Composing my fog rant led me to thinking about Health & Safety within India, or moreover, the lack of it.
India has an unusual parliamentary system in so far as a cabinet minster will openly pay for a prime Governmental portfolio.
Elsewhere in the world this would rightly be seen as opening the door to corruption. After all, why pay for a position unless it offers good returns?
This enigmatic process seems to be accepted as par for the course, thus leading to a systematic trickle down effect through the layers of Government and business via payment of bribes or wheel greasing “backsheesh” as it is known colloquially.
The WIIFM factor (What’s in it for me?) is so ubiquitous you can almost hear it grinding the economic brakes as it paves a cowboy path to inefficiency.
Illegally sited hoardings for local activists are found at every other road junction with the untrustworthy faces of moustached, jowly politicians staring outwards towards the teeming masses almost threatening them to vote their way.
So, given this blatant corruption we are left with two feasible hypothesis(es) .....plural alert! plural alert!..... to explain the HSE situation:
1. The minister in question has paid so much for his post any company or corporation can buy their way around the legal framework.
2. The portfolio was so unattractive that no minister bid for it meaning there is no such thing as an Indian HSE
Either way, it fails to make living in India an appealing option for the risk-averse.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
Fog
With India being a country of virtual continental expanse, it should come as no surprise to discover that the weather at one extremity can be entirely different from that in a distant location.
In European terms, think journeying from Turkey to Finland and I guess you are somewhere in the ball park.
January in Mumbai has seen temperatures hovering around a pleasant 32 degrees in the day with humidity quite acceptable. Perfect pool weather really.
Winters in Delhi on the other hand can be chilled cold air sliding down from the Himalayas across the Gangetic plains.
The inevitable result of this is fog. Thick fog.
My flight to Delhi last week was delayed due to a heavy duvet of moisture which had settled over Northern India.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday thankfully offered clearer skies and crisp, almost spring like weather.
On the Saturday Sue and I ventured from Delhi to Agra, a 4.5 hour road journey through the poor backlands of Uttar Pradesh to the feted ex-capital of Shah Jahans Moghul Empire.
Agra is was where Shah Jahan left his mark before shifting his capital to Delhi, but it retains more than it’s fair share of historical notage, nothing so more than being home to the Taj Mahal.
The marble monument to love is a mausoleum dedicated to his favourite wife and is billed as the most beautiful structure ever created by man. Don’t get me wrong, the North Bank at Vetch Field came a close second, but at the end of the day it’s toilet facilities were a bit, well, pissy.
Given the nature of the architectural behemoth and all the mythology of love surrounding it, we decided to push the boat out and stay at the Oberoi Hotel which at a mere 600M distance commanded spectacular views from its lofted position atop of a slight incline.
The hotel is the nearest of the top end options to the Taj Mahal itself and being surrounded by beautiful gardens with all rooms offering a Taj Mahal view, it is able to charge a significant mark up of £350pn for a room.
Now, this isn’t my usual price category and I would usually be searching for a figure with the “3” lopped off the front, but as I say, it did command unparalleled views of the Taj Mahal and it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stay in a place offering such 5* splendour.
Imagine the excited knot in my stomach then when on the Sunday morning I rose around dawn to a faintly familiar light. It was like the light of a snowy winters morning.
I drew back the curtains and there it was…..
Fog.
Thick, smothering, all encapsulating fog.
Views of the Taj Mahal? This not so fine morning my £350 didn’t even get me a view of the garden.
The fog was so thick it was impossible to make out anything beyond the balcony. What a bummer.
We decided to have breakfast in bed (not inclusive) and wait for the fog to lift.
I checked every half hour and by 9.30 there it was, just about visible to the naked 20:20 eye.
My £350 view in all it’s glory.
Now this fog, thick though it may have been, wasn’t the thickest fog I had experienced during the week.
No, the title of “Fog of the Week” went to an unexpected cloud which descended upon our offices on the Monday lunchtime.
Someone from the Mumbia Corporation had given licence to a likely ill-educated local to approach any buildings in the area without prior warning and spray toxic insecticide inside and out.
Sat as I was on the mezzanine level I had to feel my way through the choking fumes, part blinded by the sting of the gas.
