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India

Well, I’m Back In India

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There is a saying that you will know when you are in India because something totally out of the ordinary or random will happen – something will happen that probably wouldn’t happen anywhere else.

So, I got off the plane after a pleasant 9.5 hour flight (err…) and looked out for my driver Aravind who was there to pick me up.

This is when the first thing happened.

I was involved in a car accident.

Regular readers to my blog (and since Christmas, I discovered that it could be more than just myself and my Mum) would know that Indian driving is more like bumper cars than following strict rules. Dents within your car body work is shown off with pride. Broken arms obtained in a bike crash is something that seems to be aspired to.

So, we got in to the car, the engine was switched on and we reversed out of the parking space.

Into the mini bus that was parked behind us.

One of the great things about driving in India is that if you are involved in a crash, you don’t have to mess around with insurance details and stuff. Just bump in to people, apologise (maybe pay a small bribe if the police saw it) and carry on.

So, what next?

I got back to the apartment, went to switch on the A/C (it is 25 degrees here after all) and it made a big old grinding noise. I went outside to take a look and a pigeon had decided to build a nest in the A/C unit. Further investigation revealed that it wasn’t just a nest, it was going to become a family home with two little eggs there.

Later on that morning (about 10am), the maid called round. I answered the door, let her in and went back to sleep. Dreaming sweet dreams, I hadn’t the slightest clue what was about to happen next.

The maid was standing next to my bed calling my name. In a daze I opened my eyes and was confronted with the pigeon from the night before.

The maid had decided to pick up the pigeon, come in to my room and show it to me.

Believe me, being woken up by a pigeon in your face isn’t half as exciting as it sounds.

Now, just to drive home the fact that I am now back in India, this morning (Sunday), the maid called again. This time with her younger sister who was all decked out in her best sari and all her gold jewllery.

Thinking that she had mis-understood my reaction from the pigeon incident, it actually turned out that she wanted me to take photos of her sister so they could send them off for marriage proposals.

So here’s something you probably didn’t know about me: in my spare time I’m a pre-wedding photographer!

We went on to the roof of the apartment and I started giving instructions, (you’re a gazelle, a tiger, a lioness, give me a flick of the hair, now hold it…good!). Then it was back to the apartment for Meena (the maid) to review and choose the suitable photos. There had to be a front shot, a back shot and a close up of the face.

But there was a problem. Meena’s sister has dark skin and that’s totally not OK when it comes to the Indian marriage market. I played around with some filters on the computer to change the colours and lighten everything until Meena gave her approval.

I’ve now got to somehow print out all these photos 🙂

Just another weekend in India!

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Foreigners Leaving India…

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I thought I’d better write this as a little public service announcement for any Foreigners who are living and working in India for more than 6 months.

As you are aware, you have to register with the FRRO in your city. This is fine (albeit, ensure you have an office boy on hand to run back to the office to fetch the papers that were not mentioned in the original checklist).

What they don’t tell you is the procedure for leaving India. If you have been in India for over 6 months and attempt to leave, they will not allow you to do so if you haven’t registered at the FRRO. I personally know at least 3 people who this has happened to in the last 12 months – no messing around, you have to register!

Another little gem that they forget to mention is that you must take your FRRO registration certificate with you. It has to be the original one with the original stamp on it – photocopies are not acceptable.

I didn’t know this information when I left in December, but luckily I still had my FRRO registration certificate in my bag from earlier that day.

When you are at Chennai airport, you are likely to see a couple of foreigners who didn’t know this information, and they’ll be f-ing and jeffing, but the authorities still won’t let you board the plane.

So remember, register with the FRRO as soon as you get to India, and make sure your FRRO certificate is with you when you try and leave.

Personal

Well, Bring On 2009

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So that’s the end of 2008. Did it bring you good fortune? Did it bring you laughter and tears? Did you make new friends, and lose touch with old ones?

For me (well, this blog is about me), 2008 has probably been my best year, possibly ever. I’ve got a great new job, live in a fantastic (and random) country and hooked up with loads of cool people and doing something that probably 99% of people would ever have the courage or inclination to do.

There’s no way I want to get to the age of 80 and look back and say “I wished I had…”

Such a lot has happened, and I’ve learned so much. I’m really looking forward to 2009.

Do people still make new years resolutions? I’m going to tempt fate and list some out here…

      1. Learn Tamil. I really want to learn the local lingo. I’m going to buy CD or course – books on Amazon have very bad ratings, so will have to hunt it out
      2. Give people proper and indepth feedback at work
      3. Keep a physical work diary to become more organized
      4. Drink less – ha ha! Only kidding!
      5. Earn more money from my little websites

A friend suggested that I write a poem for my first blog entry of 2009, but since I’m not that creative, I decided to post my favourite, and the worlds cheesiest poem instead. It’s extra mature cheddar cheese with an additional cheesy topping!

