June 28, 2007
Foreigners are not welcome
The other day I bumped into Sahani Ravinder, otherwise known as “Mickey,” who is the owner of New Delhi, the Indian restaurant on Tumanyan Street near the intersection with Mashdots Street, which I have mentioned in a couple of posts on this blog. Effective June 30, New Delhi will be closed down forever.
He had taken leave of Armenia for several months due to visa problems imposed on him by the infamous Office of Visas and Registration (OVIR), which incidentally is one of the most corrupt government agencies in the republic, second probably to the customs department. The last time I went to New Delhi about two months ago, while he had been absent for several months then, the service was lousy and the food was no longer up to par (for one thing I found pistachio shells in the peanut masala), as the fabulous master chef who had been working there, Man Bahadur Sahani, also had to leave after having been obliged to pay $1500, as were three other employees. He was also incidentally robbed of about $800, threatened with being stabbed, which naturally left a bitter taste in his mouth. Restaurant manager Pankaj Joshi (a.k.a. Jacks), left in November of last year to attend his brother’s wedding in Delhi, but was not allowed to reenter Armenia due to similar visa-related problems, having been refused for not paying a $1500 fee. The cost for the visa is ordinarily only $300 for foreign nationals wishing to live and work in Armenia (less for Armenian diasporans who have not obtained Special Residency Status). He sends me SMS messages for time to time, and in each one his dream to return to Armenia is heart-felt.
Mickey arrived in Yerevan one month ago to sort out his visa problems with OVIR, having complained to the superior of Samvel Aghajanyan, the deputy head of the agency, which is incidentally run by the police. After catching wind of Mickey’s actions, Aghajanyan called him (they have grown to know each other quite well in the last couple of years as Mickey was the previous owner of Tandoori restaurant on Deryan Street) to inform that he was deported effectively immediately. In Armenia, when you receive such notices from OVIR, you are not obliged to leave immediately and no one comes around to make sure you have gone, but nevertheless you are considered an illegal alien. After he officially closes the restaurant and leaves shortly thereafter, he will never again return to Armenia as he has vowed to me. Instead he will focus his undertakings on Tbilisi, Georgia, where he has been granted a visa by President Mikheil Saakashvili last year to do business freely in the country. The way foreign businessmen are received in the two countries who share the same border bears a stark, remarkable contrast. Armenian authorities, especially the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, should be embarrassed to say the least, but even the Foreign Minister’s wife, who was a frequent customer of New Delhi, failed to intervene. The Prime Minister, to whom OVIR answers for some reason, also did not take action at the time.
There are two days left before the restaurant closes, which has recently been better managed since Mickey’s return. I recommend to anyone presently visiting Yerevan to check it out as it will be the last time to enjoy fine Indian cuisine probably for a long time to come in this country, quite simply because foreign small businessmen are clearly not welcome. It is a regrettable, grave reality.
Labels: Social and Cultural, Thoughts and Musings
June 25, 2007
Traffic Panic
It is no secret that there has been a sharp upsurge in the number of vehicles on the roads throughout Yerevan, as I have written in previous posts and has been reported by online news sources. There are cars everywhere: luxury and matchboxes, designer SUVs and Soviet jeeps, Russian compacts and Japanese subcompacts, and even 70s-80s era General Motors gas guzzlers. Mounting traffic coupled with oblivious jaywalkers crossing wherever they please give rise to a chaotic jamboree. Nevertheless, it was all tolerable until Yerevan authorities decided to block main avenues throughout Central Yerevan from access by vehicle traffic.
Someone in Yerevan's city hall evidently came up with the bright idea to simultaneously close off three streets which are major access routes. Within the span of one week the block on Nalbandyan Street stretching between Moscovyan and Charents Streets was indefinitely closed. There is a long tin fence separating the construction site from traffic and it continues into the park, so I cannot guess what is transpiring there. Just down the street from me, the Vartanants and Khanjian intersection where the construction of a new Russian financed luxury condominium project (where the "film house" used to be) has also been fenced off. I noticed the other day when walking on the sidewalk there, which thankfully is still open, that a work trailer was on site, which means that construction will go on for a very long time, but again, what they're doing there is not yet known to me.
Gomidas Avenue is still a mess despite nearly two years having passed since the start of a major project involving the replacement of water and sewerage pipes with the simultaneous removal of tram rails (under which the pipes conveniently reside). The lower part of Gomidas Avenue as well as Gassian Street as it joins with Friendship Square (Baregamutiun) seem to be complete. Construction engineers have only now reached the stretch on which the Gomidas open market is found, which is arguably one of the busiest areas in the entire city. Purportedly there is a rush to remove the remaining rails since the iron is needed for various construction sites--according to rumor tram rails, which are not malleable, support the frames of some newly built high-rise cement buildings. So a long, dusty summer (mostly likely autumn and winter, too) can be expected in the area.
The most troubling construction is underway in a part of town known as "Rassia," where the Cinema Russia-turned-shopping mall is located. At that location, where Khanjian and Tigran Mets streets intersect, purportedly a mini-tunnel project is underway which will apparently help to reduce traffic congestion in the area. Hundreds of minibuses stop there on all four corners throughout each day, and routinely minibus drivers double-park to take on passengers. The stretch spanning from the intersection to Khorenatsi Street along Khanjian is completely closed, and thus the Gyumri/Vanadzor bus station which formerly occupied the parking lot of Cinema Russia has been relocated not far away. Tigran Mets street eventually crosses into the Erebuni district while Khanjian merges with Arshakunyants Street, which leads into Shengavit and eventually out of the city. Thus one thoroughfare (for now) is being carelessly impeded.
According to my auto-mechanic whose garage is located just beside the nearby circus, the word is that work will continue for at least two years there. The project is financed by the government without foreign assistance, and thus there is no room for skimming off the top as Armenians are infamous for doing on any construction job. But I find that hard to believe. I also doubt that construction will finish in two years, especially when he told me that the government does not have all the dedicated funds set aside for the project. The Northern Boulevard should have been completed this year and considering that only two buildings have been erected thus far, Yerevan motorists have a merciless wait when trying to get anywhere around or out of the city.
Someone in Yerevan's city hall evidently came up with the bright idea to simultaneously close off three streets which are major access routes. Within the span of one week the block on Nalbandyan Street stretching between Moscovyan and Charents Streets was indefinitely closed. There is a long tin fence separating the construction site from traffic and it continues into the park, so I cannot guess what is transpiring there. Just down the street from me, the Vartanants and Khanjian intersection where the construction of a new Russian financed luxury condominium project (where the "film house" used to be) has also been fenced off. I noticed the other day when walking on the sidewalk there, which thankfully is still open, that a work trailer was on site, which means that construction will go on for a very long time, but again, what they're doing there is not yet known to me.
Gomidas Avenue is still a mess despite nearly two years having passed since the start of a major project involving the replacement of water and sewerage pipes with the simultaneous removal of tram rails (under which the pipes conveniently reside). The lower part of Gomidas Avenue as well as Gassian Street as it joins with Friendship Square (Baregamutiun) seem to be complete. Construction engineers have only now reached the stretch on which the Gomidas open market is found, which is arguably one of the busiest areas in the entire city. Purportedly there is a rush to remove the remaining rails since the iron is needed for various construction sites--according to rumor tram rails, which are not malleable, support the frames of some newly built high-rise cement buildings. So a long, dusty summer (mostly likely autumn and winter, too) can be expected in the area.
The most troubling construction is underway in a part of town known as "Rassia," where the Cinema Russia-turned-shopping mall is located. At that location, where Khanjian and Tigran Mets streets intersect, purportedly a mini-tunnel project is underway which will apparently help to reduce traffic congestion in the area. Hundreds of minibuses stop there on all four corners throughout each day, and routinely minibus drivers double-park to take on passengers. The stretch spanning from the intersection to Khorenatsi Street along Khanjian is completely closed, and thus the Gyumri/Vanadzor bus station which formerly occupied the parking lot of Cinema Russia has been relocated not far away. Tigran Mets street eventually crosses into the Erebuni district while Khanjian merges with Arshakunyants Street, which leads into Shengavit and eventually out of the city. Thus one thoroughfare (for now) is being carelessly impeded.
According to my auto-mechanic whose garage is located just beside the nearby circus, the word is that work will continue for at least two years there. The project is financed by the government without foreign assistance, and thus there is no room for skimming off the top as Armenians are infamous for doing on any construction job. But I find that hard to believe. I also doubt that construction will finish in two years, especially when he told me that the government does not have all the dedicated funds set aside for the project. The Northern Boulevard should have been completed this year and considering that only two buildings have been erected thus far, Yerevan motorists have a merciless wait when trying to get anywhere around or out of the city.
Labels: Social and Cultural, Thoughts and Musings
June 20, 2007
Foreign concern about Armenia’s economy
An article that appeared in the June 19 edition of ArmeniaLiberty.org states that the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD) is concerned that the continued appreciation of the dram may have dire consequences sooner rather than later. One line of a report that will be read at the parliamentary assembly of the Council of Europe next week reads that “Without faster productivity gains, a further appreciation of the Armenian currency would threaten the country’s competitiveness.” There is also concern that Armenian production companies, for example cigarette manufacturing firms, will suffer continued losses citing the weakening dollar and thus, the inability to compete with large-scale importers of goods, which are reaping ever-increasing profits.
In previous entries I have complained that the appreciation of the dram has caused drastic inflation on goods and services, not to mention the real estate market that is currently resembling that of the northeastern United States in terms of market values.
The article points out that since 2003 the dram has appreciated by 50 percent against the dollar. Then it goes on to state that:
“Central Bank [of Armenia] officials say the exchange rate fluctuation has also suppressed inflation which has remained in single digits despite the country’s robust economic growth.”
