Carpetblogger

Ask Carpetblogger: Does Camel Toe Have Two Meanings?

Because there are so many easy targets, Out of respect for the rich culture of Azerbaijan, I usually try to ignore ridiculous new stories coming out of Baku. But like the asshole hotel, once they hit outlets like FARK, I feel it's my duty to weigh in and add a bit of cultural context.

The local media recently busted the Camel Toe, a fine drinking establishment in Baku that I have used to illustrate so many anecdotes that Carpetblog (proudly) comes up in google searches of the term.  Apparently, the wizards at the state-controlled Today.AZ just discovered what the name means. (Don't know? Wikipedia does).

The retardedness of taking issue with the name of a bar that has been there for AT LEAST five years is exceeded only by the retardedness of the article itself. Because I don't trust you to click through, I'm going to parse it in this post so you don't miss a morsel.

Azerbaijan is among the most tolerant countries of the world.

This has been repeatedly stated even on state level. Our country serves as an example for other CIS states

This is true, though let's be careful about setting the bar too high. Azerbaijan does compare favorably to Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Belarus. However, the Kyrgyz have a real edge in the sheep fucking department and the Moldovans might have better food.

A pub named Camel's toe which initially seems to mean what it means -"A toe of a camel" functions in the very center of Baku, several meters away from the passage, at 22. Mamedaliyev street.

But, in fact the name has a double meaning. The Camel's Toe has a meaning "the clear visible presence of a woman's vulva as a consequence of wearing overly right [sic] pants.

A question comes to mind: was it named so on purpose? And what does the logotype of the pub, which locates in one of the most popular streets of Baku, mean? (see the photo below).

Impossible! A Baku bar whose primary clientele is snaggle-toothed rig monkeys and the women who love them was absolutely named in honor of the foot of a dromedary. What possible double meaning could be extracted from that?

The girl at the bar said the pub was named on purpose. "Every client understands it as he wills..." She refused to translate our questions to the bar owner saying that the latter is aware of the name.

Well, we would not make any conclusions. But several questions arise unwittingly.

Why did they name the pub like that? Could they not understand that this may arise protest among the local population?

I would say the questions arose dimwittedly, but in a country like Azerbaijan which, in addition to its tolerance, is also known for free and open debate in the media, that might be unfair. Also, since the local population utters nary a peep when the national treasure is appropriated by the kleptocracy while IDPs live in holes in the ground, the owners of the Camel Toe probably felt confident that opposition to the name of a bar would be muted.

Perhaps, the British citizens wanted to introduce European culture in Azerbaijan, forgetting about the local mentality?

Perhaps, they wanted to mock at Azerbaijanis, who are not aware of such details of British slang? Or perhaps they bound the slang name of the pub with Azerbaijani ladies, visiting it?

None of the Brits I knew ever tried to introduce any kind of culture, European or otherwise, to Baku. Furthermore, "camel toes" would be the least unkind thing you could say about any Azerbaijani "ladies" that frequented that bar.

The article is infused with a "I'm shocked! Shocked!" tone at the prospect that prostitution *might* be going on in the neighborhood.

By information, our news agency received, prostitutes are working at some pubs, providing services to foreign "fat cats" for at least $500. "Ladies" do not want the local population to see them, therefore, such establishments are usually private and local residents are not allowed in.

So by "private" Today.AZ must mean "advertising in all the English language newspapers" and "garishly signed on the street." And why would any local visit an overpriced pub aimed at foreigners when there are at least eleventy-million sleazy joints offering bargain-basement whores within a 10 block radius that appeal more to the "local mentality" (i.e. young and hairy)? Remember the old Carpetblog rule about bars which you have to walk downstairs to enter?

The sheer number of whorehouses in a downtown area might be yet another area in which Azerbaijan leads the CIS. And when you're competing against Kyiv and Moscow, that's quite an achievement.