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

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An Inspiring, True Story of One Man Against the Odds

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I’m sat in the immigration office in Chennai and writing this post, waiting for the office boy to deliver some paper work to me.

It’s a shame to see the wheels of Indian bureaucracy are still rusted together.

An Indian friend once told me that 80% of taxes in India go on paying for govt staff and govt pensions. If you visit any Indian govt office, you can well believe it.

The confusion starts from the moment you enter the grounds of the offices, which doubles as the passport office and loads of smaller ministry offices. The only way to find out where to go is to ask someone. Signs and maps would be expecting too much.

You then find the right office, down a small side street and a notice says welcome to hell. Or bureau of immigration, it depends which way you look at it.

There is a man sitting behind the most ridiculously small desk and he silently waves you to a guy standing nearby. This new guy waves you to a line of seats. You look around and guy #3 points to a seat you should take.

Every few minutes another soul enters the gates of hell and you all shuffle along, under the direction of guy #3.

It turns out that guy #3’s job also involves preventing any Indians coming in to the office.

So, you finally get back to guy #1 behind the desk and he takes a note of your passport number and the reason why you dare interrupt them in their important jobs. No doubt it’s the job of someone else to enter this data on a typewriter and then for a superior to enter it in a computer.

Guy #1 then allows you in to the office (guy #4, who’s guarding the entrance moves aside) and tells you to go to office one. You get directed by guy #5 to take a seat and the whole shuffling process starts again, under the direction of guy #6.

Standing outside office one is guy #7. When a door bell rings, it’s his job to wave the next foreigner in line in to the office. You don’t see the previous foreigner come out of the office.

So now you are dealing with your 2nd guy behind a desk, and guy #8 overall. He goes through your paperwork, desperate to find a mistake or missing piece of paper. He went through mine 3 times before, to his absolute delight, he found one of my request letters was addressed to ‘whom it may concern’ instead of the ‘frro officer’.

Once they find a mistake, that’s it. The whole process comes to a stop. You are ordered to bring back the proper paperwork and he won’t look at anything else or give you any more information until it’s corrected.

So, you bring back the corrected paperwork and with great reluctance guy #8 concedes that your paperwork is adequate for the next stage and you are directed to your third desk.

Enter guy #9 to direct you to your seats and guy #10 to show you to the desk (which is almost 4ft from where you are sitting). The seat shuffling continues.

This time a lady goes through your paper work and agrees, like her colleague, that it is barely adequate. She then asks you for Rs 20,000 for the registration fee, which is fine because you took 40k, just to be safe.

She watches you like a hawk as you count out 20 1k bills. Then with absolute glee in her eyes, she tells you that they no longer accept cash. Yes, I was prepared for this too and brought out my cheque book. No, she says, we only accept bankers drafts now.

So I am now sat here writing this. I phoned my company and told them the details. It absolutely must get here by 12.30 I said, otherwise i have to wait until tomorrow. No problem, it will be there, they promised.

It’s now 12.45 and I am still waiting. Don’t know what will happen, but i’m hoping i can still make the payment.

Continued…

The lady scrutinizes the bank draft hoping for some problems. I am now the only person left in the office.

I’m given a token and told to wait for my number to come up. Guy #12 shows me to a new room, guy #13 to show me where to sit. The room is empty.

Eventually the counter staff (girl #2) notices I’m waiting. A difficult task in an empty room, to be sure. Eye contact is made, I can go over.

But wait, she raises a hand to tell me to stop. A button has to be pressed first.

“Counter number two please” says the recorded voice. And her counter light flashes.

There is not a flicker of embarrassment on her face.

I may now go over.

Once more, the paper work is checked, double checked, triple checked and then again, just because.

“aha!” she exclaims “you need two copies of all these documents.”

“Behold” I replied and pulled out 3 more copies of all the paper work, flourishing them in the air.

It was evident that I had robbed her of a simply joy as she ruffles through the paper work again. Oh dear. The original registration permit is not here. It’s not mentioned in the list of required paperwork given to me on the first visit, but no matter. How dare I try and beat the system by turning up with all the correct paperwork and correct number of copies.

Another call to the office. Send more documents! Within 10 minutes it’s in my hand, but hell, err Bureau of Immigration has a final sting in the tail. The counter lady has gone for lunch. Please wait for an hour.

Personal

Really Stupid Things To Do – Part 533

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Damnit!

Of all the stupid things to do, this one probably doesn’t rank up there as one of them, (for a list of the most stupid things to do, these guys take the crown). But on a list of really annoying things to do, this has to be right up there.

This afternoon I had a total brainfart (possibly due to the incredible amounts of caffeine I drank earlier) and managed to put my mobile phone in the washing machine. I now have one very clean, but one very broken mobile phone.

Please don’t tell anyone 🙁

India

Row, Row, Row Your Boat!

