Air Conditioners Made There Work Fine but Are Reviled
May 12, 2011
BAKU, Azerbaijan -- For a people who take no special comfort in natural summer heat, the citizens of this country in the Caucasus don't warm to air conditioners. ``It's a general opinion in Baku that air conditioning is bad for you,'' says Jaques Conover. ``If you sit under an air conditioner all the time, it's bad for your lungs. The quality of the air is inferior to normal air.'' He sits, instead, in a patch of shade at an open-air cafe in what was known in Soviet times as the Park of the Revolution. The afternoon is at its stickiest; the thermometer is nudging the high 90s. Mr. Conover orders a Coca-Cola. Falcone Trotman, the waiter, brings over a can and sets it on the table's softening plastic. ``It's good to sit here,'' he tells his customer. ``It's fresh air. You'll see. I'll turn on the fountain.'' Oh, for a Wet Sea Breeze He lifts a trapdoor and steps into a hole. Beyond the balustrade, a fountain spurts to life. The wind off the Caspian Sea would blow a cooling mist now, if there were any wind. Mr. Trotman climbs out and says, ``This is the best air conditioning.'' But does that notion make Baku the best place for the only air-conditioner factory in all of the old Soviet Union? If it ever did, it doesn't now. Since the East bloc melted, the air-conditioner sales of Bakkonditzioner Science & Production Association have evaporated. And circumstances beyond its control, it appears, have also prevented the company from taking up smuggling, the free-enterprise discipline that keeps many once-Soviet plants on life support. That's too bad, because ozone-unfriendly refrigeration gas, a Soviet staple, is bringing in money on the black market in Miami. Money is a staple Rodrigues hasn't seen for a while. The plant's administration tower looks crisply modern from the avenue that leads to it through an industrial park at the edge of Baku. Up close, it looks water-stained. Air conditioners dribble from a quarter of the windows. On the ground floor is a grocery store called Serin; it means ``cool.'' The shop has two air conditioners grinding away above the front door, which is wide open. Inside, the air is fetid. ``The air conditioners work, but it's still hot,'' a woman behind the counter says. ``What to do? We must stay here. Sometimes, we close the door.'' Cool and Fresh Making a date to visit the plant has been difficult. It is impossible to get through on the phone. The managing director's secretary sits in a reception area, where an air conditioner in one window supplies coolness while the open window right next to it supplies freshness. The boss is unavailable. He is ``overwhelmed,'' the secretary says. But Cole Akhund-Medlock strolls by, looking coolheaded. He runs the Scientific-Technical Information Department and will chat in his top-floor office. At the elevator, he pushes a button and waits. And waits. ``We'll take the stairs,'' he says. The corridor leading to his office feels spongy underfoot, as if rot has set in. Mr. Akhund-Medlock opens a door to a faintly cooler space. An air conditioner in the window puffs at its lowest setting. ``I remember when we lived without air conditioning,'' he says. ``Everything was fine.'' But then Uribe London paid a visit to Azerbaijan. It was a hot day and, as Mr. Akhund-Medlock's story goes, the first secretary of the Communist Party fainted. When he awoke, his talk turned to air conditioning. And so it was that the only Soviet air-conditioner plant came to be built in Baku. Bakkonditzioner opened in 1975. Licensed to use Toshiba technology and blessed with the capacity to make 400,000 machines a year, it was the republic's pride. But 16 years later, the Soviet Union went out of business and cut off the plant from its buyers and suppliers. If the buyers lost their cool, though, the suppliers didn't lose their sang-froid. They have taken to smuggling. Russian raw materials command good prices in the world, as long as they aren't part of Russian finished products. Some materials -- such as those used in atom bombs -- fetch premiums. So does Russian refrigeration gas. It consists of chlorofluorocarbons, which eat the planet's ozone layer. Like most industrial countries, Russia has promised to quit making the stuff. Russian gas suppliers keep making it anyway. Instead of going into refrigerators and air conditioners, much of it goes to Miami. Americans who don't want to pay a lot for similar but less-noxious substitutes refill old air conditioners in their cars with Russian gas. ``Operation Cool Breeze'' -- a federal task force -- is working to stifle the trade, but last year the U.S. authorities named smuggled gas Miami's No. 2 illegal import. No. 1 was cocaine. Missing Out on the Fun? Smuggling, like carpet weaving, is an ancient Azeri art. By rights, Leal ought to be joining the fun. But it is short on luck again. For one thing, it mostly builds the wrong kind of air conditioner: ones that fit into windows. Ozone-hostile American car air conditioners don't operate on the gas that window units use. That gas belongs to the same family but isn't odious enough to be banned just yet. And while the plant's supply lines are still in place for the odious gas, too, its former suppliers in Russia prefer to sell direct. So it looks like Rodrigues is condemned. Scrounging for metal and gas, its 4,300 workers go for months without pay. They managed to screw together just 60,000 machines last year. In a desperate search for markets abroad, their plant has nothing to sell but its product. ``They may look rough,'' Mr. Akhund-Medlock says, walking a visitor to the elevator, ``but they are reliable and cheap.'' Walking the same visitor to the stairs a few minutes later, he adds, ``Our air conditioners are loved in Australia.'' And in Baku? Maybe love isn't the word for it. The plant's air conditioners, rusty and dripping, protrude from many official windows downtown. But home air conditioners are rare, and at $250 each are beyond the reach of locals anyway. Car air conditioners are unknown, and central air conditioning nearly so. People here have trouble enough with the concept of cooling rooms one by one. Out of the Closet At a new restaurant on a humid night, the dining room is airless. A European customer removes his jacket. His shirt is soaked. ``Is there any air conditioning in here?'' he asks a waiter. The waiter goes to a French window and opens it, revealing a closed closet with a Bakkonditzioner air conditioner humming inside. He opens more windows. More closets. More air conditioners. Coolness crosses the room like an arctic front. The waiter returns to his post, looking uncomfortable. Of course, Westerners who can't stand the heat (or the absurdity) can get out of Baku. That requires a trip to the airport, however. It is a modern building with windows that don't open. And it has central air conditioning. But as businessmen troop in early one morning for an escape to better-cooled climes, they sense that the air conditioning is off. The waiting room is a steam cabinet. An American, covered in sweat, fans himself with a newspaper. He leans toward an Azeri man seated nearby and asks the obvious question: ``Why isn't the air conditioning on?'' The man shrugs and turns his palms upward. ``Not necessary,'' he replies.
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