All this manufactured outrage at Today.Az suggests to me that the owner of the Camel Toe got sideways with someone in the government, or ran a whorehouse that provided too much competition to the other brazillion in the immediate vicinity or the local liquor importing cartel decided to play hardball. The Producer, who is once again Carpetblog's on-the-ground eyes and ears, reports that the fuss is the work of a disgruntled employee.

Ask Carpetblogger: Why do you hate India so much?

Instead of a lengthy rant, I think it's more effective to turn your attention to this BBC story about a New Delhi homeowner who fell to his death while fighting off a PLAGUE OF MONKEYS on his balcony.

A plague of monkeys. Is there any other kind?

I was intrigued, however, by the the line in the article about how cities are training bands of larger, more ferocious langur monkeys to go after the smaller groups of Rhesus macaques.

If monkey fights were staged for entertainment -- perhaps even wagering -- purposes  I might reconsider my position. If the monkeys in question had the plague, then definitely. I would go to India to see that.

One of the reasons I read Slate is because of the Explainer column, which often answers questions that I have in my head but never know whom to ask. Yesterday, The Explainer told us what to do if we are ever attacked by monkeys. This is news I can use. I once threw a book at a monkey that entered my hotel room in Varanasi, a horrible city full of hostile monkeys.

Ask Carpetblogger: Who IS that Woman?

This question is unique in the history of Carpetblog and it comes from a Mark Adkins, of Phoenix, Arizona:

My question is, who is the gorgeous woman pictured at the top left just below the "ABOUT" link?  The one in the painting?  Who is that, and where can I find bigger pictures?  I think I'm in love...

(I reserve the right to do a complete about-face if and when I see a larger picture -- I can't see much in the way of detail at present.)

And don't think you can just ignore this.  I'll keep pestering you until I find out.  Really.

Pester all you want, Mark! The story of this lovely lady is here. She is Afghan, and was a special present from a friend who wanted to make sure he brought a carpet I didn't have already! I can totally see why you've fallen in love. Right now, however, the Producer has custody. If you are in Baku, you could challenge him to a duel for her.

Ask Carpetblogger! How Do I Become a Bureaucracy Usta Like You?

It seems like it was just yesterday that I was dealing with things like setting up utilities, cable and ADSL in a language I don't speak, but here I am doing it again with only marginally more language skills.

Becoming an Usta (master) in Turkish bureaucracy is not something that can be achieved overnight, but every time you fail you learn something new and every time you succeed you feel like a complete bad-ass. My advice is start with something easy (setting up your Digiturk) and move up to advanced techniques (getting your resident permit).

Let's get started.

Do your advance work: There is a surprising amount of online information in Turkey in English. Many times, you can identify the location of the correct office, download the documents you need and figure out exactly what you should bring with you, thus saving you multiple trips and helping you avoid conversations you won't understand.

Block time. Do not assume it will go quickly and don't be in a rush. You will make mistakes and have to backtrack. You must not get annoyed.

Go early. This might be the most important hint. Crowds and chaos are your enemy, and while you cannot avoid either completely, you should do what you can to minimize them. Remember, Turks don't get up early. Get a good night's sleep the night before and be there when the office opens. Not only will you beat the rush, but you will avoid tea/lunch breaks which can disrupt the stamp-getting flow. Both you and the bureaucrats will be in a better mood, too.

Bring everything you think you could possibly be asked for: Passports, ikamet cards, tax cards, photos and multiple photocopies are the currency of Turkish bureaucracies. Come well stocked. Having it and not needing it is preferable than needing it and not having it. Remember though, if you forget something simple, there is probably someone selling it outside the door of the office that demands it.

Think like an Ottoman-era bureaucrat. Every figure is an authority and every authority figure needs a stamp. Your goal is to obtain a stamp from each of these authorities. Also, remember, no one can be trusted to handle money. If you understand this you will not be confused when you have to visit five windows for five different stamps and then go to the bank down the street to pay (you ALWAYS have to go somewhere different -- a different window or floor or building or city -- to pay). There is no penalty for going to the wrong window (other than time wasting). If you go to the wrong window, smile, be apologetic and someone will send you to the correct one eventually.  Remember, you do not need to understand what every stamp or window is for. Your goal is just to get them. (This is actually Carpetblogger's Key to Expat Success #4: You Do Not Need To Understand Everything That Happens Around You.

