” and that I should go to the central license distribution center or something to clear that problem up. After I asked him where the place was I told him that I would go there and take care of it. But that wasn’t all. He insisted that my car be confiscated, that we go down to the center together so that I drop off my car there where it would stay until I got my paperwork straightened out.

Then I told him something he didn’t like—that I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. “What do you mean?” he asked, whereby I repeated, “I am not going to give you what you expect. Pull someone else over and get what you want, but you’re not getting it from me.”

He didn’t appreciate that of course and defended his pride by saying “I don’t need what you’re referring to because I have plenty of money, I’m a wealthy man (his belly proved that). I’m telling you that you can’t go on driving because your papers are not in order.”

I asked him if everything was not in order, why was a new registration/inspection sticker issued to me, why did I have a title or the vehicle “passport,” and why was I even given the right to own a car in Armenia. He argued that the fact I owned a legally registered car in my name had nothing to do with my license. I told him to give me back my papers so that I could continue on and he refused. I told him I came to Armenia, to live and work in the homeland, and so forth, but he didn’t care. Then I asked him something else he did not like: “How much do you want so that you’ll leave me alone?” He grumbled that he didn’t need my money, then handed me back the papers.

After he did so he started reading the line I’ve rarely heard before: “You foreigners come over here and think you’re….” whereby I cut him off in mid-sentence and told him to get lost, then I drove off.

I don’t know what the solution to the problem of police corruption, because it’s just part of a huge web that has become the system of operations here. In order to get something done, depending on the situation of course, like having your social security card processed in five days instead of 20 in my case, you are expected to pay a bribe or a “donation,” depending on how you look at it. The money collection doesn’t just stop with an ordinary traffic cop, either. A percentage of that collected money goes to his chief, who then hands out some change to his superior, and up the chain it continues. I suppose the entire traffic police department could be fired, replaced by a supposedly more professional force that will not tolerate bribery, as Georgian President Saakashvili did about a year ago. But who would issue that order? I wouldn’t expect something like that coming from President Kocharian or anyone else reporting to him, including the mayor of Yerevan (who the president appoints). So the system for now at least stays in place, so long as “vochinch” continues….

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 8:08 PM.
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September 9, 2005
The Wedding Suit
After trying on a few suits in shops around Yerevan and realizing that I could not find anything to fit me properly, I decided to have a suit custom made instead. It seemed like a better option since in order to have a fairly well-made suit, you would need to pay at a minimum $300 or more (at least in the US). From what I saw here, suits are either cheap, made in Turkey, or are expensive samples of European clothing lines. The suits in between are simply too small. I wear the apparently European size of 54, drop 8, which translates to about a US 44 long. At one boutique in the new Tashir mall down the ways from St. Gregory the Illuminator cathedral on Dikran Medz Street, I found the suits that I wanted—earth-toned wool-based fabrics with subtle contrasting, widely spaced pin stripes, and so forth—but nothing fit me. Unfortunately I have a wide upper torso and also ape-like arms, plus legs that are too long for Armenian anatomical standards. Many of the suits I saw look like they fit a 16-year-old boy, but then again, many Armenian men, if not most, are under 5 feet 10 inches in height and I would say are under 180 pounds. There are exceptions, however, when you consider the infamous Armenian pot belly, but for the most part, Armenian men are by no means tall. Thus, there are no decent off-the-rack options for men in my case here.

Thus the first hurdle to overcome was choosing the right fabric that would best meet my expectations. Since Ariga and I are having a small wedding with about 50 guests, and since tuxedos are not available here for some reason, we decided to go with a suit that was not the standard black with white shirt ceremonial uniform for the groom. I prefer autumn-like colors in general when picking out clothes, and I figured that my wedding suit should be no exception.

The fabric stores in central Yerevan are lined up along a short stretch of Abovyan Street in the area near the “Youth” metro station. There are about a dozen stores or more seemingly chained together. Many of them have the same fabrics, and most of those being standard blues and blacks, some with pin stripes. In fact, most of the fabrics I saw suitable for men’s suits were drab and boring. The non-dark colored textiles were neutral, or taupe, and had zero pizzazz. We found some things that were promising but just not right.

