Conflict 101

Tonight I almost got my lights punched out.

I say this not to brag or to celebrate, but because it’s a perfect Azerbaijan story. Not that it can’t happen anywhere—from Chicago to London to Shanghai—but because it’s just a perfect story about a place whose central public narrative right now is the inevitability and intractability of conflict.

Tonight I almost got my lights punched out.

The taxis in Baku have no meters. Whether a beat-up old Lada with broken seats or a new Mercedes, they have no meters. In other places—like Delhi—when the cabs have no meters you either pay what the driver asks, or you negotiate at the start. If you’re not in a hurry, the negotiation can be kind of entertaining, especially if the cabbie figures you’re a dumb, rich tourist.

But in Baku you don’t negotiate. The basic understanding is that if the ride is a “reasonable” distance (can you feel trouble brewing already?), you pay 5 Manats ($6.25). If everyone’s charming and friendly, you can get away with 4 Manats.

Today I lectured at the University (more later), then walked by the sea, and had dinner. I then took a cab to my hotel, which is outside the core Old City (about 12, 13 minutes away). I’d already taken this ride three times, and always paid 5 Manats. So tonight I get in a cab, get to the hotel, give the guy a five, and start to get out.

He says “nyet,” hands it back, and demands 10. Ten! No way, I say, figuring he’s just bargaining after the fact, and again extend the five toward him. He says no. I say fine, get out, and hand him the five through his window. Nyet. OK, I walk around the cab toward the hotel, and now stick it through the open passenger-side window. Nyet. OK, I just walk away from the cab toward a little grocery store three doors down from the hotel.

Sure enough, the guy follows me. And in front of the store, in front of a half-dozen people, he gets in my face. “You think I’m baby?” he demands. “What you say to me?” He’s about 25 or 30, needs a shave and a shower, and is glaring at me as if I’d offered to inseminate his mother.

“What you try here?” he rages. “Ten. Ten! You think I fool?”

Hey, I’m not trying anything, I say plainly. I don’t know what the problem is, I say calmly, realizing he probably doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I hold up my open hands, once again offer the five, and ask, “what’s the problem?”

He glares at me, just 10 or 12 inches from my lovely white nose, cheeks, and chin. I look plaintive, wide-eyed, matter-of-fact. I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen; this kind of open invitation to violence is something I only see in movies.

The bystanders don’t say or do a thing, although they’re watching intently. (Only afterwards do I realize how inappropriate their behavior is.)

Time stops.

It takes forever to start again.

He grabs the bill, angrily says something in Azeri that is presumably not approved by the Ministry of Tourism, gets in his cab and roars off. Life goes on, unbloodied. Only then does my heart start to pound in my chest.

Azerbaijan isn’t unique in its history of violence or its lack of tradition of conflict resolution. It isn’t even unique in its 15-year frozen conflict with its immediate neighbor (Armenia), a fundamental insult mentioned in every newspaper article and every conversation, every single day.

But what can possibly be the function of a commercial system that institutionalizes disappointment and conflicting expectations, all overlaid on a bed of machismo? If the cabbie expected 10 Manats, why didn’t he say so when I got in the cab? We could have negotiated the fare then, and I could have either agreed or gotten out. Either way, his integrity would be preserved.

Instead, he assumed that he had all the power to dictate the outcome, and when this assumption was challenged, he had no place, psychologically, to go. Demands and then the threat of violence (very real, I assure you) were the only tools he had. Conflict was guaranteed.

This is a poor way to run a taxi service. It’s a deadly way to run a country. Add a few billion barrels of oil, and it’s no way to run a world.