All but two of my work colleagues found it very funny. Nobody seemed to be considering the fact that this was likely causing damage to eyes, skin and respiratory system.
As soon as they could tolerate the fumes they went back inside and continued their lunches.
Sue, a wise young lady from our design team and myself decided to stay outside in the relatively fresh Mumbai air in order to give our bronchi and bronchioles at least a fighting chance.
T.I.I. as the phrase goes.
This is India.
In European terms, think journeying from Turkey to Finland and I guess you are somewhere in the ball park.
January in Mumbai has seen temperatures hovering around a pleasant 32 degrees in the day with humidity quite acceptable. Perfect pool weather really.
Winters in Delhi on the other hand can be chilled cold air sliding down from the Himalayas across the Gangetic plains.
The inevitable result of this is fog. Thick fog.
My flight to Delhi last week was delayed due to a heavy duvet of moisture which had settled over Northern India.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday thankfully offered clearer skies and crisp, almost spring like weather.
On the Saturday Sue and I ventured from Delhi to Agra, a 4.5 hour road journey through the poor backlands of Uttar Pradesh to the feted ex-capital of Shah Jahans Moghul Empire.
Agra is was where Shah Jahan left his mark before shifting his capital to Delhi, but it retains more than it’s fair share of historical notage, nothing so more than being home to the Taj Mahal.
The marble monument to love is a mausoleum dedicated to his favourite wife and is billed as the most beautiful structure ever created by man. Don’t get me wrong, the North Bank at Vetch Field came a close second, but at the end of the day it’s toilet facilities were a bit, well, pissy.
Given the nature of the architectural behemoth and all the mythology of love surrounding it, we decided to push the boat out and stay at the Oberoi Hotel which at a mere 600M distance commanded spectacular views from its lofted position atop of a slight incline.
The hotel is the nearest of the top end options to the Taj Mahal itself and being surrounded by beautiful gardens with all rooms offering a Taj Mahal view, it is able to charge a significant mark up of £350pn for a room.
Now, this isn’t my usual price category and I would usually be searching for a figure with the “3” lopped off the front, but as I say, it did command unparalleled views of the Taj Mahal and it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stay in a place offering such 5* splendour.
Imagine the excited knot in my stomach then when on the Sunday morning I rose around dawn to a faintly familiar light. It was like the light of a snowy winters morning.
I drew back the curtains and there it was…..
Fog.
Thick, smothering, all encapsulating fog.
Views of the Taj Mahal? This not so fine morning my £350 didn’t even get me a view of the garden.
The fog was so thick it was impossible to make out anything beyond the balcony. What a bummer.
We decided to have breakfast in bed (not inclusive) and wait for the fog to lift.
I checked every half hour and by 9.30 there it was, just about visible to the naked 20:20 eye.
My £350 view in all it’s glory.
Now this fog, thick though it may have been, wasn’t the thickest fog I had experienced during the week.
No, the title of “Fog of the Week” went to an unexpected cloud which descended upon our offices on the Monday lunchtime.
Someone from the Mumbia Corporation had given licence to a likely ill-educated local to approach any buildings in the area without prior warning and spray toxic insecticide inside and out.
Sat as I was on the mezzanine level I had to feel my way through the choking fumes, part blinded by the sting of the gas.
All but two of my work colleagues found it very funny. Nobody seemed to be considering the fact that this was likely causing damage to eyes, skin and respiratory system.
As soon as they could tolerate the fumes they went back inside and continued their lunches.
Sue, a wise young lady from our design team and myself decided to stay outside in the relatively fresh Mumbai air in order to give our bronchi and bronchioles at least a fighting chance.
T.I.I. as the phrase goes.
This is India.
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Transcript from an Indian phone call
The following is a composite transcript of numerous calls I have received, the core content of which I am sure is familiar to any ex-pat in India.
The phone rings and the ex-pat answers (my part is italicised for ease of explanation)
Hello. (phone voice)
Hello.
Hello! (welcoming voice)
Hello.
Hello? (questioning voice)
Hello.
Helloooo (haunting voice)
Hello.
Haylo! (comedy high pitched voice)
Hello.