Finally, we found an excellent store near Friendship Square that had more or less what I was looking for. We settled on two candidates, but finally chose a light cocoa-colored material. The clerks told us that the cloth was English, as are many of the materials that are available. Along the hem of most fabrics, information is printed about what the base threads are, where the fabric is made, and so forth. Our material had such printed information, but I did not bother reading it for some reason, having examined so many hems and trusting the woman helping us. We went two days in a row, and she told us, and confirmed by another clerk, that the material was English. That night after we had purchased the cloth and brought it home, I realized that it was made in Turkey. The text was written in latin characters but the words were foreign, and a online Turkish-English dictionary confirmed what I had believed.

When shopping in Armenia it is becoming increasingly difficult to find non-Turkish goods, especially domestic supplies, including those for cleaning, tableware, cooking ware, things for the bathroom, and so forth. Turkish canned goods abound in most grocery stores, and now even sunflower seeds. Importers are now proudly advertising Turkish consumer goods on television. The fact that there are such ever-strengthening trade bonds with Turkey while a closed border has persisted for nearly 15 years has always perplexed me. It does not sink into my brain why an open border with Turkey is so essential for Armenia’s economic prosperity, when Turkish goods—even fresh, easily perishable tomatoes—are everywhere. Of course, Armenian businessmen are to blame for importing the stuff, cheap but mostly poor quality, but no one seems to complain.

I always make a point of refusing to buy Turkish goods for various reasons, namely because the Turkish Ottoman state was responsible for the genocide of 1.5 million Armenians from 1915-1918 and modern Turkey continues to deny that such a thing ever happened, Turkey insists that Nagorno-Karabagh forfeit its self-declared independence before it forms diplomatic relations with Armenia, and so forth. Plus I am vehemently opposed to the influx of Turkish culture in modern Armenian society. Armenian “rabiz” is basically a rip-off of Turkish pop music, using the same melodies with Armenian lyric translations and even mimicking Turkish wailing and highly irritating vocal styles. There are at least four Turkish television stations that can be tuned in on different frequencies in Armenia, and thus the Turk’s omnipresence is acutely felt.

The Turks have been repeatedly screwing over the Armenians in one way or another ever since their Seljuk ancestors finally made their way to this neck of the mountains over 800 years ago, and they have now issued their ultimate ploy by making the Armenian consumer wholly dependent on them. I finally fell into the Turkish materialism trap laid especially for Armenians and I was stuck. The concept of returning goods by unsatisfied customers for credit or cash does not apply to business in Armenia. For the most part all sales are final.

Then there was the problem with finding a tailor. I’ve noticed quite a few of them working in funky, tiny shops on side-streets or in back alleys, but I would not trust any of them with making a suit. I asked around and learned that there is a renowned tailor located far up on Gomidas Street, a block or two up from the open market and across from the old public bath house. Ariga and I went in there and saw that the place was gigantic, like a small clothing factory. The tailor’s name is Misha, and he’s assisted by his daughter as well as at least three or four assistant tailors. When you walk into his shop on the left there is a huge cutting table which he uses to lay out material and figure out how he’s going to cut it up to make a dress or whatever. On the right is a lounge-type area, and there are a few plants and so forth. Apparently all the “mucky mucks” as my mother says, or all the rich, influential people of Yerevan, go to Misha to have something custom-tailored.

When we went I brought along a black suit as a sample of what I expected. He told me to put it on and I heard the all-too-familiar line when requesting a good or service in Armenia: “Why do you want to do it that way?” He then asked me why I liked what I had, what was so special about it, and so forth. I explained I wanted a classic two-button suit, with no vent in the back, and the lapel to be high, just a few inches down from the shoulder. I’ve noticed from the suits that people wear on the street, many undoubtedly custom made judging from the material and the fit, that nearly all are baggy, have three buttons, are too long, and generally don’t fit quite right. Brooks Brothers suits are more or less tailored the same way, with little to no shape to them. I told him I did not want anything baggy or square shaped, with sleeves extending down just past my thumb (he confessed that was the standard for measuring sleeves). He told me he would do what I wanted, with a few variations here and there, like stitching one front pleat in the pants instead of the two that were in my black suit pants. Yesterday I went for a fitting and it seemed to be coming along okay, although there wasn’t much to wear apart from a prototype that looked more like a vest than a jacket. He remeasured the sleeves, the length of the jacket, the width of the lapel and the length of its location from the neck and so forth, whereby I approved or disputed his determinations accordingly. Then he wanted me to read a little poem written in Armenian that is an ode to a tailor, so I did so and he let me go.

