January 29
What a difference (how long have I been here?) makes:
The law in Azerbaijan recently changed to state that foreigners had to renew their in-country passports (akin to a license) every three months. I’ve been ignoring this ruling since my passport expired in November on account of the ridiculous hoops I had to jump through the first time (including officials insisting I submit to a blood test – which I adamantly refused) and the fact that it took over 2 months to get it in the first place. More or less, I’ve been waiting for it to be a problem. When my friend who lives in a neighboring village told me she recently renewed hers, I thought my absence in doing so might become conspicuous.

Allow me to veer off on a small tangent…
The idea of a passport doesn’t inherently bother me. It seems completely reasonable that one should be registered where they live with the proper authorities, especially if they are a foreigner.

When I tried to get my passport the first time, it seemed like endless runaround and waiting – wait to talk to this guy, then that guy, then show him my American Passport, answer the barrage of questions about why my father’s name isn’t on my passport – why my blood-type, and other, what I consider to be private and inconsequential information, is not there – what are we trying to hide, anyway? Perhaps this is what bothers me about the passports here – the father’s name business.

Whose girl are you? Who OWNES you? How can I know your character, if I don’t know your father’s character (and his father, and his father, and his father)? This very system that our ancestors sought to overcome is alive and well in this part of the world (and many other parts). Think about this for a moment: to be defined by, not even your parents, but specifically your father? Defined by a history that you had very little to do with. It’s something, along with standing too close at the ATM, that I cannot get used to.

At this question I defiantly said (probably too haughtily), “we don’t DO that in America” as my counterpart tried to stifle a laugh. Being a bit of a firestarter herself, I could hear her thinking “Yeah! They don’t DO that in America!”. This happened several times and we were told again and again to wait. There was also some problem with the housing documents of the family I was living with – problems I never fully discovered, because at the time, I was pretty much in the dark about everything.

My counterpart insisted that the root of the problem was that I wasn’t willing to give them a bribe (or as my Azeri friend says, a “sweet” as she rubs her fingers together). Rather, I insisted that passports were supposed to be free, and I would not pay for one – plus, I really didn’t care if I had one in the first place.
All of this perhaps explains why I was not overly enthusiastic about obtaining another such document. In addition, I have moved since I last got my passport and I wasn’t sure how my current landlady would react to having to produce “house documents” that most people, in fact, don’t have (partially because of the unofficial way property has been passed on, the personal building of houses, etc.).
And this is where I say, what a difference time makes. In the (million?) months I’ve been here, from time to time I can see progress not only within my work, but also within my standing in the community. My mom has assured me that this is exactly what the book (mentioned in earlier blogs) says is supposed to happen (if only this book could explain every step of my life AFTER Peace Corps!).

I first called my former counterpart, who was “relieved of her duties” at the library last year. I still see her from time to time and consider her helpful with these types of things. Unfortunately, her message back to me was that she was busy until March. This would not do.

The next day I talked to my Azeri friend whose family I know fairly well; her (all important) father, in particular. This is a family who, of all the Azeri’s I know, adheres the most to the fabled hospitality of Azerbaijanis.

I knew her father had some connections with the police, so I figured it would be a good bet that they could help me. “Oh yes,” she said, “My neighbor is the passport official”. We went to the passport office and asked about which documents we would need. They said that my landlady would have to personally vouch for me by coming down to the office and presenting the documents herself. I told my friend I had never seen my landlady leave the house (which is true, except when she visits the neighbors or goes with her son, by car, to her relatives house) and I doubted whether she would be keen on the idea of venturing as far as the police station (about a 30 minute walk). “I will see if I can take care of it” she said, adding, “I know the people at the Notariat Consul (NC) (Azeri Secretary of State)”.
I couldn’t help but to have a big smile on my usually emotionally controlled face when we went into the NC. We spent some time chatting with my friend’s other neighbor and then talked to the men in charge of housing documents and verifications. They were extremely amiable, good-natured and helpful. “No problem” they said, “we can drive with you to your house to meet her”
We couldn’t do it that day, and after another day of waiting around for them, we decided the following day would be best. In the meantime, I took a taxi, with my friend, to my house to tell my landlady what documents she needed to produce. On the way, I left my wallet (with all my documents) in the taxi.