Heeeelaaah. (sinister voice)
Hello
Aaaargh! Look Dude, you called me. Agreed?
Ergo, you must have an idea of who I am whereas I have absolutely no idea of who you are.
So, are you going to tell me who is calling or are we going to continue this pointless conversation ad infinitum hmmm?
Hello.
Click, crash……… (Sound of disengaged blackberry being thrown across room in frustration)
The phone rings and the ex-pat answers (my part is italicised for ease of explanation)
Hello. (phone voice)
Hello.
Hello! (welcoming voice)
Hello.
Hello? (questioning voice)
Hello.
Helloooo (haunting voice)
Hello.
Haylo! (comedy high pitched voice)
Hello.
Heeeelaaah. (sinister voice)
Hello
Aaaargh! Look Dude, you called me. Agreed?
Ergo, you must have an idea of who I am whereas I have absolutely no idea of who you are.
So, are you going to tell me who is calling or are we going to continue this pointless conversation ad infinitum hmmm?
Hello.
Click, crash……… (Sound of disengaged blackberry being thrown across room in frustration)
Efficiency
Q. How many Indians does it take to change a light bulb?
A. I don’t know.
Though I am sure if one needed changing and I were to phone the office manager to report the situation, then she would pass my message to the relevant executive, who would then start the assessment process by ordering the handyman to inspect said inoperational bulb.
Once the report had been filed, the second stage assessment would then hopefully result in a confirmation message to procurement to proceed with the purchase of a light bulb.
Once the bulb had been purchased and the receipts thrice carbon copied, an instruction to install would be issued to the handyman, who would then likely arrive with his Junior and have the whole process overseen by a senior level company executive.
It is highly likely that at this stage the present party would realise the purchased bulb does not match the socket fitting.
The process would then be repeated.
Please note, this systematic process applies equally to making a cup of tea, getting a glass of water, or even purchasing a cellphone.
Indeed, it took 2x drivers, 1x CFO, 1x HR Executive, an Office Manager and myself to procure a Blackberry handset from the Vodafone shop.
Efficiency is most certainly not in the Indian lexicon.
A. I don’t know.
Though I am sure if one needed changing and I were to phone the office manager to report the situation, then she would pass my message to the relevant executive, who would then start the assessment process by ordering the handyman to inspect said inoperational bulb.
Once the report had been filed, the second stage assessment would then hopefully result in a confirmation message to procurement to proceed with the purchase of a light bulb.
Once the bulb had been purchased and the receipts thrice carbon copied, an instruction to install would be issued to the handyman, who would then likely arrive with his Junior and have the whole process overseen by a senior level company executive.
It is highly likely that at this stage the present party would realise the purchased bulb does not match the socket fitting.
The process would then be repeated.
Please note, this systematic process applies equally to making a cup of tea, getting a glass of water, or even purchasing a cellphone.
Indeed, it took 2x drivers, 1x CFO, 1x HR Executive, an Office Manager and myself to procure a Blackberry handset from the Vodafone shop.
Efficiency is most certainly not in the Indian lexicon.
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Normal service resumed
I know, I know, it's been a while.
I was planning to write a full report on the Mumbai attacks but hey, I ended up as an unpaid roving reporter for the South Wales Evening Post.
Three issues including a front page feature. Fame in adversity.
Anyway if you want to know, source the back issues or ask me for the link!
Back to the here and now.
It's Christmas time, mistltoe and wine, children singing Christian Rhyme.
With logs on the fire and girts on the tree it's time to rejoice in the..... ah balls to that.
I will rely on Kipling to tell it as it is. We fly to Goa on New Years day and my resolution is to maintain my initial efforts on this blog....
Christmas in India
Rudyard Kipling
Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow--
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth;
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry--
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring--
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly--
Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"
High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us--
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good--we hoped to hold it,
And today we know the fulness of our gain.
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together--
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment--
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is shut--we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus--
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and
neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
-THE END-
Rudyard Kipling's poem: Christmas in India
I was planning to write a full report on the Mumbai attacks but hey, I ended up as an unpaid roving reporter for the South Wales Evening Post.
Three issues including a front page feature. Fame in adversity.
