The Daylight Savings Time change happened last night, we are finally back to just ten hours ahead of the Midwest instead of eleven hours, which we have been for the last three weeks. This is an important point because we are expecting the arrival of several guests from the USA arriving this morning. A group of ten, friends of Berry’s family (and Indy too, actually) flew into Baku arriving just after midnight then traveling by bus directly here. Berry’s dad had told us that he would call ten minutes or so before knocking at the gate, but he wasn’t sure exactly what time that might be. “Expect somewhere between 5 and 6AM.” So, at 5:30AM--with the time change it felt like 4:30AM, you know the drill--the phone rings. We’re here! So much for the ten-minute warning. No problem, we greet them and show them where they are to bunk and then get back to bed. Beloved did not sleep very well prior to that, she was fidgety, not wanting to miss the phone call.
Beloved and I got up and around about 8:30 and met with some friends for breakfast. It was progressing to be a normal day, so in the early afternoon we left the house to go to the Training House to continue with the tile work.
On our way we are passing by the Stadium that we occasionally run at. On the field are about a dozen or so people with, what’s that? American-style softball gear. I had to take a closer look at that, so as I am walking up to the entrance, a police car stops at the curb and motions us over. “Can we see your documents?” “Ummm, we left them at the house...” We stood there on the curb for about three minutes when one of the young Azerbaijani guys from the field walked down and asked if he could help us. He was very kind and it is a very generous thing that he is doing, but it is to no avail. The young man says, “you must go with them so they can prove that they are doing something. Please do not hold it against Ganja, we are really nice people.”
I though that was particularly kind of him to do.
We did go with the police. They had asked our address, which we were able to pick up, and we were able to tell them our address. Okay, so they will drive us back to our house, we will get the passports and the visa and all will be well. They drive about 80 percent of the way to our house, then go in a different direction. Beloved and I look at each other--they are taking us to the police station.
We quickly and wisely decide to phone for some help. “England, we have been picked up and taken to the police station.” That’s a first.
I thought about snapping some photos but then decided against it. In hindsight it probably would have been okay but I didn’t want to inflame an awkward situation. The station itself was small and dumpy--the same odd angles in the construction, the same power-struggle-style of leadership. The officer that brought us in started writing, a report I would imagine, but not a form--just a white sheet of paper. The senior man, judging by the gold flourishes on his jacket was busily playing Suduku. Don’t want to interrupt him. There was a soccer game on the television in the corner. There were about five guys at this post, all of them filing through as if to look at the latest catch. I guess we were somewhat of an oddity.
Nobody at the police station speaks english beyond, “hello, what’s your name? How are you?” After some fumbling around England walks in. There is some discussion between he and the senior man at the desk, then England says, “We must go and get your documents but one of you must stay here.” Great.
I stay and Beloved goes with England back to the house for the papers. All others leave too, I guess the show is all but over. In a very halting dialog I find out that this man, the senor man, is England’s neighbor. He goes back to his Suduku and I wait quietly for England and Beloved to return.
Shortly enough they do, and after some inspection of the documents all is pronounced in-order. Great! Can we go now? No. We must wait for a district man to come by and inspect the documents, then take them and get them photocopied.
England wishes us well and bids us good-bye, and soon enough the district man arrives. He looks over the passports and the visas and the receipts and the stamps, then all three of us depart the station. In a friendly gesture I ask his name as we drive to the photo-copy house. We understand very little of each other’s language, but in the small spaces that our proficiency overlap we are able to speak and laugh a little bit. His name is Jehann or something like that, so we laugh that we have similar names.
In the end, we spent two-and-a-half hours with this transaction, but it was not a horrible experience. The lawmen were courteous, there was no brutality or perceived request for a bribe. It is not something that I would like to do again but all-in-all not the worst thing I’ve ever been through.
We finally did make it to the Training House and worked for about two hours.
That was a full Sunday.
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