Carpetblogger

Ask Carpetblogger: How Stupid Am I?

The current story about three Americans who have been "detained" by Iran while hiking in Kurdistan (aka Northern Iraq) near the poorly marked Iranian border reminded us of a conversation with a colleague last week at a party in Islamabad. In our line of work, where solid yet realistic security information is hard to come by or contradictory, it can be hard to assess which in-country activities are perfectly fine, which are risky and which are fucking stupid. It is often necessary to rely on one's best judgment. My colleague described her personal assessment system: "If something happens to me, are my friends going to mock me and say I deserved it?"

We rely on the same system! It's more effective at preventing you from doing stupid shit than listening to overprotective employer-funded security firms. It's crowd-sourced security! Using this system, we elected not to conduct field tests in random neighborhoods in Rawalpindi and came home safely, having suffered no mocking (for that particular activity, at least).

A variation on this conversation also occurred in Istanbul while our Greek journalist friend was held in solitary confinement in Iran on espionage charges for three weeks. Even though he was doing something important and fun (covering the Iranian election), how much sympathy did he deserve for getting into the jam in the first place? Some argued that, since he knew the risks going in, not much. (Iason, we'll let you know who we're not going to call first if we ever get kidnapped by the Taliban).

Because we live to serve, we've developed this informative graph that will help you decide if you should take the risk of your friends mocking you for doing something stupid in a shitty place. We worry, however, that we've given too much weight to the boring/interesting part of the Y axis, thus uncharacteristically diminishing the importance of the "how much money is at stake?" factor.

 

We rate the story about the hiking Americans as follows: Traveling to Northern Iraq barely merits a shrug. There are a few tourists and lots and lots of people work and move around freely in Erbil and Suleymaniye. For now, it's not unpredictably violent like Baghdad. But hiking anywhere near the Iranian border without a local guide, especially given the current environment? That's exactly the type of activity that would make your friends in Erbil accuse you of fucktardery, especially since it was an elective activity. Sneaking into North Korea on behalf of an online TV station no one watches? Unfathomingly retarded.

Sometimes, the system fails, as it did last year when a friend was killed in a Kabul suicide attack while working out at the Serena, a relatively low-risk activity at the time. When things like that happen, your friends will be silent for a minute, then make a similar calculation: "well, that would never happen to me because I would never do X, Y or Z."

Well, I would never work for the US Government.

Well, I would never stay in a hotel that's such an obvious target.

Well, I would never go the gym after work.

Sometimes, it's best to to sit in the bar.

Saudi (dis) Orientation

Once people find out that you're willing to go to Saudi for a fee, you find yourself spending more time in the Kingdom than is really necessary. The place is just as opaque and disorienting the second time as it was the first time.

There's lots of things we don't understand about Saudi, but one thing we were always certain of was the direction to Mecca. It's clearly marked in the hotel rooms and in most public spaces. In fact, all the TV screens in the Saudi Arabian Airlines 777 we flew from Jeddah to Riyadh (approximately one hour) displayed the direction to Mecca during the whole flight. The arrow rotated left or right like a compass as the plane banked. It can be reassuring to always know where you are in relation to something else. Too bad in this case, it's a black box in the middle of the desert.

Traveling on your own in Saudi is anxiety inducing but not because it's dangerous in any way.  There are lots of boundaries and we still have no idea where they begin or end. Because we are never certain about what we can and cannot do, every mundane activity results in a stupid amount of stress.

We think there are two reasons for this: first, there are plenty of rules and but none of them are codified. Second, there are no good models to follow.

Here's an example from our recent visit: "Is it OK if we walk to the mall by ourself?"

A colleague explained that nothing is specifically banned by law. Instead, lots of things, like women driving, are simply not done because they are perceived to be unacceptable. This makes it even more difficult to navigate since if you ask, "is it OK if I walk to the mall by myself?" the most likely response will be a shrug. No one knows if it's OK or not. It's only going to be a problem if someone thinks it's a problem. So yah, go ahead. Walk to the mall and see what happens. This approach may, from time to time, result in unpleasant consequences. Or, it can be completely OK.

In the absence of any concrete instructions, we usually look around.  When you don't speak the language and are confronted with a culture as foreign as Saudi Arabia's, you become highly attuned to non-verbal cues. We usually cope by closely watching and mimicking the behavior of others. In most places, "when in doubt, do what other people are doing" works pretty well in most situations. But if you're a foreign girl in Saudi, there are no models to follow. We need to run around with a foreign woman who lives there to truly learn the ropes. Sort of a guide dog for the blind.