Finding properly fitting shoes in Armenia is another adventure. I remember when trying to find shoes for Karen Minasian’s wedding (he insisted that he, his father and I, as the Godfather, wear dress boots) I could not find anything that was wide enough for my feet, which resemble the bill of a platypus in terms of width and flexibility. For some reason all the dress boots here have fake fur linings, which also added to the discomfort. Basically if the little toe on my right foot feels any kind of pressure against it, after a few minutes I am in extreme agony.

In men’s shoe fashion there are primarily two styles that are extremely popular and in plentiful supply: the long style, which is also narrow and comes to a point reminiscent to that of a samurai sword, and the long style with a squared-off toe. Sometimes, depending on the shoe model, the toe curls upwards, which resembles something you see worn by an elf in a cartoon.

Only one place that I know of in Yerevan on Abovyan Street has what I look for in footwear, conveniently located about a three minute walk from my front door. The place is called—for some bizarre reason as the name can be considered derogatory— Shoes by Armo Group. This store features well-crafted, classic European designs, and all the shoes are handmade in Armenia from imported leathers. If you can’t find the color or size of a displayed model that you want, you can have it custom made at no extra charge. Most shoes are under $80, and many similar styles would sell for at least three times more in the West. I tried on three pairs of shoes sized 44 or 45 and nothing would fit. They were so narrow that I could barely place my foot into a shoe that normally my foot would swim in. It makes me wonder how men in this country that have wide feet are able to walk in most shoes available here, many of which look great but are totally uncomfortable.

In any case, we found a model that looked nice, was wide enough for my feet, but the wrong color. We wanted brown shoes to match my suit, so we gave the order to have them made. The shoes and the suit will be ready on the same day, conveniently enough, on September 14. I just hope both will fit properly, never mind the dress shirt and tie I have yet to purchase.

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 4:15 PM.
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September 1, 2005
‘Tekh Osmotr’
Yesterday I spent three hours running around Yerevan in order to resolve issues related to the “tekh osmotr” for my car. The tekh osmotr is basically a combination vehicle inspection and registration sticker that is affixed to the bottom right corner of the windshield. Mine was expiring on August 31, which is why it was so important to go through all the steps at once. Otherwise I would potentially be pulled over by traffic police and have to pay out hefty bribes to shut them up.

Obtaining, or rather passing to receive, the tekh osmotr involved essentially three steps: being approved to pay the fees, actually paying the fees, then acquiring the tekh osmotr sticker. But in order to get past the first one Ariga and I had to determine where to go. Apparently you have to go to the city district administration building where you are “registered.” In other words, although I live in central Yerevan, the office for vehicle registration told us that I would have to go to the one in Malatia-Sepastia (aka, “Bangladesh”), since the car was originally owned and still “registered” in the name of one B. Torosian. When I bought my Niva it had not been legally registered to the previous owner, so I applied for a transfer of ownership title, which was expedited quickly since the notary clerk was a friend of Ariga’s. Thus, even though I live in central Yerevan and my Nalbandyan Street address is written on the title, the original vehicle “passport”—which is the size of and looks like a credit card—is in the name of the first legal owner of the car.

When we arrived at the vehicle registry office, there were about 100 people in line—all men—squeezed in a short, narrow hallway competing to be the next one to get into the office. I had handed the paperwork for the car to Ariga for some reason and a male clerk who happened to walk by came to our rescue by dragging her through the crowd, and she dragging me, to the front of the line. I’ll have to admit I felt bad for the guys packed in the corridor since I myself hate being cut in line. When we went there and I presented to the clerk my car “passport”—after first giving her my Armenian passport/visa, confused about which passport she was talking about—she shooed us away, telling us to go to the Malatia-Sepastia district administration building, near the “Bangladesh” open market (which probably resembles one of the rings of hell described in Dante’s Inferno).