Anyway if you want to know, source the back issues or ask me for the link!
Back to the here and now.
It's Christmas time, mistltoe and wine, children singing Christian Rhyme.
With logs on the fire and girts on the tree it's time to rejoice in the..... ah balls to that.
I will rely on Kipling to tell it as it is. We fly to Goa on New Years day and my resolution is to maintain my initial efforts on this blog....
Christmas in India
Rudyard Kipling
Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow--
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth;
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry--
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring--
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly--
Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"
High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us--
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good--we hoped to hold it,
And today we know the fulness of our gain.
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together--
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment--
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is shut--we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus--
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and
neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
-THE END-
Rudyard Kipling's poem: Christmas in India
Monday, 10 November 2008
The coming of the Mumbai Messiah
Mumbai.
An architectural vacuum of monotony which Indophiles and eternal optimists ambitiously hail as a World City.
With a population double that of London what is to there be contested in such a claim?
This is the engine room of sub-continental expansion.
Is it not true that the hazy perma-pollution which hugs leechlike to a narrow strip of lowland between the Western Ghats and the vastness of the Arabian Sea has been both bellowed from the lungs of it’s industry and financed by this beating financial heart of Indian business?
Indeed, upon first glance there is much to be said for this claim to a lofty perch in the worlds pecking order.
This argument has great validity in so far as the sprawling coastal wedge of humanity (or inhumanity if you prefer) has comfortably the highest air traffic volume on the sub-continent, represents the greatest concentration of film industry output anywhere on the globe, boasts malls of haute fashion retail space together with the exclusive presence of a Rolls Royce dealership.
Mumbai also acts as an increasingly powerful magnet to those rural disposed, sucked like so many iron filings towards the attractive core of the rapidly expanding megalopolis in the vain hope of sharing a part in this exclusive dream.
But having said that, despite it’s obvious lure this city sure has its downsides.
Outside of the CBD environs of Colaba, Mumbai’s pavement free streets are unparalleled in their filth.
A demonstrable lack of civic pride whose importance escapes the local populace ensures a continued yet unfulfilled requirement of maintenance. Green areas are few and far between, play areas for children non-existent, with a basic awareness of community action being thus far missing from my observations..
The city also has horrendous pockets of poverty and striking inefficiencies.
Then to cap it all there is the traffic problem.
Smoking, choking, crawling, stalling, horns beating, overheating, endless snakes of engined transportation defiling the dwellings of Mumbaikers from pre-sunrise to post-sunset.
But wait you doomsayers, look there…...
What is that ribbon of concrete spreading southward from the headland of Bandra to its Southern counterpoint at Worli?
See as it skips in wide steps across that infected, lifeless bay.
True believers, gather round and listen. For this strange structure is the Worli-Bandra sea link. The John the Baptist of Maharashtran infrastructure, here to path the way for a yet greater shift in the city’s transport system.
Somewhere in ancient Sanskrit writing it is rumoured that a chariot of iron shall ride through the clouds and dance between the great man made trees of the urban jungle.
Yes my friends, prepare the arrival of the Messiah. The one who brings hope to the traveling masses and delivers them from misery of the daily commute.
Prepare your salutations and ready yourselves with chargeable smart cards, for soon is the coming of the Mumbai Sky Train.
Yes, you heard it, the city authority are also building a Metro system.
Balanced upon a belt of track several metres above the current commuter level, these initial three lines of transit offer hope to those who have faith.
If only this city wasn’t so corrupt, it might even get finished. Or perhaps the reason that it will get finished is that this city is so corrupt?
Confused by that contrary concept?
Tune in soon to hear my tale of Bob the Builder and Jim’ll fix it.
Maybe then it will all start to make sense.
An architectural vacuum of monotony which Indophiles and eternal optimists ambitiously hail as a World City.
With a population double that of London what is to there be contested in such a claim?
This is the engine room of sub-continental expansion.
Is it not true that the hazy perma-pollution which hugs leechlike to a narrow strip of lowland between the Western Ghats and the vastness of the Arabian Sea has been both bellowed from the lungs of it’s industry and financed by this beating financial heart of Indian business?
Indeed, upon first glance there is much to be said for this claim to a lofty perch in the worlds pecking order.