Watch carefully: Take a few minutes before jumping in to the process to read the signs (physical and psychological), to understand the flow and logic of the room and identify helpful, friendly-looking clerks. Identify centers of power in case you need to appeal to a higher authority. Look for another customer who is doing the same task as you and follow them.

Know your enemy. Your enemy is not the clerk behind the desk; it is other customers. Put on your game face and sharpen your elbows. Every new customer arrives, pushes to the front and asks a question.  This means that the clerk will stop doing whatever he or she was doing (i.e. helping you) to answer that question, probably only partially, then will forget to come back to whatever task he or she was doing before. This results in a room full of half-helped customers and clerks running around squawking. Americans are too polite and will fume quietly rather than join a scrum or cut a line. Get over this. Your goal is to cut the line yourself (play that foreigner card while  it still works!) while physically blocking other line cutters from getting to the front. Once you're there, you must make sure the clerk has space to focus on his or her task, which is helping you.

Make friends: Being a western foreigner gets you pretty far in Turkey (god help you if you are Russian or Bulgarian, though). Smile, be friendly and be free with your polite Turkish and the compliments.  This works in America, too. Once, while doing opposition research in an American courthouse, I was given documents I had no right to have simply by complementing the clerk's dress. The other goal is to identify a sympathetic, competent figure who maybe speaks a few words of English. This is especially important if you make repeat visits to a particular office.

Don't let anyone tell you you can't get your ADSL or telephone line yourself. It does take a little extra time, patience and creativity, but you can do it if you keep a few things in mind. In fact, I think many of these principles apply everywhere*, even if you do speak the language.

*Except the FSU. Forget it. You're screwed.

Ask Carpetblogger: How do you clean your carpets?

Until this week, my answer has been, "I don't."

The likelihood an elective activity like carpetwashing gets done is inversely proportional to the number of linguistic and logistical obstacles that stand in its way. Not only must I identify a qualified carpet cleaning professional, that person has to come get the carpets. Furthermore, moving stinky carpets around is a royal pain in the ass any time of the year, more so when it is 100 degrees and you are on your own. These are all significant obstacles.

On the other hand, I have carpetdogs, so my carpets are pretty damn dirty. Smelly too. That workhorse 6' x 5' Dagestan sumac that was in the dining room in Baku and Kyiv absorbed prodigious amounts of food and alcohol from Sunday dinners and parties. These factors make carpetwashing less elective and more imperative.

Most importantly, however, if you're moving into a new apartment with Ottoman-era wood floors that appear to be designed for your favorite carpets (or, looking at it another way, if you made your second real estate purchase based on how good your carpets will look), you cannot have dirty carpets.

So what to do?

One thing you'll notice about Istanbul is that there are a lot of carwashes. Because Turks are enterprising, rare is the carwash that is only used for washing cars. For example, because they can be hosed down, carwashes are ideal places for a bayram sacrifice -- a ritual slaughter of sheep and cows and a right bloody mess. More frequently, however, carwash guys are as likely to be aiming their high pressure hoses and soap brushes at carpets hanging from wires as Anadolu sedans.

"No carpet of mine is going to a skanky carwash!" I sniffed.

Turns out, that's pretty much wrong. A few weeks ago, I called a carpet dealer and he came to get three of them. They came home all shiny and reptilian, smelling of clean wool rather than dirty dog. I fell in love with them all over again.

Apparently, they went to a carwash. According to my sources, that's standard Istanbul carpetwashing procedure.

If this is the case, I thought, why not just cut out the middleman and go talk to the guys at the carwash near my house?