Close to an hour later we walked into the place and found the vehicle registry office, which for some reason had no line for admittance. The clerk took the car passport, punched up some numbers on his computer, and then gave me an “official” stub with the number 8,000 written on it—the amount of the registration fee which we had to pay in an office around the side of the building. The office it turns out was a branch of the ASHB bank, actually an institution aimed to serve ordinary citizens, similar to a “savings and loan,” which used to be found in the US before now President George W. Bush played a role in a scandal that dismantled the entire system.

In any case, there were two lines—one for banking transactions and one to pay, or rather arrange to pay, the registration fee. There were two rows, each with about 20 people, all jammed together and competing to be the next one to approach the counter where the clerks were sitting. I made the mistake of asking the guard, who was just some guy wearing a worn-out uniform, if I was standing in the correct line, whereby he inquired if I was a citizen, had a social security card, and so forth. I told him that all I wanted was a yes or no answer, and then the argument started: “I’m trying to help you, why are you getting excited,” and so forth. During the hour and 10 minutes I waited in line I noticed that he argued with nearly everyone that came into contact with him.

Apparently, you can pay registration fees for all your buddies and family members at the same time. Nearly everyone in line before me was doing this. The fact that it took about five minutes in total for me to be approved to make my payments was proof of this fact. When I approached the counter we were asked if we also wanted to pay “ecological” and property taxes, which were about 1,300 and 6,000, respectively. I suppose some people choose to opt out of these payments but I decided to pay them as well. I signed three pages of receipts three times per page, then we were sent to the cashier’s window found down an adjacent corridor. I had to ask the cashier if I could make my payments since she was caught up in a conversation with someone who decided to visit her, thereby cutting me off at the window. Eventually she received my 20,000 dram note, then after 30 seconds or so threw my 4,000 drams in change back at me.

Then we were off to inquire about the tekh osmotr. Artur, who is the systems administrator at my place of work, told me to go to the office park across from the Hrazdan Stadium, adjacent to the roadway rotary. A small trailer at the far end of the park had a sign affixed above it reading “technical inspection” in Armenian, then below that tekh osmotr written in Russian.

According to a recent article published by ArmeniaLiberty.org:

Another source of illegal payments [bribes] is “technical inspections” which each of an estimated 250,000 cars registered in Armenia must undergo once a year. A special SAI [State Automobile Inspectorate] division is supposed to check their condition and safety standards, something which they rarely do. As part of the process motorists also have to submit medical certificates testifying to their good health and mental sanity.


For some reason during my day’s adventures no one indicated to me that I had to produce paperwork verifying my sanity and good health, so this statement comes as a surprise. I won’t comment whether I believe many motorists actually qualify to pass such tests, but their erratic driving shows that something is not quite right.

I waited about 10 minutes or so in line before I approached one of the two police officers sitting at desks, naturally not before some kind of VIP walked in and cut me in line to pay his bribe first. I sat in front of the good cop luckily—the other wasn’t too friendly or patient—and after inspecting my payment receipts quietly told me that I had other “fees” to pay. I asked him to tell me and he whispered “6,000.” I noticed that some people paid only 5,000 drams for some reason, but I wasn’t really in a position to argue with the man. He wrote some things on the inspection/registration sticker and sent us on our way to the bliss of tekh osmotr victory.

I’ll have to say that I do not really mind these administrative hassles, since it is interesting to compare them to the problems I had in Boston with license and registration renewal and so forth. Quite frankly, in retrospect my errands went smoother and with less hassles than similar ones in Boston—although the bureaucrats are for the most part the same types of people on both ends of the spectrum but speak different languages. I would like to see a more efficient and working vehicle inspection in place here, since there are so many cars on the road unfit for driving, but I don’t anticipate such an improvement anytime soon. Besides, there are many things more important to worry about, like government reform across the line and enforcing tax collection from the rich.

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Posted by Christian Garbis at 6:37 PM.
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