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MAA

No, I’m not talking about a baby’s cry, or the sound a goat makes (although there are plenty of goats here). I am talking about the Chennai International Airport (formerly Madrass). This is my first experience with the “business end” of an airport in a truly foreign country.

I walk up to the doors where I am stopped by an Indian Army soldier.

“Ticket please sir.”

“I have no ticket.”

[blank look]

“I have an e-ticket. I need to get my boarding pass inside.”

He sucks his teeth, a horrible, dismissive, irritating sound that makes me want to smash something. “No sir. Without a ticket you cannot get in. Please go to the window.” and he gestures to his left.

Three minutes later I’m back with a print out of my e-ticket, which the window people promptly gave me. I am waved through without comment, and the teeth are silent.

I head straight for the Jet Airways counter, specifically for the empty “Premium” line. I am, after all, traveling business class.

I had the woman my ticket, she promptly asks me if I want a window seat, and tells me to go to the lounge. I should return 15 minutes before flight time.

At this point I start to get uncomfortable. The line for security is about a quarter of a mile long. I mean REALLY long. And in India I know that EVERYTHING is slow.

“I should go through now.” I say.

“No sir. Go to the business class lounge, and come back fifteen minutes before the flight.”

At this point a heavy set chap comes out from behind the counter and makes it clear he is going to show me where to go. I stop arguing. What’s the worst that can happen, I miss the flight? One of the travel agents in the US will sort it out. The company’s travel agents are spectacular.

So I follow Mr. Grumpy away from the desk, the line for security snakes before us. In front of Mr. Grumpy’s determined face the line parts magically in front of us, Mr. Grumpy and El Gringo move on through, and we make for the far end of the airport.

He shows me to an elevator, past an army sentry that looks like he’s asleep with his eyes open, and tells me “Fifteen minutes before.” I give him 50 rupees and hit the magic button. The business class lounge is fairly barren, but I sit there and fret, as Mr. Grumpy has made it clear he doesn’t want to hear from me for another 45 minutes.

Tick tock.

“ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS ON JET AIRWAYS FLIGHT 464 FOR MUMBAI: THIS IS YOUR FINAL BOARDING CALL. PLEASE PROCEED TO GATE 5 IMMEDIATELY.” BOOMS over the loudspeaker.

And here’s where I am positively inspired.

As I have stated before my method for getting through customs in different countries is to find another business traveler, follow them to a line, and watch what they do at the window. With a few small exceptions (my notable disaster at the Singapore airport where I made the fatal mistake of saying “Good Evening”, as documented in this blog, being one of them) I mirror what they do, and everything is ok.

Another person in the business class lounge JUMPS out of his chair, grabs his bag, and briskly walks for the door. THAT, dear readers, that is my ticket to the plane. I grab my bags, and follow “Mr. Blue”. We get to the elevator where we share a ride with “Mr. Yellow” and another person in regular business clothes. I forget about that guy- He is too ubiquitous, I’ll never be able to track him. But Yellow and Blue, I can track Yellow and Blue.

Out of the elevator, we almost run to the line. I am precisely one foot behind Blue. I can walk fairly silently, so aside from the sound of my luggage wheels I make no sound.

In line at security. I am right behind Mr. Blue. We are actually moving quickly- In fact I am surprised at how quickly we move. Mr. Yellow is in the second line, opposite us.

While sitting in traffic I track cars. I pick notable cars in other lanes and track their position relative to me. If they start moving ahead any significant distance I switch to their lane. This is how I occupy my brain while doing the mind numbing task of driving. If I ever drive in Mumbai I won’t do this- It will be more like a death grip on the wheel and trying not to either kill, or be killed, by a cow. So tracking Mr. Blue (Right in front of me) and Mr. Yellow, off my right shoulder, is no problem.

I take a closer look at Mr. Blue. Blue is a classic Indian business man or academic. Very nicely dressed, pressed, proper.

Then, far down the line I see the monitor.

THESE ITEMS ARE BANNED IN CARRY ON LUGGAGE: the screen announces. Then scrolls through the list of verboten items:

FIRE CRACKERS
GEL
LIQUIDS
HANDGUNS
MARTIAL ARTS EQUIPMENT
FRUIT
ANIMAL PARTS
EXPLOSIVES
LIVE ANIMALS
AUTOMATIC WEAPONS
CHAIN SAWS
KNIVES
DYNAMITE

and the list goes on. I mean Dynamite? That needs to be spelled out? You’re kidding me… And when’s the last time you saw someone try to carry on a chain saw?