Fortunately, my Turkish has progressed to the point where I can negotiate such a transaction. I hopped into the guy's 1967 green jeep Cherokee and we sped up the street to my house. He threw them in the back and took off. Receipt? Hells no.  I've been able to track their progress as I pass by with the carpetdogs. They've been drying on the roof of the carwash in the scorching June sun.

I was only going to get a couple carpets washed, but why stop with six? I've got another eight ready to go. The remaining eight might wait, or I might send them to the car wash too.

Ask Carpetblogger: Post-Invasion Etiquette

Has your country ever invaded someone else's on false pretenses, sparking sectarian violence and civil war? If so, can you offer some suggested conversation topics, should you ever meet someone from that country in, say, Turkish class?

Answer: Yes and yes! As it turns out, I found myself in this sticky social situation just today.  I don't know how other people have handled it, but here are some topics of conversation I suggest trying out if an Iraqi sits next to you in Turkish class:

• Our freedom: Why do you hate it?
• True or False: The terra-ists have won. Justify your answer
• Didn't you just have an election? That means Iraq is a democracy now, right?
• Cutting and running: pros and cons.
• Don't you worry that the country will be destabilized if Turkey invades Kurdistan?
• The news media never report the good news coming out Iraq. Why is that?
• Why can't you people get along?

I'm counting on these to last through the whole month long course! Does anyone else have any other suggestions?

Ask Carpetblogger: What's up with Eurovision?

As a public service to our American readers, who frequently have a hard time seeing eye to eye on cultural issues with our European friends, Carpetblog presents...

                                                Eurovision: A Primer

As with the first and second most boring non-Canadian sports ever (soccer: dozens of Americans can't be wrong!), Eurovision hasn't crossed the pond very successfully. But it should surprise no one that a contest won by Abba in 1974 ("Waterloo") is one of the biggest television events of the year in Europe. Given the recent influx of Eastern Europeans and former Soviets into the contest, observers should expect the quality of the performances to far exceed that of Celine Dion's winning barnburner in 1988. In terms of talent and production value, Eurovision makes American Idol look like "An Evening at the Lincoln Center." 

I'm not going to waste a lot of space here trying to help you understand just exactly what Eurovision is all about (its history and voting procedure is surprisingly long and complicated. Wiki's got it all), but these sentences from RFE/RL should help clarify things:

"Nine out of the 10 semifinal winners are from postcommunist countries. Moldova, Belarus, Georgia, Serbia, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Latvia, Hungary, and Slovenia all qualified. The other country was Turkey.

This year, it seems folksy ethno-pop -- complete with Cossack sword dancing and panpipes -- is triumphing over drum machines and techno."

When the battle is between the "folsky ethno pop" of a bunch of former commies and Scandinavian "drum machines and techno," one might conclude that the larger war has already been lost. The devushkas won.

Eurovision 2007 might be one of the few arenas in the world, other than fertilizer production, in which Belarus is considered a leader.

Turkey's entry this year -- considered a frontrunner -- is also tritely bland.

 Last year's winner, the Finnish "metal" band Lordi, caused quite a scandal for its divergence from the bubble-gum pop that the contest's pan-Euro voting system encourages. Because Finland won last year, it is hosting this year's event.

The problem with Eurovision is that not that it's tacky and frequently trite -- all of us appreciate that. It's that it's taken so dead seriously. When people are arguing about and voting for "the best song" they seriously mean "the best song," not the "most over-the-top-song" or "song that best illuminates national character." Sometimes they mean "goofiest floor show," though. This helps explain the success of Ukrainian Ruslana, who won in 2003. Ruslana seems to have been influenced by The Attila Collection, or vice versa. You never know in the creative caldron that is the FSU.

This failure to appreciate legitimate talent is why this year's Ukrainian entry -- a anti-Russian drag queen named Verka -- is mocked for not being "serious" rather than given a lifetime achievement award for being 1000 different kinds of awesome. How a country devoid of intentional irony managed to nominate a drag queen for Eurovision is beyond me but VERKA rocks and totally has my vote!