This claim by the Central Bank is dead wrong. If any one of the officials even bothered going shopping they would realize that is a boldface lie. A couple of hours ago I went to the local grocery store in my neighborhood to buy Russian dark rye bread. The last time I bought a loaf two weeks ago the price was 130 dram, as it had been for quite a while. Today I paid 180 dram for the same loaf baked in the same bakery. And the exchange rate was the same then as it is today, about 345 dram to the dollar. That means all food costs will either hover around the same price or will increase even more. When the dollar gets weaker, prices for goods and services inflate across the line here. Gasoline prices hover at about 370 dram for one liter of premium grade, up from 350 about six weeks ago (even though the exchange rate was 360 dram to the dollar then), but now that summer is in full swing and people will want to get away from the city, the price will keep increasing.
In the meantime, the Central Bank, International Monetary Fund, and the World Bank representatives here will keep cheering that the dram’s never ending appreciation is fantastic for the economy, while other financial institutions that actually try to predict what will happen at some point down the line argue against the enthusiasm. The EBRD is also concerned about Armenia’s continued dependence on low-interest loans, support from wealthy philanthropists, and the construction boom.
I have concluded, although I do not claim to be an economist by any means, that Armenia’s economy is dollar based and probably always has been. Even though dram is being exchanged on the street people still think in dollars and even quote figures keeping the US currency in mind. In the meantime, money I suppose will keep pouring in from foreign remittances but it won’t circulate here. The continued shortage of dollars on the market is a clear indication that something is dreadfully wrong somewhere. And I would not be surprised if Armenia sees a depression in its “booming” economy in the short-term, God forbid. In fact I am expecting it.
In previous entries I have complained that the appreciation of the dram has caused drastic inflation on goods and services, not to mention the real estate market that is currently resembling that of the northeastern United States in terms of market values.
The article points out that since 2003 the dram has appreciated by 50 percent against the dollar. Then it goes on to state that:
“Central Bank [of Armenia] officials say the exchange rate fluctuation has also suppressed inflation which has remained in single digits despite the country’s robust economic growth.”
This claim by the Central Bank is dead wrong. If any one of the officials even bothered going shopping they would realize that is a boldface lie. A couple of hours ago I went to the local grocery store in my neighborhood to buy Russian dark rye bread. The last time I bought a loaf two weeks ago the price was 130 dram, as it had been for quite a while. Today I paid 180 dram for the same loaf baked in the same bakery. And the exchange rate was the same then as it is today, about 345 dram to the dollar. That means all food costs will either hover around the same price or will increase even more. When the dollar gets weaker, prices for goods and services inflate across the line here. Gasoline prices hover at about 370 dram for one liter of premium grade, up from 350 about six weeks ago (even though the exchange rate was 360 dram to the dollar then), but now that summer is in full swing and people will want to get away from the city, the price will keep increasing.
In the meantime, the Central Bank, International Monetary Fund, and the World Bank representatives here will keep cheering that the dram’s never ending appreciation is fantastic for the economy, while other financial institutions that actually try to predict what will happen at some point down the line argue against the enthusiasm. The EBRD is also concerned about Armenia’s continued dependence on low-interest loans, support from wealthy philanthropists, and the construction boom.
I have concluded, although I do not claim to be an economist by any means, that Armenia’s economy is dollar based and probably always has been. Even though dram is being exchanged on the street people still think in dollars and even quote figures keeping the US currency in mind. In the meantime, money I suppose will keep pouring in from foreign remittances but it won’t circulate here. The continued shortage of dollars on the market is a clear indication that something is dreadfully wrong somewhere. And I would not be surprised if Armenia sees a depression in its “booming” economy in the short-term, God forbid. In fact I am expecting it.
Labels: Social and Cultural
June 16, 2007
The nightmare is over
The bureaucratic insanity that I have had to endure these past few days ended as of 4:00 this afternoon.
The day started around 10:00 am with a trip to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building to see the clerk who had successfully recovered from her computer's virus infection. I showed her the papers I had, she made a note of whatever was necessary to note, and my wife and I were on our way to the Registry of Motor Vehicles located in the Erebuni district, which handles the processing of vehicle registrations for Central Yerevan for some reason. It is located on Artsakh Street on the stretch towards the mostly run-down factories district. We found the building which was shaded by trees along the sidewalk just in front of it. At this location some departments were decentralized. The office that processes applications was located in a trailer about 100 feet down the street for some reason. We gave the man our paperwork, including the invalidated passport for the Niva and my special residency visa. Then he asked for the proof of residence paper, which I had left behind with Amazing Asya and Officer Mardirosyan in Bangladesh. The man processing our application suggested that we speak to an officer in the registry to inquire whether we could get by without the paper. But before we did so, we had to pay additional processing fees which would amount to about 25,600 dram at a branch office of "Haiknabank" about a mile away--that errand took about a half-hour to complete.
So back at the registry we found someone responsible for processing registrations and he told us that by all means we needed to get a hold of the original proof of residence form, and that a signed, sealed photocopy should be left at the registry in Bangladesh for their records. This revelation slapped us across our faces at 11:45 am.
It took about 20 minutes to return to Bangladesh, and all the while I was swerving through traffic while simultaneously steering away from unexpected pot holes and skating along abandoned tram rails. I have become skilled during the last few years in avoiding collisions with minibuses whose drivers do not bother looking left or right when maneuvering their vehicles, thus the dents and scrapes on fenders and doors. The plan was for me to run in to see Officer Mardirosyan and figure out how to get the proof of residency paper. He was not surprised to see me when I burst in to his office, catching him while reading the newspaper. I explained to him what had happened and needed to go down, then the argument started.
"Didn't I tell you the other day that you would need that paper?" he exclaimed. "I thought I made that very clear to you, if you recall...." The thing is, I did not realize I would need it any longer. He mentioned something about perhaps making a photocopy of it for my own records, which I shrugged off because I didn't think I would need it for any other reason. I told him this, but also admitted to wrong doing, which calmed him down and persuaded him to move on to the next topic--how to get a hold of that paper.
I was to find Amazing Asya and ask her to track down the paper so that I could photocopy it, then present the photocopy to Officer Mardirosyan for it to be signed and stamped in exchange for the original. I went to the familiar window but no one was home. Then someone else waiting for her to appear said that she was across the hall in another office, where she also worked shuffling papers and passports around, apparently. When she started to slide around I announced why I was back and what I needed to do. She was juggling about five things at once with papers and passports for a handful of dudes clenched between her right thumb and index finger. We followed her as she marched in and out of offices, then after about a 10 minute wait time she lead me into the office of the "operator." Apparently the operator processes and organizes all the registration applications and related forms, and he or she--in this case a she--seems to be the only person in the entire building who has a computer. But what it is used for is unclear as there were small piles of hundreds of applications strewn throughout the office. We gave her my name as well as Babken's both of which would be written on the front of our paperwork stapled together, yet to be filed, thankfully. It took the woman about two minutes to find it, all the while complaining about making her do more work than she needed. Then Asya chimed in as she entered.
"Why didn't you do this the other day? Two days later you come in here and you make us look through all this stuff so we can find that paper for you. For what? What's the matter with you?" The abuse was simulcasted in surround sound.
The operator undid the staple with a remover she had trouble finding in all the mess, and she demanded that my visa be left in its place, which was not a problem for me. I darted out of the building leaving Ariga behind and ran up the block to a grocery store which also had a copy machine, conveniently enough, most likely to accommodate clueless idiots like myself. The copy only cost 20 dram, then I ran back and burst into Officer Mardirosyan's office for second time.
"So it's all set, brother? Let's have it then!" He looked at it and scribbled his name across it, then handed it back. I asked whether it needed to be sealed and he said that he would "do it later," which wasn't clear to me. Turns out it wasn't clear to the others either, because when I showed it to the operator, she told me to find Amazing Asya and let her examine it. I told her that Mardirosyan signed it and said that it was valid, but she wouldn't have that, as I needed to double check with Asya. So I found her in the other office shuffling more passports and papers about while sitting beside some other officer, and she happened to notice me with a glance.
"So you have the photocopy? Just give it to the operator." I told her that the operator needed her approval. "Yeah, OK, hold on, this will only take five minutes." She told me the same thing 20 minutes prior. Soon thereafter she came out of the office to the chagrin of a few other guys trying to catch her fancy and moaning in disappointment. She walked into Mardirosyan's office, asked if everything was OK with it, he said something to the effect of "let the guy go" judging from his body language with his forearms resting along his desk, and she came out handing me the form. "OK, you're all set, give this to the operator, tell her I said so."
I ran in there and Asya was chugging along just behind me. I repeated to the operator what I had stated five minutes beforehand, and Asya was there to back me up, amazing as she was. She handed me the original proof of residency along with my passport which I passed along to Ariga, as she kept all the paperwork and passports in a black tote bag she slung across her right shoulder. I gave them a 2,000 dram donation for their pains and we were off. Sayonara, Bangladesh.
It was time to return to Officer Kaloyan in Erebuni, who was a dark and handsome man with taste for genuine American full-flavor soft-pack Marlboros. Then and there it was clear to me that he was not hurting for cash. However, since it was 12:55 pm, he said that we wouldn't make it in time, and he asked that I come back in two hours. I was scheduled to go into work at that hour but I had no other choice but to comply.
So we went home and had a light lunch, then I was off to the hardware department of the Vernisage to find four new bolts and nuts for affixing the license plates. The plates I had been given it turned out were temporary transfer plates, another tidbit that I failed to absorb in Mardirosyan's office. I found the bolts in about 10 minutes after roaming past the layout of one junk seller after the other, scanning across the crap each character had laid out. I went back to my car to get something, then after examining the front bumper I discovered that the rusted bolt, the same that I thought one of the kids forced out, was still there even though he assured me he could remove it without me having to saw it off, as there would have been no other alternative.