This argument has great validity in so far as the sprawling coastal wedge of humanity (or inhumanity if you prefer) has comfortably the highest air traffic volume on the sub-continent, represents the greatest concentration of film industry output anywhere on the globe, boasts malls of haute fashion retail space together with the exclusive presence of a Rolls Royce dealership.
Mumbai also acts as an increasingly powerful magnet to those rural disposed, sucked like so many iron filings towards the attractive core of the rapidly expanding megalopolis in the vain hope of sharing a part in this exclusive dream.
But having said that, despite it’s obvious lure this city sure has its downsides.
Outside of the CBD environs of Colaba, Mumbai’s pavement free streets are unparalleled in their filth.
A demonstrable lack of civic pride whose importance escapes the local populace ensures a continued yet unfulfilled requirement of maintenance. Green areas are few and far between, play areas for children non-existent, with a basic awareness of community action being thus far missing from my observations..
The city also has horrendous pockets of poverty and striking inefficiencies.
Then to cap it all there is the traffic problem.
Smoking, choking, crawling, stalling, horns beating, overheating, endless snakes of engined transportation defiling the dwellings of Mumbaikers from pre-sunrise to post-sunset.
But wait you doomsayers, look there…...
What is that ribbon of concrete spreading southward from the headland of Bandra to its Southern counterpoint at Worli?
See as it skips in wide steps across that infected, lifeless bay.
True believers, gather round and listen. For this strange structure is the Worli-Bandra sea link. The John the Baptist of Maharashtran infrastructure, here to path the way for a yet greater shift in the city’s transport system.
Somewhere in ancient Sanskrit writing it is rumoured that a chariot of iron shall ride through the clouds and dance between the great man made trees of the urban jungle.
Yes my friends, prepare the arrival of the Messiah. The one who brings hope to the traveling masses and delivers them from misery of the daily commute.
Prepare your salutations and ready yourselves with chargeable smart cards, for soon is the coming of the Mumbai Sky Train.
Yes, you heard it, the city authority are also building a Metro system.
Balanced upon a belt of track several metres above the current commuter level, these initial three lines of transit offer hope to those who have faith.
If only this city wasn’t so corrupt, it might even get finished. Or perhaps the reason that it will get finished is that this city is so corrupt?
Confused by that contrary concept?
Tune in soon to hear my tale of Bob the Builder and Jim’ll fix it.
Maybe then it will all start to make sense.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Superman and Muslims
When I was a wee lad I had a bedroom decorated in superman themes.
My walls were plastered in Superman paper, my duvet cover had the last son of Krypton emblazoned all across, hell, even my alarm clock involved Superman making a daily effort to wake me from my dreams.
"Superman is here to say
It's time to wake up and start a new day
Waking up can be fun
When you wake up, my mission is done"
Now, such a concept may be acceptable when at Primary School, but at the age of 36 I think I am done with the wacky morning alarms.
If I had wanted a novelty yodeling wake up call I would have kept an issue of the Innovations Catalogue that came free each weekend with my parents copy of The Mail on Sunday.
So on that note why must i be rudely awaken by the local Imam who finds it perfectly acceptable to shout praise to a non-existent deity through a loud hailer at 5.15 each morning?
You can believe whatever wacky superstitious nonsense you want, but please, please don't inflict it upon me at the crack of dawn.
My walls were plastered in Superman paper, my duvet cover had the last son of Krypton emblazoned all across, hell, even my alarm clock involved Superman making a daily effort to wake me from my dreams.
"Superman is here to say
It's time to wake up and start a new day
Waking up can be fun
When you wake up, my mission is done"
Now, such a concept may be acceptable when at Primary School, but at the age of 36 I think I am done with the wacky morning alarms.
If I had wanted a novelty yodeling wake up call I would have kept an issue of the Innovations Catalogue that came free each weekend with my parents copy of The Mail on Sunday.
So on that note why must i be rudely awaken by the local Imam who finds it perfectly acceptable to shout praise to a non-existent deity through a loud hailer at 5.15 each morning?
You can believe whatever wacky superstitious nonsense you want, but please, please don't inflict it upon me at the crack of dawn.
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