Coming soon: Eurovision and geopolitics!

Ask Carpetblogger! How Do you Color Your Hair in All Those Places?

It's a little known fact, except to those who have known me since college, that I started going gray at age 16; by age 23, I was coloring my hair regularly. Since then, every 6-8 weeks, I have had to find a qualified hair color professional and pay him or her a lot of money or run the risk of people asking me where my dangly earrings and Volvo are (but not my sensible shoes -- those are the only kind I wear anymore).

For this I blame my ancestors, but at least I'm graying and not balding.

In less itinerant times, I had a standing appointment with the colorist of the hour. There was never any uncertainty. The "recipe" never changed. When The Producer and I left for the big trip, my Portland colorist wrote down my recipe. I carried it with me, alongside my list of allergies and my emergency contacts. Unlike those other items, which were a lot less important, I laminated it.

On the road, it was pretty worthless. A hairdresser with whom I didn't share a language would always scrutinize it carefully, nod sagely and do whatever he or she wanted anyway. This is when I began to internalize the Zen koan that is essential to satisfying long term travel or life overseas: Do not want what you cannot have and be happy with what you get.

Now, as long as I still have hair on my head -- and none of it is visibly gray -- when I leave the salon, I am happy. If the color doesn't wash out the next day, it's considered a raging success.

In the new lifestyle, uncertainty is the operative word. Selecting an appropriate salon in a new city requires a complicated algorithm. I usually prefer a gay man, but identifying one can sometimes cause a lot of embarrassment. English-speakers are always preferred, as is general cleanliness. There comes a point, however, when the most important goal is getting color. A poster in the window --no matter how faded -- of an identifiable brand is good enough. But the fact is, women all over the world color their hair and as long as you can keep the hairdresser away from the bottle of canned heat (CIS red) and the "highlights," you'll probably be O.K.

The longest time I ever went between coloring was three months. We had been traveling through Ethiopia, Kenya and Uganda so I don't need to explain why I let it go that long. By the time we arrived in Johannesburg, my shoulder length brown hair was half gray. I was a fright. There was a very modern salon across the street from the guesthouse. We got off the plane at 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon. By 3:00 I was standing in the reception, watching them sweep up the hair and wind up the blow dryer cords. Even though South Africans do speak a dialect of English, no words were necessary.

"Oh honey. This is an emergency. You sit down right now and we'll take care of this."

I had also had it done in Lhasa, Tibet. I wanted to find a Tibetan-run salon, so I wandered the streets looking for one. I don't recall the criteria I used for determining a salon's ownership, but whatever. I couldn't find one. The Han Chinese hairdresser I chose was so detail oriented that I swear he colored, cut and dried each individual hair on my head. Since I have A LOT of hair, it took about four hours. The Producer was ready to send out a search party.

I identified a really good woman in Baku (I cursed her for taking so many weddings that I couldn't get an appointment last weekend). I found her because I was in charge of catering to a "Very High Profile Visitor" to Baku's every whim. Making this person happy was so important to me that I PERSONALLY tested out the hairdresser this person had requested, 'cause that's how I roll. She was great with the color and she made that Very High Profile Visitor look good as well. At least I found a good colorist in Baku for all my considerable trouble with that High Profile Visitor.

Yesterday, out of desperation (the point I always get to in a new city), I walked around my neighborhood looking for a place that "looked OK" and made an appointment.

I realize that you've read this far and you're expecting drama. You want to hear that my hair was turned the color of cheap merlot (that happened, but in a mall in Los Angeles) or about a bad perm made it stick-straight (that happened too, but a long time ago in San Jose).

I just don't have any drama to report. I got my hair colored today in an ordinary salon that happened to be run by a 60+ year old Turkish guy with a mustache, belly and striped polo shirt who looked like a plumber. He didn't wear gloves to color so his hands were stained black and he didn't speak a word of English. He was clearly the owner, maybe gay, and handed off lesser duties (color mixing, cutting, drying) to his minions. It cost me only a little less than I pay in the U.S.