I want to take a photo quite badly, but there are 900 security cameras and I’m POSITIVE at least one is on me directly.

I throw my bags on the conveyor belt, and they head through the dark orifice into the x-ray machine. I walk through the metal detector. I am instructed to stand on a large stool, like every traveler before me, and spread my arms. The soldier before me waves a wand of some sort over me, I expect looking for explosives, but I have no real clue, and waves me forward. I grab my bags, and run after Mr. Blue.

I catch Mr. Blue as he’s looking at a quickly changing sign board announcing flights and gates. Satisfied, he turns to his right and walks to an escalator. I follow.

At this point Mr. Blue realizes I am behind him. He turns around, sees me, and smiles.

“464 to Mumbai?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he responds.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just follow you.”

“Of course. This airport is difficult to navigate. Our gate is up here and to the left.”

“Thank you.”

“Where are you from?”

“Nova Scotia, Canada.” I reply

“Ah yes, this is very beautiful. I have been there.”

“Oh!?”

“Yes, many years ago.”

We board the flight, he says a polite goodbye, and I settle into one of the nicest business class short haul seats I’ve ever been in. I’ve made the flight, and gained yet another India experience.

No problem.

Cultural Sensitivity

It has come to my attention that my blog is making the rounds of my professional office, and people in both the United States and India are now reading it. I would like to extend a warm welcome to these new readers.

As well, I would like to express that my intention here is to discuss my discoveries and explorations of different cultures, and that nothing here is meant to be derogatory or offend. If something does offend you, or if you think I am wrong, please send me an email, all of you know how to reach me.

Earth to Mark…

I’ve been meaning to post, I’ve got lots to talk about, but I’m just exhausted. This trip, combined with the last trip a couple of weeks before, have just taken the wind out of my sails.

So let’s talk about some of the differences again, and this is a situation where I have had to admit I was ignorant. I can admit when I was wrong, and in this case I was wrong.

The toilet in the office on the other coast (I am now in Mumbai) was always covered in liquid, and there was always a ton of liquid on the floor. I naturally assumed that if there is liquid all over the floor, and commode, that people were just not being careful. That entire office kinda stinks, although some places are much worse than others, so I naturally assumed that the washroom was just a disaster area.

It turns out the exact opposite was the case: The liquid all over the bathroom was water, from people hosing the area down with the little spray nozzle beside the toilet. Before arriving in India I had never seen such a thing. I had no idea what this nozzle was for, but I have since seen that this is my ignorance. The damp condition of the area was not the fault of people not being careful, it was the result of people being extra courteous and careful.

It just goes to show that even though you think you are being sensitive to the fact that you are in another culture, you never know what the real deal is until you ask.

In this case I figured it out myself.

BIRTHDAY BUMPS! BIRTHDAY BUMPS! [EDIT]

This office has great energy. It is very small for an office of our company- about eighty people on this side of it. Sr. management is five cubes over from where I sit. It’s very cosy, and has a great family feeling. Everyone is going out to lunch today because I’m here. I really like these guys.

About 25 minutes ago, however, suddenly someone starts singing “Happy Birthday”. The entire office joins in at the top of their lungs. So I, not wanting to look disrespectful, join in at the top of my lungs.

“HAAAAAPY BIIIIRTHDAY DEAR SOME-BO-DY” I sing.

Then the entire office erupts into pandemonium.

“BIRTHDAY BUMS! BIRTHDAY BUMS!” People yell.

So four guys grab the birthday boy, whom turns out to be an attorney. Each grab a limb and stretch him out, then someone else (usually standing out of his view) kicks his ass. The entire office is gathered around, cheering.

I simply HAVE to be back here in May to see them try this little stunt on my 250lb “birthday bum”.

S’ok, No Problem!

So… It’s the little differences.

The Bombay office is great. Charming people, great energy, and most importantly safe. Last night I think I ticked off the security guard, however, because I was here till 2:00am and I think he wanted to go to sleep. I walked out the front door of the building our office is here, and low and behold: There is a cab waiting right here.

I lean in the window: “Taj please?”

“bjalkjalkaalkj”

“Taj Mahal?”

“fljkadskljaljk”

“Taj Mahal?”

“allajfiwealisdfj” and he waves me inside.

Now I know that the only response that means “I understand” in India is “S’ok, no problem.” If I don’t hear that, I don’t get in. I step back from the cab, and start to look around.