I ran back to the Vernisage and bought a hack saw for 800 dram from a mean-looking midddle-aged guy with sinister eyes who could barely speak for whatever reason, and who relied on some portly guy about my age to use the sales pitch. The saw blade looked flimsy but they said it would do the job of cutting through a rusty bolt. About 10 seconds into the job the thing snapped. It looked as though it was coated in plastic, a total piece of crap, but I was desperate to buy one. I marched back there and made my move to embarrass the guy in front of dozens of his counterparts.
"What did you sell me?" I started. "Is this made of plastic? After using this for 10 seconds it broke. Give me back my 800 dram." I repeated that last sentence about 20 times until he asked for 200 dram in exchange for the 1,000 dram note I had given him only 10 minutes before. His pal the sales clerk accused me of not knowing what I was doing, which was the reason why the blade snapped. I told him to shove the broken saw blade up his ass.
Leaving Ariga at home, on the way to Erebuni I stopped at the "Home Depot" portion of Vartanants Street where the hardware open market is located. Along the street are some hardware stores, so I ran into the first one I found and bought a "Colt" brand hack saw, which supposedly is made in Germany according to the mark on the blade, for 1,300 dram. Four minutes later the bolt was severed and I was off again.
I arrived at Officer Kaloyan's office at around 3:15, and he was prompt about processing my case--he must have liked me for some reason. He sifted through the papers, then asked that I go out to the car and jot down the inspection sticker number while he took one of several business-related calls he received on his cell phone. He asked for 11,000 dram, then inquired whether it made a difference if I received "pretty or not so nice" plate numbers. I told him that I could have cared less, but he mumbled that he would get me a "09" number, which didn't sound too bad. He dropped off my visa and paperwork with the operator there, she printed out my temporary registration, and then I gave it all to woman responsible for processing the issuance of license plates along with 2,000 dram for her hard work.
Ten minutes later her assistant had them ready, and she told me while handing me the sealed proof of registration paper to return in December to pick up the official passport for the Niva, which is finally in my possession under my own name, legally. It cost me well over $300 to realize that goal.
The day started around 10:00 am with a trip to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building to see the clerk who had successfully recovered from her computer's virus infection. I showed her the papers I had, she made a note of whatever was necessary to note, and my wife and I were on our way to the Registry of Motor Vehicles located in the Erebuni district, which handles the processing of vehicle registrations for Central Yerevan for some reason. It is located on Artsakh Street on the stretch towards the mostly run-down factories district. We found the building which was shaded by trees along the sidewalk just in front of it. At this location some departments were decentralized. The office that processes applications was located in a trailer about 100 feet down the street for some reason. We gave the man our paperwork, including the invalidated passport for the Niva and my special residency visa. Then he asked for the proof of residence paper, which I had left behind with Amazing Asya and Officer Mardirosyan in Bangladesh. The man processing our application suggested that we speak to an officer in the registry to inquire whether we could get by without the paper. But before we did so, we had to pay additional processing fees which would amount to about 25,600 dram at a branch office of "Haiknabank" about a mile away--that errand took about a half-hour to complete.
So back at the registry we found someone responsible for processing registrations and he told us that by all means we needed to get a hold of the original proof of residence form, and that a signed, sealed photocopy should be left at the registry in Bangladesh for their records. This revelation slapped us across our faces at 11:45 am.
It took about 20 minutes to return to Bangladesh, and all the while I was swerving through traffic while simultaneously steering away from unexpected pot holes and skating along abandoned tram rails. I have become skilled during the last few years in avoiding collisions with minibuses whose drivers do not bother looking left or right when maneuvering their vehicles, thus the dents and scrapes on fenders and doors. The plan was for me to run in to see Officer Mardirosyan and figure out how to get the proof of residency paper. He was not surprised to see me when I burst in to his office, catching him while reading the newspaper. I explained to him what had happened and needed to go down, then the argument started.
"Didn't I tell you the other day that you would need that paper?" he exclaimed. "I thought I made that very clear to you, if you recall...." The thing is, I did not realize I would need it any longer. He mentioned something about perhaps making a photocopy of it for my own records, which I shrugged off because I didn't think I would need it for any other reason. I told him this, but also admitted to wrong doing, which calmed him down and persuaded him to move on to the next topic--how to get a hold of that paper.
I was to find Amazing Asya and ask her to track down the paper so that I could photocopy it, then present the photocopy to Officer Mardirosyan for it to be signed and stamped in exchange for the original. I went to the familiar window but no one was home. Then someone else waiting for her to appear said that she was across the hall in another office, where she also worked shuffling papers and passports around, apparently. When she started to slide around I announced why I was back and what I needed to do. She was juggling about five things at once with papers and passports for a handful of dudes clenched between her right thumb and index finger. We followed her as she marched in and out of offices, then after about a 10 minute wait time she lead me into the office of the "operator." Apparently the operator processes and organizes all the registration applications and related forms, and he or she--in this case a she--seems to be the only person in the entire building who has a computer. But what it is used for is unclear as there were small piles of hundreds of applications strewn throughout the office. We gave her my name as well as Babken's both of which would be written on the front of our paperwork stapled together, yet to be filed, thankfully. It took the woman about two minutes to find it, all the while complaining about making her do more work than she needed. Then Asya chimed in as she entered.
"Why didn't you do this the other day? Two days later you come in here and you make us look through all this stuff so we can find that paper for you. For what? What's the matter with you?" The abuse was simulcasted in surround sound.
The operator undid the staple with a remover she had trouble finding in all the mess, and she demanded that my visa be left in its place, which was not a problem for me. I darted out of the building leaving Ariga behind and ran up the block to a grocery store which also had a copy machine, conveniently enough, most likely to accommodate clueless idiots like myself. The copy only cost 20 dram, then I ran back and burst into Officer Mardirosyan's office for second time.
"So it's all set, brother? Let's have it then!" He looked at it and scribbled his name across it, then handed it back. I asked whether it needed to be sealed and he said that he would "do it later," which wasn't clear to me. Turns out it wasn't clear to the others either, because when I showed it to the operator, she told me to find Amazing Asya and let her examine it. I told her that Mardirosyan signed it and said that it was valid, but she wouldn't have that, as I needed to double check with Asya. So I found her in the other office shuffling more passports and papers about while sitting beside some other officer, and she happened to notice me with a glance.
"So you have the photocopy? Just give it to the operator." I told her that the operator needed her approval. "Yeah, OK, hold on, this will only take five minutes." She told me the same thing 20 minutes prior. Soon thereafter she came out of the office to the chagrin of a few other guys trying to catch her fancy and moaning in disappointment. She walked into Mardirosyan's office, asked if everything was OK with it, he said something to the effect of "let the guy go" judging from his body language with his forearms resting along his desk, and she came out handing me the form. "OK, you're all set, give this to the operator, tell her I said so."
I ran in there and Asya was chugging along just behind me. I repeated to the operator what I had stated five minutes beforehand, and Asya was there to back me up, amazing as she was. She handed me the original proof of residency along with my passport which I passed along to Ariga, as she kept all the paperwork and passports in a black tote bag she slung across her right shoulder. I gave them a 2,000 dram donation for their pains and we were off. Sayonara, Bangladesh.
It was time to return to Officer Kaloyan in Erebuni, who was a dark and handsome man with taste for genuine American full-flavor soft-pack Marlboros. Then and there it was clear to me that he was not hurting for cash. However, since it was 12:55 pm, he said that we wouldn't make it in time, and he asked that I come back in two hours. I was scheduled to go into work at that hour but I had no other choice but to comply.
So we went home and had a light lunch, then I was off to the hardware department of the Vernisage to find four new bolts and nuts for affixing the license plates. The plates I had been given it turned out were temporary transfer plates, another tidbit that I failed to absorb in Mardirosyan's office. I found the bolts in about 10 minutes after roaming past the layout of one junk seller after the other, scanning across the crap each character had laid out. I went back to my car to get something, then after examining the front bumper I discovered that the rusted bolt, the same that I thought one of the kids forced out, was still there even though he assured me he could remove it without me having to saw it off, as there would have been no other alternative.
I ran back to the Vernisage and bought a hack saw for 800 dram from a mean-looking midddle-aged guy with sinister eyes who could barely speak for whatever reason, and who relied on some portly guy about my age to use the sales pitch. The saw blade looked flimsy but they said it would do the job of cutting through a rusty bolt. About 10 seconds into the job the thing snapped. It looked as though it was coated in plastic, a total piece of crap, but I was desperate to buy one. I marched back there and made my move to embarrass the guy in front of dozens of his counterparts.
"What did you sell me?" I started. "Is this made of plastic? After using this for 10 seconds it broke. Give me back my 800 dram." I repeated that last sentence about 20 times until he asked for 200 dram in exchange for the 1,000 dram note I had given him only 10 minutes before. His pal the sales clerk accused me of not knowing what I was doing, which was the reason why the blade snapped. I told him to shove the broken saw blade up his ass.
Leaving Ariga at home, on the way to Erebuni I stopped at the "Home Depot" portion of Vartanants Street where the hardware open market is located. Along the street are some hardware stores, so I ran into the first one I found and bought a "Colt" brand hack saw, which supposedly is made in Germany according to the mark on the blade, for 1,300 dram. Four minutes later the bolt was severed and I was off again.
I arrived at Officer Kaloyan's office at around 3:15, and he was prompt about processing my case--he must have liked me for some reason. He sifted through the papers, then asked that I go out to the car and jot down the inspection sticker number while he took one of several business-related calls he received on his cell phone. He asked for 11,000 dram, then inquired whether it made a difference if I received "pretty or not so nice" plate numbers. I told him that I could have cared less, but he mumbled that he would get me a "09" number, which didn't sound too bad. He dropped off my visa and paperwork with the operator there, she printed out my temporary registration, and then I gave it all to woman responsible for processing the issuance of license plates along with 2,000 dram for her hard work.