Western housewives shopping in the Carrefour with half zipped black abayas and uncovered heads signaled to us that, in most contexts, abayas (we need one of those, badly. Not only is it ugly, our beige coat A la Turka made us stand out like cheerleader at a Goth convention) are more important than headscarves.  These cues provided us with more guidance about how to behave than any other source during the whole visit. We saw a tall blond (obviously foreign) woman in the airport and felt drawn to her, simply because we had something in common and we could see her face.

The absolute absence of women in the public space is the most disorienting aspect of being in Saudi. Those that are present are shapeless, expressionless, noiseless figures usually accessorized with small children. Were there any other women walking to the mall or anywhere else? Of course there weren't, because there are no women visible anywhere in public (except, as it turns out, walking around inside the mall which, as far as we can tell, is their natural habitat).  Does that mean we shouldn't? Probably.

We went ahead and walked to the mall anyway, for about 200 meters along one of the busy eight-lane boulevards that transect Riyadh. Nothing happened, but we felt as alien as if we had walked alone on Mars.

We felt stupid taking a taxi back to the hotel but much less exposed and vulnerable. But we felt no less stupid than we did sitting by the pool in Jeddah wearing a scarf because we were the only woman in the whole hotel and didn't know what else to do, or even if it was OK for us to sit next to the pool. 

Suffice to say, the long-postponed Bikini Jihad was not launched. This time.

If You Need Additional Evidence the World is a Bad Place

Check out this eyewitness report on the Serena attack.

At your own risk.

Sad Story From Kabul

As the news is consumed with Britney Spears and imminent collapse of the U.S. economy, I'd like to take a moment to point out that Afghanistan is on a predictable, completely avoidable, decline into chaos, as evidenced by the suicide attack at the Serena Hotel in downtown Kabul yesterday.

The attack was stunning in its audacity: suicide bombers in police uniforms stormed the lobby of the biggest, most prominent hotel in the city on a Monday evening when it was full of meetings (the Norwegian foreign minister) and foreigners working out in the hotel gym, and most likely, socializing in the restaurant. The Taleban took credit, suggesting that the illusion relative safety of the capital has been shattered for good. The new and improved Taleban are back and better than ever. Big shout out to Pakistan for its hard work in that regard!

Up to eight people were killed, including one American, Thor Hesla. That American happened to be a colleague from my political campaigning days who was working out in the gym, according to published reports. He was just living in the bubble of ex-pat Kabul, taking advantage of the Serena's gym after a day at work. Başınız sağolsun to his family and friends. 

In places like Afghanistan, there's a complicated mental risk assessment that makes life bearable and normal. You tell yourself that it's all about being at the wrong place at the wrong time (playing the odds). You tell yourself that other people -- Diplomats, dignitaries, police, military or Afghans -- are the targets, not you and your brunch companions.  When things like this finally happen to people you know, or people who are like you, your first reaction is "well, that would never happen to me because I would never do X, Y or Z."

Well, I would never work directly for the US Government.

Well, I would never travel around in those annoying convoys.

Well, I would never stay in a hotel that's such an obvious target.

Well, I would never go the gym after work.

The last one is so very, very true. I would have been in the bar.

Lament of the Crapistan Expat

While I write a review of my new most favoritest restaurant in Istanbul, read about poor Mind The Gap's grilled cheese experience.

Then, when you read about my most favoritest new restaurant, Istanbul will shine even brighter and remind you why you never want to live in the FSU.

Deuvushka Blogger Shout-Out

Three noted devushka bloggers -- Carpetblogger, Little Miss Moi and Mind the Gap (who wore her devuskha heels) -- met for mojitos last night at Decadence House, one of the most oligarch-tastic joints in town. The mojitos were top-notch, but did we need that many? Of course we did.

As I've said before, it's odd to sit and talk to people you've never met before but who  already know all your stories. Information was shared about the unreliability of masters, devushkas and husbands, humiliations suffered at the gym and in language classes, the pros and cons of locally produced champagnes and gossip about other bloggers we don't actually know.

Of course, we poured one out for our missing homie, Enidd.

Happy Melon Day!

Today is Melon Day in Turkmenistan, where, according to President Gurbanguly Berdymukhammedov, "since ancient times Turkmenistan has been considered the homeland of the best melons in the world."

Dem's fightin' words across the Turkic empire. I don't expect the Uzbeks to take such smack talk lying down.