After frantically searching for my wallet and berating myself for being so forgetful, I called Peace Corps to figure out what I had to do next. Not one to put all my eggs in one proverbial basket, I always keep my American passport, along with credit cards and my American bank card in another location – however, my Azeri bank card, along with my Azeri passport, about 30 manat ($45) and 4 straight-faced passport photos of me were in there.

Here I got a feeling I would probably have never gotten in the U.S., overwhelmed me. I thought: my wallet HAS to be in the taxi – and if it is, I will SURELY get it back. After all, the taxi carrying the American is a conspicuous one in a town without any foreigners. Plus, I thought, people here KNOW me. I have a complex support network of influential people, people of “good character”, no doubt with good, honest fathers, behind me.

I called my friend who said she would check. Everyone I met that day told me not to worry about it –that I would surely find it. I had to believe them. About 3 hours after I reported it missing, the taxi driver arrived at the library. His questions about the contents of the wallet (for verification that it was mine) seemed trite and unnecessary under the circumstances, but I appreciated his efforts to find me (apparently he had searched for me at the two schools where volunteers had worked 4 years ago before arriving at the library).

On our way back to the passport office, we passed the “taxi stand” where several of the taxi drivers inquired as to whether or not I found my wallet. When I said I did, they said to my friend, “I knew she would get it back. I told him, you better return it – I know her father!” – finding this a bit ridiculous and funny, wondering if things would be different if her father was a deadbeat crackhead, didn’t stop me from being grateful for a system I was temporarily benefitting from.
Back to the passport office: it turns out, my landlady didn’t have the correct documents, but, no matter, they would sign for them anyway. While at my house my landlady asked the official’s name and discovered that they had a relative in common. “oh!” she said, “my son has to repeat his university courses because he didn’t go to class! If I had known who you were, I would have called upon you to help us” – this means, presumably, to throw his weight around with the head of the university, making it unnecessary for them to pay a bribe to have her son pass onto the next courses (whose cost, presumably, was too steep, which is why he is repeating his classes). At this moment, it was difficult not to laugh at the absurdity of things.

When all was said and done with the passport business, no one had asked to take my blood, asked me who my father was, why I was here; no one tried to make me pay money or gave vague answers to my inquiries as to when it would be ready. In fact, I was asked to sit and chat while being offered tea as I was praised for my language skills (specifically my pronunciation – which leads many Azeris to believe I’m Turkish).

Being here is a lot like riding a wave – and for the past several months, I’ve felt as if I’ve been on top of that wave. Certainly I’ve fallen over a lot and I’ve had my fair share of cursing the water – but I’ve finally PROVEN myself, at least to a small group of people who can vouch for me. I jumped through enough hoops to have some kind of credibility.

All this acts as a kind of buffer to the smaller novelties and annoyances of everyday life. Things such as the incessant scratching and (I swear) furniture moving of the rats who live in my walls and underneath the floor boards. The occasional ant that will (from where?) become lodged in my stocking and bite me all day long until I scratch and kill it. The flies the size of my fingernail (again, from WHERE?) that get into my house and buzz around my head. My unwashed hair which has become akin to a massive dreadlock and acts now as a kind of science experiment (what will happen if I never wash it again?). The fact that, though Azerbaijan is an oil-rich country, many of its citizens, including me and my family, do not have gas (the cheapest way to heat the home) and have to resort to chopping wood from the small trees around the house; producing a smell which burns our eyes at night. And the surprise and (disgust?) of my yard dog chewing on his daily sheep head.
Ah – but there are some things I DO understand – some things I CAN have control of – and some things that do work out alright.