Ten minutes later her assistant had them ready, and she told me while handing me the sealed proof of registration paper to return in December to pick up the official passport for the Niva, which is finally in my possession under my own name, legally. It cost me well over $300 to realize that goal.
Labels: Personal Experiences, Thoughts and Musings
June 15, 2007
The mysterious Babken
In January 2005 I purchased my Niva from a guy named Merouj in Vanadzor. At the time he had the car’s registration/title (a.k.a., passport) but did not have the car registered under his name. Apparently the Niva had at least three owners in Vanadzor alone and the sales agreement paperwork was never filed. The transfer of ownership was made on a “here’s the cash, thanks for my car” basis without any hint of accountability to any governing body, namely the registry of motor vehicles. As I explained in previous posts, a flimsy piece of paper with both our names printed on it signed by a notary but without a seal, and a “passport” with someone else’s name on it, was all I had to prove that I was the owner of the car, with the power to sell it or do as I wished. The name on the passport and the original owner of the Niva was Babken T.
Merouj, angel that he is, insisted at the time that Babken was in Russia, and no one in his neighborhood knew anything about his exact whereabouts, as was confirmed by one of the Niva’s previous owners in Vanadzor, who is also Merouj’s buddy conveniently enough. I trusted the notary that I was the legal owner and nothing else could stop me in my travels throughout Armenia or across its northern border. My experience two weeks ago when I feebly attempted to cross into Georgia with Hamlet by my side dissolved that dream into oblivion. The transfer of ownership paper meant nothing without the seal, and even if it was stamped it was condemned to expire in January 2008, only six months away. Ariga consulted our lawyer and I asked friends of mine for their advice. All of them said the same thing—I had no other alternative but to find the original owner and sort the matter out as soon as possible before other headaches would start tormenting me.
The name and address of the man was plainly printed both in Armenian and Russian on the front side of passport, which is the exact size of a credit card and made of the same type of plastic material. On the back of the passport is printed the license plate number, the year, make, and model of the car, the vehicle identification number, engine size, and other related information. None of the information was worn away or illegible by any means, which led me to believe that we could perhaps find the whereabouts of this guy ourselves. I was already suspicious that we had been duped by Merouj judging from the problems I had been having of late, not to mention the worn out piston and four piston rings that came with the Niva when I bought it from him, which he kept secret.
The address read 1 Ararat Street, Shahumyan quarter. A study on an online interactive map of Yerevan revealed that the neighborhood was located in the Malatia-Sebastia (a.k.a., Bangladesh) district. Ariga called her main information source, her girlfriend from back home in Vanadzor, Sabina, who also lives in Malatia and could probably find out where exactly the address was. Sabina is a walking, true-to-life yellow pages directory. She can obtain nearly any telephone number—residential, business, or otherwise—and decipher almost any kind of bureaucratic data that circulates in this city, not to mention Vanadzor. Whenever something needs to be figured out, especially when much running around time is to be anticipated, she is the first line of offense. Within 30 minutes after the start of their investigation they found the home of Babken, who did not live at the address printed on the passport but in a building just across the way. Babken was not present, and no one was home, although the neighbor insisted that his wife rarely leaves the house throughout the day. The neighbor also declined to give Babken’s phone number to Ariga, so she gave her our home telephone number instead to pass on to Babken, should he reveal himself. We had no idea if the neighbor would even give him our number nor if he would even try to contact us. But Ariga was smart enough to explain to the neighbor that the situation had to do with a car that Babken previously owned and was now in our possession. Some grandpas sitting in the courtyard said that Babken worked in the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building, but they didn’t know what position he held. When Ariga and Sabina asked the reception clerk there where Babken could be found, she stated that she didn’t know who he was. Then Ariga went home after calling to let me know what happened.
The next morning Babken called. Ariga passed the phone to me and I spoke very formally, explaining to him the situation. He immediately agreed that his name should be taken off the passport, as he put it, and be registered under my name. The responses he gave me were mostly grunts and moans, but we understood each other. His understood that the shoddy Niva sales deal finally came back to haunt him.
Babken purchased the Niva brand new in 1995 for $12,000. In fact, that model introduced a slightly larger, 1.7 liter four cylinder inline engine with a redesigned rear hatch door that enabled lower entry access to the storage area. The interior dashboard and switch placement was also totally redesigned. Five years later he sold it to someone from Vanazdor for only $2,000, which I did not have difficulty believing (although Ariga did). He didn’t mention why he sold it and I didn’t ask for that matter. And he didn’t seem surprised or displeased to learn that I purchased the car for an additional $900 of his supposed sale price.
The venture into the unknown but strikingly familiar bureaucratic world that we were about to enter started on Wednesday afternoon. We were to meet Babken at 2:00 pm at the registry of motor vehicles located on Raffi Street, about a mile away from the colorfully maddening Bangladesh market, which to me is the inferno. Of course there was no sign to identify the building, but we found a pedestrian who told us which one it was. On the outer wall were affixed bold, protruding white Armenian letters reading “Dove,” which I noticed as we drove by initially. We didn’t understand why and never bothered to ask since we would most likely have been met with bewilderment in kind. Unbeknownst to us, the registry takes a long lunch break—from 1:00 to 3:00 pm. We obviously had time to kill so after a call to Babken suggesting that he show up an hour later we drove to Ejmiadzin and back so we would be caught loitering (not that anyone would have cared). While we waited I half-joked that he would either show up in a used Mercedes-Benz or a relatively new Volga. He didn’t end up appearing until 3:20 pm, driving a Volga 3110 as predicted, but we weren’t sure if it was him until we bumped into each other while chatting with one another on our mobile phones.
We approached the window that is situated to the left of the building’s entrance to apply for the transfer of ownership—we presented the man with our passports and the car’s passport as well as our social security cards, which weren’t needed even though a sample was pasted on the window. There was only one thing missing—a proof of residence on my part. Babken entered a few offices to inquire further as he knew some of the employees, but it turned out that there was nothing more to be done that day. A proof of residence form was all that I needed to start the process.
So on Thursday morning I arranged an appointment with my landlord, Sergey, in front of the Center (or Kentron) Municipality Administration Building on the corner of Deryan and Sayat Nova streets. He asked me to spell out for him again what was to transpire, and when I briefed him what I needed and for what reason, he told me that we had to go to the district office, which was conveniently located in our neighborhood, on the ground floor of a seven-story building which must be an 1/8th of a mile long. Sergey is a sweet, easy going guy who only wants the best for my wife and I. He is probably charmed by the fact that I gave up life in the US to live here instead, and in these last two months he has helped tremendously with little errands and domestic things that needed repairs. The office was unidentified, and there was no way of realizing that it even existed. A simple, faded white-painted door was open, and when you looked inside there was a woman sitting at a desk in a small, sunny room decorated with a few plants. Those were the only clues to go by, but Sergey obviously knew where he was.
At first we were met with resistance, which wasn’t surprising. She insisted that I would have to be registered with the Central Police, then changed her mind and suggested that I speak to her supervisor in the next room. We asked him about the form that I needed and he negatively nodded his head, then sent us back to the clerk we had just visited. I explained to her by showing my special residency visa as well as the Niva’s passport that all I needed was a signed and sealed form proving that I was a resident guest of Sergey’s, as we agreed to put it, so that I could finalize the purchase of a car. She said about three times that such an action was illegal, explaining to Sergey each time, but I did not understand why at first until she finally said to him, “You know ordinarily that an announcement has to be printed.” He also needed to gain the approval of his neighbors supposedly and I think that of the police, plus he had to jump through some other hoops that weren’t made very clear. She drew up the form anyway of course, especially when considering that I would give her a “donation” for her painful task (the forms were in ready supply, pre-stamped, as I witnessed when she opened her drawer). I thanked Sergey again, although he was more than pleased to help. The next immediate stop was the registry of motor vehicles in Bangladesh.
Ariga and I arrived at the registry much more confident than the day before. We were a few minutes early and I was luckily able to find a spot near the entrance for a quick getaway, since within the next hour cars would be double parked throughout the small lot. We only had to wait for Babken for about five minutes as I called him before we left the house. After he arrived we approached the application window once more, handed over our passports and that of the Niva, and slipped him the proof of residence form. Babken suddenly disappeared and from the other side of the window motioned for me to go in the building and around—I left Ariga in line just in case. Another guy in the closet-like application office was there to expedite the process, which cost 1,500 dram. I called out to Ariga and she met us. Then Babken disappeared again and showed up a few minutes later with another form, on which was printed three separate fees that I needed to pay only to begin the transfer of ownership process. I had to go to the neighborhood post office, which was located on the ground floor of a high-rise apartment building about a quarter-mile away. I had to walk through a lovely courtyard filled with spring flowers and tall poplar trees, which is a kind of oasis considering the fact that most of Bangladesh is virtually a desert. There is a special office there that handles all such processing fees—why that office is not located in the registry building is a good question. I had to wait in line for 10 painless minutes, then I was off again to the registry and found Babken. Time was ticking, as we had far less than two hours before everything shut down for lunch at 1:00. We checked in at another office to have the receipt signed by an official, but I realized I had already spent nearly all the money in my pocket, amounting to about 25,000 dram. I asked Babken how much more I needed to spend, who was clueless, and someone waiting to get his signature told me about 32,000 dram, at the very least. I started to panic as we approached the man in charge of that department, Officer Mardirosyan, who would draft the sales agreement for the transfer of plates. He asked us to sit down then mumbled something to me in his alto voice. When I asked him to repeat he asked if I had an inspection sticker for 2007, then I told him I didn’t. I still had the one for 2006 since you have until August 30 to get the new one. He asked us why we were talking to him then, and sent us off to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building to apply for the vehicle inspection and pay the related motor vehicle taxes, as I had done twice before.
