Armenian News-NEWS.am continues Arianne & Armenia project within the framework of which Arianne Caoili tells about numerous trips across Armenia and shares her impressions and experience of living in Armenia.

Lessons from taxi drivers

Many taxi drivers in Yerevan, after a short and friendly discussion in Armenian (the typical ‘inch ka chka’ business), switch their soundtrack for my benefit (I always assume it is a gesture of friendship on their behalf after a few exchanged words overcoming their initial theories that I am Kazakh, a notion assumed most probably due to my freakishly weird Russian accent and Asian features). The driver’s right hand reaches into the depths of the glove box, pulling out a magical cassette, as if it were some prized piece of delicate tableware reserved for special guests. Suddenly, from vintage rabiz or one of those sad Russian ballads sang by a tortured, geriatric lady, comes two mainstream Western pop singers, booming from the car’s beefed-up bass speakers: Celine Dion and Michael Jackson. I may forgive them for choosing these singers (why it is always these two, I cannot fathom), and on good days I offer gratitude for ‘connecting’ with my ethnicity.

I have been told that I sound more like a boy from the streets of Yerevan due to my knowledge of slang rather than ‘good Armenian’, and so when drivers proceed to more difficult vernacular, I shift to Russian while they continue in Armenian. The older guys tend to make the move with me onto Russian, but more often than not the discussion is like a two-way street with cars moving in opposite directions.

These regular conversations reveal just how intelligent some of these good folk are, and they always induce moments of pathos. The drivers only need a few minutes (and absolutely no stimuli) to start reminiscing of their past, constructing the desired present and prophesying the future: what prestigious position they once held, who their family once was, their successful relatives overseas, a house in Russia, a prediction of the Caucasus’ economic situation, the next 9/11... Meanwhile, I nod sympathetically beside them like an overpaid psychologist.

There is a certain route I take on a daily basis, and with a metered taxi it is always 600 AMD. It gets tricky with unmetered taxis, and the best tactic is estimation. If one gives 1000 AMD, there are 2 reactions: they will flounder about for loose change and in the end look at you and say they don’t have any coins – with a look in their eyes akin to a child opening his birthday present a day too early, knowing that the maximum punishment you can inflict is a small rebuke. Or, they give you the correct change of 400 AMD. This daily adventure has been way too much fun: I have collected enough data to calculate with reasonable accuracy the probability of the driver being honest or dishonest (handing over 400 AMD or taking the whole hazar note).

So I came up with the strategy to hand over exactly 800 AMD, which guarantees a loss of 200 AMD from the real price, but sets a ceiling on how much one is tricked (giving under 800 AMD promises some time-consuming grumbles from the driver, a matter best avoided). It’s  a comical way to analyze my own attitude towards risk: do I make the sure bet – 800 AMD – in which I limit my loss to 200 AMD, or do I take the riskier option of handing over 1000 AMD, knowing that I may lose 400 AMD or pay only 600 AMD if the driver is honest.

But by far the biggest mistake in an unmetered taxi is asking how much: the answer is always a slurred hazar dram, and little is achieved by arguing for coins back. (Yes, I have tried: Shat ek asum! All to no avail. I should have learned by now that an Armenian is always right. They never surrender). Although some drivers refuse to be paid at all – a heartfelt gesture Levon always accepts with delightful surprise and sincere gratitude.

The driver’s honest/dishonest (or exceedingly generous) attitude helps to pin a character to mostly unnamed strangers who regularly risk your life in about a ton of metal they charge along nonchalantly. I always say a little prayer to the God Almighty each time I get into a taxi in Yerevan. Nearly every time I have been on the road on my regular routes, I see an accident. The fear exists as a pedestrian too: rather than take a ‘wait and see’ posture and venture out onto the road toe by toe, I boldly go forth, staring at the driver and fate in the eyes with gritted teeth and fingers crossed (I always try to send the message through the windscreen with an intense dagger-stare: ‘how dare you not stop’!). It has worked so far.

You can always tell the kyartu taxi drivers: they’re the ones with the long-nailed pinky, actively showcasing their chest hair. One such driver is Artur. I met him on an ordinary day with Levon in the front seat. After asking where I am from, he told Levon, “Couldn’t you find a nice, homely Armenian?” Then he proceeded to argue with Levon about his apparent highly fallible choice by completely mocking my character, family, and country on the basis of alleged genetic defect (my personal favorite in this popular genre of discussion is: “she’s not Armenian”. It is always a statement that sounds more like a question and is accompanied by the same sincere look of concern that we give to friends who are gamblers or alcoholics).

The next week, I took Artur’s taxi again – alone. In remembrance of his tirade of defamation, I sat seething in silent contempt with all kinds of malicious thoughts (how could Jesus Christ die for someone like this? Indeed, what manner of love is this: Jew, Gentile, and Artur!). A discussion started in Russian, and then it was my turn to get on the offensive.

If there is one thing I have learned about this country, it is that Armenians consider themselves superior in outwitting others (often, they truly are). But they are also far too easy to trick. How do you trick an Armenian? You say you are from an educated family (you know, your father was a great artist, and your mother’s family was from the intelligentsia or from such and such a lineage), that you went to this school, and that you come from that region. And suddenly, without earning any credibility by behavior, you are immediately trusted. And of course, if you’re Armenian, your family has to speak near- perfect Russian. If so, you must be smart and well brought up! I have known many an Armenian to give away their trust based on this linguistic ability alone.

So I tricked our dear Artur. Obviously I was just trying to practice my Russian with an active imagination – but the experiment worked. I made up all kinds of stories (the kinds that tickle the ears of Armenian mothers who somewhat naively say, ‘son what a great choice, if her father was doing that during Soviet times, and she speaks such good Russian, she must be the best!’). Suddenly, mimicking an unspoken armistice, Artur pulled out a secretly hidden grey, sweaty, plastic bag and outstretched his palm with a benign offer of grapes. Remembering that I am well brought up, I politely declined; but he insisted – and once you share grapes with someone trapped in a long traffic jam during one of Yerevan’s hottest summer days, you’re friends for life.

I took a taxi this week from a familiar face, and decided to steer the conversation away from the usual questions about my origin. I turned around and asked, ‘so, what region are you from?’ When I usually ask this question, I notice that the guys from Gyumri or Karabakh answer very clearly. But this particular driver was grappling for an answer. I’m not sure why – but lucky for him, Michael Jackson’s high-pitched lyrics in the background did the job for him: if you’re thinking of being my brother, it don’t matter if you’re black or white...