Here in the Carpetblog family, we try to celebrate Melon Day every year, and have been enjoying  our share this summer. We buy them from the Karpuzci  Karpuzcu (I did not make that word up, as originally suspected, but wrote in violation of the most basic principle of Turkish grammar), who sells them -- sheltered from the sun by their own leaves-- from a horse -drawn cart.

Because we lived in Azerbaijan, we know there are dangers associated with watermelon consumption. No matter how orgiastic your Melon Day celebrations may get, be sure not to drink water while eating them or mix them with honey.

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.

No Shit! Actually, That's Not The Case

Baku is the shittiest city in the world. No, really! Now there's objective proof, in the form of Mercer Human Resources Consulting's annual quality of living survey.

The lowest-ranking city for health and sanitation is Baku in Azerbaijan, which scores just 27.6. Other low-scoring cities include Dhaka in Bangladesh, Antananarivo in Madagascar and Port Au Prince in Haiti, which score 29.6, 30.1 and 34 respectively.

How bad does a city's sanitation have to be to be worse than Dhaka's and Port Au Prince's? You've really got to put some effort into it to be that bad. Congrats to Baku!  I hope this doesn't hurt Azerbaijan's shot at the 2016 summer Olympics. And you people thought the term Crapistan was just a term of endearment.

In other keen-grasp-of-the-obvious-findings, Baghdad is the worst city in the world to live in while Zurich, Geneva, Vienna, Dusseldorf and Frankfurt are the best.

Yah, the best if you're dead. What snoozers those five are. You should get a boredom differential if you're forced to live there.

Never Lock The Top Lock

Sometimes, things happens to you in your adult life that trouble you to your very soul, that scar you to such a degree that you block them out of your head, maybe with the assistance of chemicals or mood-altering pharmaceuticals.

Like that one time I tried to leave the Black Butte housing development in central Oregon the morning after a snow storm. I drove in circles for two hours, unable to find the road that led out of the development. I passed the same curling white lanes and the identical, pine-shrouded mountain chalet houses over and over and over again until finally, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I followed another driver out to the highway. Accordingly, I refuse ever to go to Black Butte again.

Anyway, my friend Enid wrote about how her cruel husband locked her inside her house with the Ukrainian cleaning lady. It stirred up memories of the most traumatic thing that happened to me in Baku.

Our apartment had one of those front doors that are very common in the FSU. You can lock it from the inside by means of a gear-like thing -- a primitive, retarded deadbolt, if you will. If it's locked from the inside, there's no unlocking it from the outside. I guess it was designed to keep the KGB out.

I arrived home from a work trip to Warsaw at four am. I waved my driver and his warm white Volga away and hauled my heavy bag up the two flights of stairs. I put my key in the lock and turned. Nothing happened.

No, something did happen. The Carpetdogs started barking their heads off, as they are wont to do when anyone comes to the door. I rang the doorbell. Once, twice, three times. Four times. A dozen times. No sleepy foot steps. No admonishments to "dogs shut up!" No sound, except frenzied barking.

Clearly, the Producer had indulged in some kind of horse tranquilizer, or a prodigious amount of alcohol, 'cause for the next two hours, I called his mobile, called the home phone, rang the doorbell and banged on the door. The Carpetdogs became hoarse. I became hysterical. It was, after all, early February at four in the morning, and freezing cold.

I knew I was doomed when the dogs stopped barking at the doorbell -- the first and only time this has ever happened. They, and my mobile, were my only hope. The dogs were going back to bed and my battery was nearly dead. I cursed all three, wait, I mean four of them. What to do? I tried curling up on the landing, but my ovaries started to freeze.

I did what I should have done after the first 20 minutes.

I left my suitcase on the doorstep, ran out to the street, got a taxi and checked into the Hyatt. It was 6 am and I was well past the point where $180 seemed excessive for five or six hours.

I was pretty confident the suitcase on the doorstep, 200 increasingly vitriolic sms's and 500 missed calls would have the desired impact.  Nestled into the Hyatt's cloudlike down comforter, I went off to sleepyland. I had also done what any aggrieved wife would have done. I switched my mobile off.

The next day, after sufficient time had passed to ensure maximum anguish over my whereabouts, I revealed my secret location. Naturally, harsh words and accusations were exchanged. Only one party had grounds for a grievance and the accused offered no defense. It was up to the guilty party to atone, which he did.

From that day forward, every time we planned to come home at different times, I would provide a gentle reminder. "Don't lock the top lock." Maybe even a pre-bedtime call . "Good night.  I love you.  You didn't lock the top lock, did you?"

The top lock was never locked again.  See? They can be trained. It's hard work though.