Privately I spoke to Ariga to raise 20,000 dram, and thank the Lord, Sabina was our salvation. We hopped into Babken’s car and were on our way, Ariga got out not far from the market and into a private taxi. Babken asked where she was off to and I said she had to run an errand, but would meet up with us, which she did five minutes after we arrived as he drove at a snail’s pace through a neighborhood lined with makeshift, one story brick homes—the same that you can find scattered throughout the city in hidden hamlets. He made a right turn and we were at the back entrance of the building, which was lined with full-grown trees. It’s strange incidentally how only the trees found just outside municipal government buildings and in privately maintained parks, like the one behind our home, never have their limbs cruelly severed. In any case, we entered the familiar office, and the woman working there printed a pre-paid receipt of 8,000 dram that we would have to pay at the ASHB bank branch office located in the ground floor (the most important administrative offices always seem to be found at the same place in most buildings). Ariga and I went down there and paid the fee as well as three tax payments, including the clean air tax, which will most likely be used to help some official make a cash payment towards a new Mercedes-Benz.
We went upstairs again and the clerk told me to come back to see her once the new plates were given to me and present to her a signed, sealed form proving that the transfer was made successfully in my name. Then I would be off to the Center Municipality Registry of Motor Vehicles, or so I thought.
After returning to the registry just before 12:30 we were told to go directly to the motor vehicle inspection office (a.k.a., tekh osmotr). The gentlemen there scribbled something on a square piece of paper which turned out to be the inspection sticker, then told me to go with another man to a office just across the way decorated with sour cherry trees and shrubs, which was actually a café at one time judging from the brightly colored painted wooden tables that were still there. A piece of letter-sized paper was tacked to the door which read “CO.” Ariga and I entered and he asked me to sit down. He wrote something down on a 2 x 4 inch photocopied form with some kind of table printed on one side and complicated text written in Armenian containing scientific terminology on the other, which I have yet to decipher since I can’t find the words in one of a few dictionaries. But after recognizing one of the words I realized that the hullabaloo was for an unperformed emissions check, which cost me 3000 dram.
I returned to the tekh osmotr office and the gentleman there (he was a really nice guy) asked me how we were going to do this. I told him that everything was in order, and Ariga repeated the same. Then he asked, “Well, where’s your doctor’s note?” By law every driver of a motor vehicle must present a certified letter from a qualified doctor explaining that he or she is of sound health and is capable of driving. But no one knows this law until they arrive at the tekh osmotr, and then they end up making a small donation, or paying a fine, whatever you wish to call it. Since motorists learn that you can get away with not presenting a doctor’s note, everyone continues doing the same thing year after year, and it has long ago become common practice to simply give some money in its place to whoever was collecting. I was not about to complicate my life any further, and I asked him quietly, “OK, how much?” He said 5,000 dram, and when I asked if there was a discount, he mentioned something about a war having occurred or something to that effect. Then his associate who was suddenly standing just behind me said, “Write it down as 4,000 dram.” I understood immediately that the whole business was documented, which was interesting. We made some small talk and the guy asked where I was from, then the associate immediately responded, “Massachusetts.” Ariga and I were shocked and pressed him to tell us how he knew. “He can see, he knows these things,” the gentleman exclaimed. I wonder if the associate works as a part-time seer or something. Babken suddenly appeared at the doorway and told us to hurry up, as we only had less than 10 minutes left.
Then a quick inspection of the car was made and vehicle identification number noted, while a kid came by offering to remove the license plates to make some money on the side. I regrettably handed in the plates, as the license number was prestigious with all the zeros—07UO009—but I could not keep them without paying an exuberant amount of money which Babken said was not worth it, and I agreed.
Officer Mardirosyan took our passports and drafted two copies of the agreement by hand, which both of us signed. The three of us left the office to check something—I didn’t catch what—then returned. The transfer and issuance of new license plates cost 30,000 dram, but I only had 5,000 dram left in my pocket. So I asked that I leave my Armenian special residency visa (which looks exactly like a passport) in exchange for returning in two hours with the money, which was thankfully not a problem. Babken’s work was complete and we shook hands then parted ways. He is a weird guy who surprisingly does not smoke and is very clean cut, but he was extremely patient throughout the red-taped nightmare.
I made sure the Niva doors were locked and found a Lada 2107 company taxi that happened to be parked alongside the curb anticipating suckers like me. We dropped off Ariga near the market since she had to meet Sabina to embark on another adventure. My destination was the office, where I sat for a little over an hour before leaving again.
Then I remembered that I needed to show some papers to the woman at the administration building back in Bangladesh, which I left with Ariga, but luckily I found her with Sabina roaming along Mashdots Avenue. I found another Lada 2107 taxi and was off to the registry once again. The driver wanted 1,500 dram even though the previous driver took only 1,000 for going the same distance. I was getting screwed but didn’t have time or the inclination to argue.
There was a line to enter Officer Mardirosyan's office and he had stepped out momentarily for some reason. Upon his return he immediately saw me in line and said, “Oh, you showed up, huh? Come inside.” There was an older man with crutches waiting for his plates, who wasn’t supposed to drive apparently but Officer Mardirosyan made it clear to him that he was doing him a huge favor. He and his wife left and it was my turn. He asked me what I do and I told him, then asked where I was from.
“You’re from Boston, huh? Listen, I have a relative there, Ararat Davityan, but I’m clueless as to his whereabouts. I know he died and has been buried with an identifying tombstone.” I asked for some more information, and it turns out his relative was captured by the Nazis during World War II. He somehow was released when the war ended and he was given the choice to return to the Soviet Union or go elsewhere, and he chose the latter, disappearing nearly without a trace. Word reached his family that he went to the US, but they didn’t know where, what happened to him there, and so forth, since he didn’t want to incriminate them. It turns out he had a family, but Officer Mardirosyan had no idea who his wife nor who his kids were. I told him that it would be difficult to know since there are over 1 million Armenians in the US, but his relative most likely ended up either in Boston or New York, where most Armenians settled down during that time, and that I would make some inquiries. Then we got down to business.
I gave him the 30,000 dram and he was pleased, but before I received the plates I would have to give some papers that he signed on the back of them to a woman named Asya who worked in the office across the way. He said I had five days to get to the Center Municipality Registry of Motor Vehicles and apply for the new passport (which is actually the title, I think) for the car—he said it was open on Saturday. Then I thanked him and went to the window behind which the Amazing Asya was supposedly working. After I walked the eight steps to get there I found that the window was closed, but after a five minute wait she arrived. I gave her the papers as well as my visa and she told me to come back in an hour—it was 3:30. I inquired whether I could come back the following day and she asked me how I would be able to drive without plates. She was right, naturally I had to wait. So I killed some time by buying a top-up card for my mobile phone service at a local grocery store. Then I devoured a refreshing ice cream cone followed by a half-liter bottle of ice-cold Arzni mineral water. I walked backed to my car and decided to wipe the dust from the dashboard. The kid, who was nearly as tall as me but about 14 years old, showed up a minute later and said, “You know that two of the bolts affixing the license plates have rusted and they won’t come off, right?” I didn’t believe him so I tried to get the front one off at least with the pliers I keep in the car. I tried for about 10 minutes and the nut wouldn’t budge. Then his pal came by, half his height but around the same age, with his own set of tools and went at it but couldn’t take it off. Two older gentlemen standing around waiting for something to happen came by to try as well, but nothing doing. They managed to remove the plate holder without damaging it using Armenian ingenuity and forced out the bolt from the bumper with a screwdriver. The bolt on the rear hatch door came off much easier by removing a vinyl cover that sits on the interior side, then he loosened the nut. One of the interested men in my predicament, who supposedly worked for the police, told me that since I could not affix the plate to the front bumper without properly fitting bolts, I could instead leave it on the dashboard in full view though the windshield, which was a relief. I gave the kids 500 dram between them, straightened out the bent front plate holder with my foot, and then casually approached Amazing Asya’s window to pick up my new plates at exactly 4:30. The window was closed and she was nowhere to be found.
So I waited there, resting my elbow on the sill of the picture-frame sized window. It was locked with a wood laminate hinged door so you couldn’t peek in to see what the hell was going on. Every once in a while I would knock loudly on the door to get my frustrations out. Some other poor sap came by asking where she was, and told him I had been waiting for well over an hour for my plates, After a couple of minutes passed he asked me what kind of car I had and whether I would be willing to sell it, but I told him that I was not, especially after all this trouble of registering the thing in my name. A half-hour dragged by and Amazing Asya still didn’t come back. Then I realized that around the left corner was another open window which revealed a grand office and the other side of Asya’s inaccessible window. I asked the woman where she was and she said she didn’t know, but asked politely that I stop banging on Asya’s door. I told her how long I had been waiting but she could have cared less. There were at least 10 people waiting for Asya to show up, anticipating her caboose to chug along the rear hall at the end of which she presumably disappeared. At 5:15 she showed up and I was the first one at the window again. The total wait time was 1 hour, 45 minutes. I could have watched one of a handful of Ingmar Bergman’s films during that period, putting the time to good use. As soon as she opened the door I asked, “What happened to Adanalian, of Khosroff?” She said she didn’t have anything from him, of course, then realized that my visa and paperwork were right in front of her sitting on the counter. Then Amazing Asya walked out of the office again for two minutes. It was remarkable that I kept my cool considering the madness, and the other gents around me, all middle aged, sympathized. After she showed up she presented a ledger then struggled to find an empty page on which for me to sign. I did so then she snatched it away, fetched the new license plates from a shelf across the room—which was loaded with them—and placed them on her counter. She punched a hole though the car’s passport to invalidate it, then handed it to me along with the paperwork, the plates, and my visa. And for her promptness I had to pay 1,500 dram. I asked Amazing Asya if I was done, she told me I was, and I cried Halleluiah then stormed out. I placed one of the places on the dashboard, managed to affix the other to the rear hatch door, and was off to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building for the second time that day.