My hair looks fine. Sorry. I'll try to do better next time

Enidd Asks Carpetblogger

One of the funnest parts about blogging is making blogfriends. Blogfriends are like radio DJs. Based on the selective information that person provides about him or herself, you develop an image in your head of what he or she looks, thinks like and even what their real name is. Then you get to meet the person and poof! Everything has to be recalibrated to match reality.

Carpetblogger just met Chirol of Coming Anarchy for a couple of beers beneath the Galata Bridge as he passed through Istanbul. Fortunately, we remembered to ask his real name right before meeting up. He had just visited Azerbaijan and oddly, he didn't find it all that compelling. Hard to believe. Here's a piece of advice if you're about to meet a blogfriend for the first time: He or she will probably be younger than you expect.

Enidd is one of my favorite bloggers. She lives in Kyiv --er, Molvania --and I can't believe we weren't real friends when I lived there. Stalin and Fluffy, however, would have kicked the Carpetdogs' skinny white dogasses out of principle.

Enidd has a feature called On The Couch, in which she poses questions to her blogfriends.  She directed some questions to Carpetblogger. Carpetblogger promises to direct questions to someone else, probably Wu Wei, whom we met in Kyiv last summer, or The Copydude.

1) how did you meet the carpetdogs?

We knew the carpetdogs back before they had passports written in three languages, back when they did other things besides sleep all day.

                   

The most precious dogchild came from the San Francisco SPCA, in 1996, at a year old. He's always been a willful dog, which was probably why it was already his second visit to the SPCA when we picked him out. The fact that he later flunked out of three Canine Good Citizen classes just endeared him to us even more. He was just a lot smarter than those dumb golden retrievers and suck-up labs. Some might even say gifted. You can't blame him for being frustrated in that environment.

The other, less precious dogchild came from an Aussie rescue in Hood River, Oregon, in 1999 at about two years old. She is known as the Supermodel -- beautiful but dumb as a box of hair. On the other hand, she had never gone to the vet for any but routine reasons, she has never seen a doggie neurologist, she has never contracted deadly diseases, nor has she exploded pus all over the walls. Some argue that she is, in fact, the better dog.

When people ask us why we don't have children, we point to our dogs as evidence of our bad parenting skills. We ignore basic principles of obedience. We play favorites and encourage unhealthy rivalry. We don't believe in traditional educational systems. We left them alone with a complete stranger for a year. Not much better than dirty hippies, really. And anyway, we don't even live in the same country, so it would have to be like immaculate conception.   

2) you switch on the tv, and hear the scariest thing you've ever heard.  what is it?

Bush re-elected. 1/20/09 is not that far away, right?

3) enidd's dying to know why you were kicked out of baku - but if you'd rather not say, tell us why you decided on ukraine (for a while).

There isn't enough bandwidth to cover the whole story and names would have to be changed to protect the craven. So, you'll just have to wait for the book (or a nice Napa Valley Cab at Enidd's new house in SF). The readers' digest version is that the wheels of the petrocracy bus in Azerbaijan were really, really painful.

4) there's only one jar of peanut butter left in the whole world, and it's in your kitchen. do you send it to your elderly, cancer-ridden, peanut-butter-o-phile relative, or pretend it never existed?

Well, I still have that salmonella-ridden jar of Peter Pan. I could totally give that to the elderly, cancer-ridden relative. That would be ok, right? What could it possibly hurt?

5) yushchenko or yanukovych?

I'm sorry. I have no idea who those people are.

Ask Carpetblogger: How Do I Get to the Producer's New Mansion?

                                       

Turn right at the sheep.

                                    

                                    

No, no, no, not this sheep. The one by the gas station, not by the tire repair.

                                    

When you see THESE sheep, you know you're on the right track.