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I took this video this morning as I was travelling to work. The recent monsoon rains turned the streets in to rivers, but a little rain never stopped the enterprising citizens of Chennai as they plough head long in to fast flowing rivers!

Humour Personal

Why Mac’s Don’t Cut It In Business

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Sad Mac Strikes Again

OK, so I was using Apple Macs before they were cool. I even had my very own Performa 630. I grinned and beared when my mates were playing the latest, coolest games and I had, umm, snake? For a few years I was the typical mac fan boy, before anyone had even heard of macs and way before it was ‘cool’ to like them. We’re talking the mid-90’s here.

Anyways. I grew up. I moved on. The Performa was retired to the rubbish tip (33 MHz and 8mb RAM only cuts it for so long, and besides, Snake II was out and needed more power). I got a PC.

And guess what? It did everything that the Mac did. And it played Half Life, Championship Manager and FIFA.

So, it left me thinking, what can a Mac do that a PC can’t.

Fast forward to 2008. My boss is where I was 10 years back. A Mac fanboy, blinded by Steve Job’s polo neck jumpers. He uses a Mac because, well, it’s just cool, isn’t it? With absolutely no logical reason to use a Mac, he insists it can do things that the PC can’t.

Like the ability to be used for…business?

At the weekend we had a large business meeting at the hotel. Aravind was waxing lyrical about his presentation that he was producing in Keynote and how it blew the pants off my Power Point Presentation.

Long story short. What happened when we got to the meeting? The ‘business ready’ Mac was unable to connect to the projector because it didn’t have the right cable port!

PC – 1
Mac’s – 0

(my fullest apologies to the site I ripped the image from. Google Images. What an inspired idea!)

India

India Isn’t Just A Different Country…

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…It has a different way of thinking.

So often things happen in India, and it just makes me wonder “what was going through your mind when you were doing that”. For example, standing on the roof of a building and using a pneumatic drill to dismantle the roof.

Granted, stupidity isn’t confined to a single country as the Darwin awards attest to.

Anyways, another classic example of how Indians think differently was demonstrated on Sunday when, not for the first time, I was nearly ran over by a family on a motorbike.

As I walked to the shops to do my weekly shopping, I walk down a very quiet road. If there are two cars on the road, that’s a bit unusual.

Still, TII, you have to be constantly aware of what’s going on around you because the traffic can come from anywhere. Yes, really anywhere. You can’t walk on the pavements because a) there are no pavements b) the pavement is now someone’s home or area of business c) the pavement is covered by building material for the apartment that’s being build across the road d) the state of the pavement makes it more dangerous than walking on the road.

As a kid in England, from the moment you start school you are given lessons and made to watch videos on the simple task of crossing the road.

STOP

LOOK

LISTEN

Is carved in to your very being as the message is repeated over and over.

This from a country where people obey the traffic lights, there are pedestrian crossings every where and towns and cities are more people friendly than car friendly.

So, armed with my A+ in how to cross a road I approached a crossing on Sunday. I stopped, I looked and saw a motorbike coming, So I stood at the side of the road and waiting for it to pass.

Except….yes.

This Is India.

Instead of carrying on as he should have done, the motor bike started veering towards me, until the guy was virtually slowed to a halt as he tried to avoid me. I looked at the guy, looked at the otherwise empty cross roads and was speechless.

Similarly, the guy on the motorbike was similarly speechless.

And this is why.

When you cross a road in India, the traffic swerves to (hopefully) avoid you. Crossing the road is not a case of Stop, Look, Listen and Wait. It’s a case of putting one arm out to the side of you with your palm facing up telling the traffic to avoid you. You then walk across the road without looking and definitely without stopping.

So, why was this guy speechless? He was expecting me to do the ‘usual’ thing and carry on walking, and he had already made the mental adjustment to be in a place I wouldn’t be had I carried on walking.

Different country. Different way of thinking.

India

Check Out My Wheels!

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my wheels for getting around in Chennai

Check out this bad boy! These are my wheels to and from the office each day. It does 0-20 mph in 2 minutes, pollutes like a chemical factory and sounds like a cat in a blender. It has almost as much power as a washing machine and 4 inch alloys.

This is the pimped out version, the banana leaves stuck to the side are this seasons must have for all self respecting tuk-tuk drivers. As if a white man in a tuk-tuk needs any more attention drawn to himself while riding through the mean streets of Chennai!

To the right is my usual driver, Sundar. He has an excuse for every occasion: too much traffic, too less traffic, too raining, too less raining, 5 kids, 3 kids, 4 kids and parents, family dog, family cow, high petrol prices, low petrol prices, too late, too early, too far, too less far. No matter what, he’ll rise to the occasion and find a reason to charge me extra. It’s a special class they have in tuk-tuk school: how to charge the filthy rich foreigner more and make him feel guilty about it.

But what a way to get to work and back 😀