I found the clerk in the office and asked if she could process whatever was needed. She explained that ordinarily she could have, but unfortunately the local computer network had a virus. I find it odd that, to my recollection, the administration building is the only one in which a network can be found. Everywhere I go things are done with pen and paper and ledgers. Sometimes you can find an abacus if additions are necessary for the tasks at hand. She said I could come back Saturday morning and she would be glad to take care of whatever was left to complete, which I am ecstatic about doing.
So far I have spent the following monies in dram for transferring the ownership of the Niva to me:
In other words, I have spent close to $200 for this aggravation based on the current dollar-to-dram exchange rate of 345 dram. The total would have been around $150 in 2005 based on the 445 dram exchange rate had I straightened this situation out then, and about $169 based on the 400 dram rate around this time last year. That’s a considerable price increase in only two years. I still have to pay the required fees and donations for facilitating the issuance of the new passport, and I cannot begin to guess how much those will cost.
Merouj, angel that he is, insisted at the time that Babken was in Russia, and no one in his neighborhood knew anything about his exact whereabouts, as was confirmed by one of the Niva’s previous owners in Vanadzor, who is also Merouj’s buddy conveniently enough. I trusted the notary that I was the legal owner and nothing else could stop me in my travels throughout Armenia or across its northern border. My experience two weeks ago when I feebly attempted to cross into Georgia with Hamlet by my side dissolved that dream into oblivion. The transfer of ownership paper meant nothing without the seal, and even if it was stamped it was condemned to expire in January 2008, only six months away. Ariga consulted our lawyer and I asked friends of mine for their advice. All of them said the same thing—I had no other alternative but to find the original owner and sort the matter out as soon as possible before other headaches would start tormenting me.
The name and address of the man was plainly printed both in Armenian and Russian on the front side of passport, which is the exact size of a credit card and made of the same type of plastic material. On the back of the passport is printed the license plate number, the year, make, and model of the car, the vehicle identification number, engine size, and other related information. None of the information was worn away or illegible by any means, which led me to believe that we could perhaps find the whereabouts of this guy ourselves. I was already suspicious that we had been duped by Merouj judging from the problems I had been having of late, not to mention the worn out piston and four piston rings that came with the Niva when I bought it from him, which he kept secret.
The address read 1 Ararat Street, Shahumyan quarter. A study on an online interactive map of Yerevan revealed that the neighborhood was located in the Malatia-Sebastia (a.k.a., Bangladesh) district. Ariga called her main information source, her girlfriend from back home in Vanadzor, Sabina, who also lives in Malatia and could probably find out where exactly the address was. Sabina is a walking, true-to-life yellow pages directory. She can obtain nearly any telephone number—residential, business, or otherwise—and decipher almost any kind of bureaucratic data that circulates in this city, not to mention Vanadzor. Whenever something needs to be figured out, especially when much running around time is to be anticipated, she is the first line of offense. Within 30 minutes after the start of their investigation they found the home of Babken, who did not live at the address printed on the passport but in a building just across the way. Babken was not present, and no one was home, although the neighbor insisted that his wife rarely leaves the house throughout the day. The neighbor also declined to give Babken’s phone number to Ariga, so she gave her our home telephone number instead to pass on to Babken, should he reveal himself. We had no idea if the neighbor would even give him our number nor if he would even try to contact us. But Ariga was smart enough to explain to the neighbor that the situation had to do with a car that Babken previously owned and was now in our possession. Some grandpas sitting in the courtyard said that Babken worked in the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building, but they didn’t know what position he held. When Ariga and Sabina asked the reception clerk there where Babken could be found, she stated that she didn’t know who he was. Then Ariga went home after calling to let me know what happened.
The next morning Babken called. Ariga passed the phone to me and I spoke very formally, explaining to him the situation. He immediately agreed that his name should be taken off the passport, as he put it, and be registered under my name. The responses he gave me were mostly grunts and moans, but we understood each other. His understood that the shoddy Niva sales deal finally came back to haunt him.
Babken purchased the Niva brand new in 1995 for $12,000. In fact, that model introduced a slightly larger, 1.7 liter four cylinder inline engine with a redesigned rear hatch door that enabled lower entry access to the storage area. The interior dashboard and switch placement was also totally redesigned. Five years later he sold it to someone from Vanazdor for only $2,000, which I did not have difficulty believing (although Ariga did). He didn’t mention why he sold it and I didn’t ask for that matter. And he didn’t seem surprised or displeased to learn that I purchased the car for an additional $900 of his supposed sale price.
The venture into the unknown but strikingly familiar bureaucratic world that we were about to enter started on Wednesday afternoon. We were to meet Babken at 2:00 pm at the registry of motor vehicles located on Raffi Street, about a mile away from the colorfully maddening Bangladesh market, which to me is the inferno. Of course there was no sign to identify the building, but we found a pedestrian who told us which one it was. On the outer wall were affixed bold, protruding white Armenian letters reading “Dove,” which I noticed as we drove by initially. We didn’t understand why and never bothered to ask since we would most likely have been met with bewilderment in kind. Unbeknownst to us, the registry takes a long lunch break—from 1:00 to 3:00 pm. We obviously had time to kill so after a call to Babken suggesting that he show up an hour later we drove to Ejmiadzin and back so we would be caught loitering (not that anyone would have cared). While we waited I half-joked that he would either show up in a used Mercedes-Benz or a relatively new Volga. He didn’t end up appearing until 3:20 pm, driving a Volga 3110 as predicted, but we weren’t sure if it was him until we bumped into each other while chatting with one another on our mobile phones.
We approached the window that is situated to the left of the building’s entrance to apply for the transfer of ownership—we presented the man with our passports and the car’s passport as well as our social security cards, which weren’t needed even though a sample was pasted on the window. There was only one thing missing—a proof of residence on my part. Babken entered a few offices to inquire further as he knew some of the employees, but it turned out that there was nothing more to be done that day. A proof of residence form was all that I needed to start the process.
So on Thursday morning I arranged an appointment with my landlord, Sergey, in front of the Center (or Kentron) Municipality Administration Building on the corner of Deryan and Sayat Nova streets. He asked me to spell out for him again what was to transpire, and when I briefed him what I needed and for what reason, he told me that we had to go to the district office, which was conveniently located in our neighborhood, on the ground floor of a seven-story building which must be an 1/8th of a mile long. Sergey is a sweet, easy going guy who only wants the best for my wife and I. He is probably charmed by the fact that I gave up life in the US to live here instead, and in these last two months he has helped tremendously with little errands and domestic things that needed repairs. The office was unidentified, and there was no way of realizing that it even existed. A simple, faded white-painted door was open, and when you looked inside there was a woman sitting at a desk in a small, sunny room decorated with a few plants. Those were the only clues to go by, but Sergey obviously knew where he was.
At first we were met with resistance, which wasn’t surprising. She insisted that I would have to be registered with the Central Police, then changed her mind and suggested that I speak to her supervisor in the next room. We asked him about the form that I needed and he negatively nodded his head, then sent us back to the clerk we had just visited. I explained to her by showing my special residency visa as well as the Niva’s passport that all I needed was a signed and sealed form proving that I was a resident guest of Sergey’s, as we agreed to put it, so that I could finalize the purchase of a car. She said about three times that such an action was illegal, explaining to Sergey each time, but I did not understand why at first until she finally said to him, “You know ordinarily that an announcement has to be printed.” He also needed to gain the approval of his neighbors supposedly and I think that of the police, plus he had to jump through some other hoops that weren’t made very clear. She drew up the form anyway of course, especially when considering that I would give her a “donation” for her painful task (the forms were in ready supply, pre-stamped, as I witnessed when she opened her drawer). I thanked Sergey again, although he was more than pleased to help. The next immediate stop was the registry of motor vehicles in Bangladesh.
Ariga and I arrived at the registry much more confident than the day before. We were a few minutes early and I was luckily able to find a spot near the entrance for a quick getaway, since within the next hour cars would be double parked throughout the small lot. We only had to wait for Babken for about five minutes as I called him before we left the house. After he arrived we approached the application window once more, handed over our passports and that of the Niva, and slipped him the proof of residence form. Babken suddenly disappeared and from the other side of the window motioned for me to go in the building and around—I left Ariga in line just in case. Another guy in the closet-like application office was there to expedite the process, which cost 1,500 dram. I called out to Ariga and she met us. Then Babken disappeared again and showed up a few minutes later with another form, on which was printed three separate fees that I needed to pay only to begin the transfer of ownership process. I had to go to the neighborhood post office, which was located on the ground floor of a high-rise apartment building about a quarter-mile away. I had to walk through a lovely courtyard filled with spring flowers and tall poplar trees, which is a kind of oasis considering the fact that most of Bangladesh is virtually a desert. There is a special office there that handles all such processing fees—why that office is not located in the registry building is a good question. I had to wait in line for 10 painless minutes, then I was off again to the registry and found Babken. Time was ticking, as we had far less than two hours before everything shut down for lunch at 1:00. We checked in at another office to have the receipt signed by an official, but I realized I had already spent nearly all the money in my pocket, amounting to about 25,000 dram. I asked Babken how much more I needed to spend, who was clueless, and someone waiting to get his signature told me about 32,000 dram, at the very least. I started to panic as we approached the man in charge of that department, Officer Mardirosyan, who would draft the sales agreement for the transfer of plates. He asked us to sit down then mumbled something to me in his alto voice. When I asked him to repeat he asked if I had an inspection sticker for 2007, then I told him I didn’t. I still had the one for 2006 since you have until August 30 to get the new one. He asked us why we were talking to him then, and sent us off to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building to apply for the vehicle inspection and pay the related motor vehicle taxes, as I had done twice before.
Privately I spoke to Ariga to raise 20,000 dram, and thank the Lord, Sabina was our salvation. We hopped into Babken’s car and were on our way, Ariga got out not far from the market and into a private taxi. Babken asked where she was off to and I said she had to run an errand, but would meet up with us, which she did five minutes after we arrived as he drove at a snail’s pace through a neighborhood lined with makeshift, one story brick homes—the same that you can find scattered throughout the city in hidden hamlets. He made a right turn and we were at the back entrance of the building, which was lined with full-grown trees. It’s strange incidentally how only the trees found just outside municipal government buildings and in privately maintained parks, like the one behind our home, never have their limbs cruelly severed. In any case, we entered the familiar office, and the woman working there printed a pre-paid receipt of 8,000 dram that we would have to pay at the ASHB bank branch office located in the ground floor (the most important administrative offices always seem to be found at the same place in most buildings). Ariga and I went down there and paid the fee as well as three tax payments, including the clean air tax, which will most likely be used to help some official make a cash payment towards a new Mercedes-Benz.
We went upstairs again and the clerk told me to come back to see her once the new plates were given to me and present to her a signed, sealed form proving that the transfer was made successfully in my name. Then I would be off to the Center Municipality Registry of Motor Vehicles, or so I thought.
After returning to the registry just before 12:30 we were told to go directly to the motor vehicle inspection office (a.k.a., tekh osmotr). The gentlemen there scribbled something on a square piece of paper which turned out to be the inspection sticker, then told me to go with another man to a office just across the way decorated with sour cherry trees and shrubs, which was actually a café at one time judging from the brightly colored painted wooden tables that were still there. A piece of letter-sized paper was tacked to the door which read “CO.” Ariga and I entered and he asked me to sit down. He wrote something down on a 2 x 4 inch photocopied form with some kind of table printed on one side and complicated text written in Armenian containing scientific terminology on the other, which I have yet to decipher since I can’t find the words in one of a few dictionaries. But after recognizing one of the words I realized that the hullabaloo was for an unperformed emissions check, which cost me 3000 dram.
I returned to the tekh osmotr office and the gentleman there (he was a really nice guy) asked me how we were going to do this. I told him that everything was in order, and Ariga repeated the same. Then he asked, “Well, where’s your doctor’s note?” By law every driver of a motor vehicle must present a certified letter from a qualified doctor explaining that he or she is of sound health and is capable of driving. But no one knows this law until they arrive at the tekh osmotr, and then they end up making a small donation, or paying a fine, whatever you wish to call it. Since motorists learn that you can get away with not presenting a doctor’s note, everyone continues doing the same thing year after year, and it has long ago become common practice to simply give some money in its place to whoever was collecting. I was not about to complicate my life any further, and I asked him quietly, “OK, how much?” He said 5,000 dram, and when I asked if there was a discount, he mentioned something about a war having occurred or something to that effect. Then his associate who was suddenly standing just behind me said, “Write it down as 4,000 dram.” I understood immediately that the whole business was documented, which was interesting. We made some small talk and the guy asked where I was from, then the associate immediately responded, “Massachusetts.” Ariga and I were shocked and pressed him to tell us how he knew. “He can see, he knows these things,” the gentleman exclaimed. I wonder if the associate works as a part-time seer or something. Babken suddenly appeared at the doorway and told us to hurry up, as we only had less than 10 minutes left.
Then a quick inspection of the car was made and vehicle identification number noted, while a kid came by offering to remove the license plates to make some money on the side. I regrettably handed in the plates, as the license number was prestigious with all the zeros—07UO009—but I could not keep them without paying an exuberant amount of money which Babken said was not worth it, and I agreed.
Officer Mardirosyan took our passports and drafted two copies of the agreement by hand, which both of us signed. The three of us left the office to check something—I didn’t catch what—then returned. The transfer and issuance of new license plates cost 30,000 dram, but I only had 5,000 dram left in my pocket. So I asked that I leave my Armenian special residency visa (which looks exactly like a passport) in exchange for returning in two hours with the money, which was thankfully not a problem. Babken’s work was complete and we shook hands then parted ways. He is a weird guy who surprisingly does not smoke and is very clean cut, but he was extremely patient throughout the red-taped nightmare.
I made sure the Niva doors were locked and found a Lada 2107 company taxi that happened to be parked alongside the curb anticipating suckers like me. We dropped off Ariga near the market since she had to meet Sabina to embark on another adventure. My destination was the office, where I sat for a little over an hour before leaving again.
Then I remembered that I needed to show some papers to the woman at the administration building back in Bangladesh, which I left with Ariga, but luckily I found her with Sabina roaming along Mashdots Avenue. I found another Lada 2107 taxi and was off to the registry once again. The driver wanted 1,500 dram even though the previous driver took only 1,000 for going the same distance. I was getting screwed but didn’t have time or the inclination to argue.
There was a line to enter Officer Mardirosyan's office and he had stepped out momentarily for some reason. Upon his return he immediately saw me in line and said, “Oh, you showed up, huh? Come inside.” There was an older man with crutches waiting for his plates, who wasn’t supposed to drive apparently but Officer Mardirosyan made it clear to him that he was doing him a huge favor. He and his wife left and it was my turn. He asked me what I do and I told him, then asked where I was from.
“You’re from Boston, huh? Listen, I have a relative there, Ararat Davityan, but I’m clueless as to his whereabouts. I know he died and has been buried with an identifying tombstone.” I asked for some more information, and it turns out his relative was captured by the Nazis during World War II. He somehow was released when the war ended and he was given the choice to return to the Soviet Union or go elsewhere, and he chose the latter, disappearing nearly without a trace. Word reached his family that he went to the US, but they didn’t know where, what happened to him there, and so forth, since he didn’t want to incriminate them. It turns out he had a family, but Officer Mardirosyan had no idea who his wife nor who his kids were. I told him that it would be difficult to know since there are over 1 million Armenians in the US, but his relative most likely ended up either in Boston or New York, where most Armenians settled down during that time, and that I would make some inquiries. Then we got down to business.
I gave him the 30,000 dram and he was pleased, but before I received the plates I would have to give some papers that he signed on the back of them to a woman named Asya who worked in the office across the way. He said I had five days to get to the Center Municipality Registry of Motor Vehicles and apply for the new passport (which is actually the title, I think) for the car—he said it was open on Saturday. Then I thanked him and went to the window behind which the Amazing Asya was supposedly working. After I walked the eight steps to get there I found that the window was closed, but after a five minute wait she arrived. I gave her the papers as well as my visa and she told me to come back in an hour—it was 3:30. I inquired whether I could come back the following day and she asked me how I would be able to drive without plates. She was right, naturally I had to wait. So I killed some time by buying a top-up card for my mobile phone service at a local grocery store. Then I devoured a refreshing ice cream cone followed by a half-liter bottle of ice-cold Arzni mineral water. I walked backed to my car and decided to wipe the dust from the dashboard. The kid, who was nearly as tall as me but about 14 years old, showed up a minute later and said, “You know that two of the bolts affixing the license plates have rusted and they won’t come off, right?” I didn’t believe him so I tried to get the front one off at least with the pliers I keep in the car. I tried for about 10 minutes and the nut wouldn’t budge. Then his pal came by, half his height but around the same age, with his own set of tools and went at it but couldn’t take it off. Two older gentlemen standing around waiting for something to happen came by to try as well, but nothing doing. They managed to remove the plate holder without damaging it using Armenian ingenuity and forced out the bolt from the bumper with a screwdriver. The bolt on the rear hatch door came off much easier by removing a vinyl cover that sits on the interior side, then he loosened the nut. One of the interested men in my predicament, who supposedly worked for the police, told me that since I could not affix the plate to the front bumper without properly fitting bolts, I could instead leave it on the dashboard in full view though the windshield, which was a relief. I gave the kids 500 dram between them, straightened out the bent front plate holder with my foot, and then casually approached Amazing Asya’s window to pick up my new plates at exactly 4:30. The window was closed and she was nowhere to be found.
So I waited there, resting my elbow on the sill of the picture-frame sized window. It was locked with a wood laminate hinged door so you couldn’t peek in to see what the hell was going on. Every once in a while I would knock loudly on the door to get my frustrations out. Some other poor sap came by asking where she was, and told him I had been waiting for well over an hour for my plates, After a couple of minutes passed he asked me what kind of car I had and whether I would be willing to sell it, but I told him that I was not, especially after all this trouble of registering the thing in my name. A half-hour dragged by and Amazing Asya still didn’t come back. Then I realized that around the left corner was another open window which revealed a grand office and the other side of Asya’s inaccessible window. I asked the woman where she was and she said she didn’t know, but asked politely that I stop banging on Asya’s door. I told her how long I had been waiting but she could have cared less. There were at least 10 people waiting for Asya to show up, anticipating her caboose to chug along the rear hall at the end of which she presumably disappeared. At 5:15 she showed up and I was the first one at the window again. The total wait time was 1 hour, 45 minutes. I could have watched one of a handful of Ingmar Bergman’s films during that period, putting the time to good use. As soon as she opened the door I asked, “What happened to Adanalian, of Khosroff?” She said she didn’t have anything from him, of course, then realized that my visa and paperwork were right in front of her sitting on the counter. Then Amazing Asya walked out of the office again for two minutes. It was remarkable that I kept my cool considering the madness, and the other gents around me, all middle aged, sympathized. After she showed up she presented a ledger then struggled to find an empty page on which for me to sign. I did so then she snatched it away, fetched the new license plates from a shelf across the room—which was loaded with them—and placed them on her counter. She punched a hole though the car’s passport to invalidate it, then handed it to me along with the paperwork, the plates, and my visa. And for her promptness I had to pay 1,500 dram. I asked Amazing Asya if I was done, she told me I was, and I cried Halleluiah then stormed out. I placed one of the places on the dashboard, managed to affix the other to the rear hatch door, and was off to the Malatia-Sebastia Administration Building for the second time that day.
I found the clerk in the office and asked if she could process whatever was needed. She explained that ordinarily she could have, but unfortunately the local computer network had a virus. I find it odd that, to my recollection, the administration building is the only one in which a network can be found. Everywhere I go things are done with pen and paper and ledgers. Sometimes you can find an abacus if additions are necessary for the tasks at hand. She said I could come back Saturday morning and she would be glad to take care of whatever was left to complete, which I am ecstatic about doing.
So far I have spent the following monies in dram for transferring the ownership of the Niva to me:
In other words, I have spent close to $200 for this aggravation based on the current dollar-to-dram exchange rate of 345 dram. The total would have been around $150 in 2005 based on the 445 dram exchange rate had I straightened this situation out then, and about $169 based on the 400 dram rate around this time last year. That’s a considerable price increase in only two years. I still have to pay the required fees and donations for facilitating the issuance of the new passport, and I cannot begin to guess how much those will cost.
Labels: Personal Experiences, Social and Cultural
June 11, 2007
An afternoon in Artashat
On Sunday around noontime I picked up my Niva with my advocate Hamlet from the guy who had just completed repairing the body damage that was inflicted in a collision which occurred almost two weeks ago. The car looks better than it ever had with the repairs, which as I explained in my previous post were relatively minor. However, we noticed that the front lights on the driver’s side where the car was hit were not functioning at all. Plus there were other longstanding issues with the tailgate lights that were not resolved despite a visit to an automobile electrician a few weeks back. We immediately drove to the AutoLada car parts store on Gomidas Avenue and purchased a completely new set of light bulbs even though most of the existing ones did not seem to be burnt out. But the rear turning signal lights were still acting up as well as the brake and reverse indicator lamps. So one block away on Kochari Street we found a garage that advertised wheel alignments, which I also needed, and we hoped that we could kill two birds with one stone. Unfortunately the guy who performs alignments was taking the day off, but there was a young electrician on hand who asked us to give him about an hour to do the job. He properly diagnosed the problem so that now every light, from the high beams to the fender turning signal lamps to the reverse directional indicators are all working properly, lit brighter than ever.
The next mission was to visit Hamlet’s extended family with his visiting uncle Ruben accompanying us in Artashat, which is located about 15 miles or 30 kilometers south of Yerevan. We took the old road which cuts through several small towns and villages including Nor Kharpert, which was founded by refugee settlers from the real Kharpert in Western Armenia just after the Armenian Genocide. Incidentally, the main public school of the small town contains a fascinating museum that I visited with my parents about the Armenian community of Kharpert, which has been renamed Elazig by the Turks.
In any case we arrived in Artashat in about a half-hour after embarking on our journey. The town is probably one of the dustiest in the entire country, probably due to a general lack of trees presumably because most of them were cut during the past 15 years. Artashat was one of several capital cities of Armenia, during its over 3000 year existence, at the turn of the first century AD. It was founded in 190 BC by King Artaxias at the urging of Hannibal the Carthaginian as a strategic outpost. Naturally the city became a battleground for waging forces as were many key areas throughout historic Armenia, having been leveled by Roman general Marcus Statius Priscus in 163 AD. The city lost its status as a political and cultural center for Armenian life in 428 AD. Now it is home to the renowned Artashat canning factory, which markets its varieties of pickles and pastes under the Artfood brand, so the city survives at least as a business center of sorts.
We showed up at the home of the Hovhanissyans
When we arrived gorgeous chunks of red pork dressed with oil, paprika, and slivered onions were being skewered, awaiting submersion into the coveted tonir oven. Krikor’s in-ground tonir, wider than most I have seen, is made from highly heat resistant rock bricks which seem to work just as nicely as clay for the oven, but the rough surface was not capable of supporting leaves of lavash for baking. As soon as the skewers were suspended by iron rods in the red-hot tonir and covered by various sheet metal scraps and cloths, Krikor started shouting for the lamb “khashlama” to be placed on the table as the unexpected first course. Khashlama, which is made from either lamb or beef, is simmered for several hours with potatoes and other vegetables, if desired. If done properly, the meat is tender and generally flavorful, but if the meat is tough the dining experience is unpleasant since the cuts chosen are those especially suited for braising or simmering, like the leg shanks. Krikor uses a special stock prepared from beer and whole peppercorns. Hamlet told me once before that his cousin used that bizarre combination, then my wife admitted to me last night that her father also prepared the dish the same way. You never know what you’re going to get with khashlama as I have been disappointed more times than satisfied. But I was shocked as to what I tasted. The meat was literally falling off the bone and was extremely tender. Even the sinew and cartilege were sweetly gelatinous and completely edible. The salt was just right, not overpowering as is evident in many Armenian dishes. Some of the bones seemed malleable, perfect munching for the family dog. The fat that had melted into the stock during the cooking process left a thin grease layer around my lips as I enjoyed the meat with roasted hot peppers wrapped in lavash. The lamb was superb, very fresh, and had no hints of gaminess whatsoever. I had two or three pieces during a half hour stretch along with about six toasts of chilled vodka (every one of which I could not possibly have drunk), which was produced by the nearby Avshar liquor company and was surprisingly fairly smooth. Incidentally, some of the toasts were crisscrossing between toastmasters with arguments breaking out during the ritual, shot glasses in hand. Etiquette requires that you patiently wait until the toastmaster and others interrupting him finish what they have to say before swigging the vodka—the wait time could last several minutes. Glasses clink at least two or three times before the gulp is downed. Krikor shouted at me from across the table to save room for the second course.
Shortly thereafter came the barbeque (khorovadz). Krikor explained his cooking tricks to me, but did not give out too many details. The least secretive one was his technique of inserting a small piece of thick bread at the end of each skewer, which supposedly protected the meat from falling into the slow flame at the bottom of the tonir (and from charring). He pulled the meat from the skewers with pieces of lavash doubling as heat-resistant mitts while someone else held the rod supporting the skewers above the wide but shallow lavash-lined metal pot. Each chunk of meat was separated by a potato slice that absorbed the dripping fat during the cooking process. I was surprised, yet again, by the roasted meat. Again, freshness is everything, and if you come across meat that is crusted over and on the verge of rotting, don’t touch it, as it will make for bad barbeque. The local pork was some of the best I have ever tasted. In fact, I do not remember eating tonir-roasted barbeque as good as Krikor’s. The color inside and out was beautiful, the likes of which you would see in photos of properly prepared meat dishes in cookbooks. It was indescribably perfect. High quality pork is not white or light pink as what is sold in the US—it has a dark red hue that is similar to that of lamb, and the texture of the flame-roasted meat is like beef. He calls his barbeque “Lah-lah,” and kept repeating “This is my Lah-lah,” which sounds like a woman’s nickname, as if he was talking about his beloved mistress. I tried to learn the definition of the term but I could not get a straight answer until he had another shot or two of vodka. While still at the table he cut open a perfectly roasted piece of pork filet, soft as butter, and said, “You see how beautiful this meat is, the way it’s been slowly cooked, and the color? That’s Lah-lah.” I finally understood then and there.
The meal was followed by revelry in song. Hamlet and Krikor took turns in singing traditional folk songs, and in between Hamlet’s uncle sang something in Farsi. Krikor simultaneously beat on his “dhol,” a double-skinned drum made from walnut measuring about a foot in height and 16 inches or so in diameter. As a young man he once performed at a wedding and earned 3,000 rubles, playing the dhol so long and fervently that his fingers began to bleed, the marks of which permanently stained the drum skin. He vowed never to change it.
Krikor is a life-loving man in is early 40s who is been blessed with humor and hospitality. He made me feel like I was a cousin visiting for the first time. But he is plagued by what is likely a mild form of altitude sickness resulting in high cerebral pressure. The medication he is taking at about $1.50 per tablet does nothing to ease his pain. Doctors have finally told him that he needs to leave for a country with a lower altitude, as the hopes are that the pressure will subside after an extended period of time so that he can resume his life in Armenia. He makes a living as a dental technician but lacks the proper equipment, namely a special kiln which is used for baking porcelain partials and is where the money is; thus he is forced to work with cheap gold alloys to cap teeth. I didn’t understand why he does not pursue opportunities in Yerevan—I am assuming because of his health. But Hamlet and I are hoping that somehow his luck will turn around for the better fairly soon.
Labels: Personal Experiences, Social and Cultural
Labels
Links
FootprintsTings...
The Armenia Blog
Armenia Travel Blog
The Armenian Economist
Armenian Eyes
The Armenian Observer Blog
The Armenian Odar
ArmYouth Blog
Cicer et cetera
Global Voices Online Armenia
IPen
Halfway Down The Danube
Hasmik's Blog
The Instant Me
Karoun Charkoudian
Iain Dale's Diary
Life Around Me
Martuni Or Bust!!!
Neeka's Backlog
Oneworld Blog
Recollections of a Vagabonde
Transitions Online
Sarkis Mkrtchian's Blog
Tonyspad.com
Tour Armenia
Hetq Online
Armenia Liberty
The Armenian Weekly
Radio-Gayane - Armenian Radio
BlogRankings.com
Archives
November 2004December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009