I see another cab across the street. In fact there’s a long line of them, but I have to cross UNDER an onramp to get to them. That would be no problem except that it is totally unlit and there are… uh… What’s that row of… There’s people asleep under the onramp. Screw that. I stay put and look for another cab.

The cabbie, on the other hand, gets out of the cab. I figure this is going to be the start of a long, polite, charming conversation where he screams at me and I pretend not to hear. That is not, however, what happened. He gets out of the cab, and walks over to a group of men standing in front of the office. Suddenly I am confronted by a cop.

“Where to sir?”

“Taj Mahal?”

Confused looks.

“Card?”

Shit, I’ve left all my ID up in the office, having been concerned about being rolled out side. The only thing I have is a photocopy of my passport.

“What card?” I ask.

“Address card?” he replies.

So I admit it, I got a little frustrated when I shouldn’t have. “It’s the Taj Mahal hotel! it’s the most famous building in Bombay!”

In unison, and I shit you not, dear reader, they all howl: “OOOOOOOOH! TAJ MAHAL!” It was like watching a chorus line- All heads went back (by this time there are five or six men all trying to work out the puzzle) and they sang “TAJ MAHAL!”

“Taj Mahal Colaba?”

“Yes!” I reply.

“S’ok, no problem, sir.”

“Extension seat belts are available by request,”

I am on a flight to Mumbai from Chennai. I expected a very cramped flight, but it turns out Jet Airways has a great business class product.

They are closing the doors, but I will tell the story of the airport when I arrive..

That’s all she wrote…

It was too good to last.

So far I have been very careful with what I’ve touched and what I’ve done, but I got adventurous. I decided I wanted to plug in a switch, but the plugs were under the raised floor in the computer room. So I used a discarded blade cover to lever up the floorboard and push the tile aside.

No problem.

I plug in one of the power supplies.

Then I move the 40 lb floor tile back into position, where it would drop back into the hole in the floor it had recently vacated. No one would ever know I’d lifted it (except when they saw the switches powered up).

And I dropped it on my finger.

Normally I wear gloves when doing this sort of thing but I desperately want to get out of the office. Blood everywhere in the dirtiest place in India, the office.

That didn’t stop me from lifting another floor tile and plugging in the other switch though…

I don’t even know where to start…

So much has happened in the last couple of days that I can not even begin to figure out what to talk about. Yesterday I went to a place called Kanchipuram. I wanted to go some place off the beaten path, where I could get some holiday gifts for friends and see something normal people don’t bother to go and see.

Now I certainly got what I wanted, but I did not get my money’s worth.

Unfortunately that is going to be a LONG post, and I don’t have time to write it just yet- I’m working on getting everything I need to get done in the office out of the way so I can get out of here tomorrow.

So let’s try something… “funny”

This is an advertisement from the local newspaper, for a new housing development:

Well, my dear little Lakshmi, let’s see…

New Jersey…

One thing to consider…

Ok, so there’s… um…

Now Chennai *IS* different in that… uh…

(Yes, that is Accenture behind the corrugated tin defense perimeter)

I think that if you…. Er…

No, Lakshmi, aside from a 15 hour plane ride, and the fact that it is broiling hot, you will not know you’ve left Newark.

The Honky Will Mind His Own Fucking Business

So I gave been playing a bit of the “gringo card” at the office. Facilities is unable to keep a bathroom clean to the point where there is… Let’s just say the people that are currently in the office (security guards, construction workers and “cleaners”) think that everywhere is a urinal.

But I have learned that all I have to do is try to lift something and I will have an army at my disposal. I was escorted to the storage area because I needed a few blades for a switch. I lifted a box, and within seconds I had a line of security guards marching out with blades and power supplies. I don’t ask them to- they just get pissed off when I lift something. As a side note I purposefully fill out their log books wrong to see if any of them will challenge me. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck spend an awful lot of time in the server room according to the log book. I need to be careful though- it is only a matter of time before someone calls me “Mr. Stalin” or “Mr. Peter Parker.” In front of Jesal.

Minding my own business:

So I am sitting in the hotel bar, a great place, having a beer. There is a band there, they are there every night. Two hot Philipino singers and a guy that sings and works what could only be described as a very sophisticated karaoke machine.

That’s not fair. He plays keyboards and the drum machine. This would be a good time to point out that the band is great.

Tonight, however, there are a bunch of very drunk, very horny Philipino guys right now making a spectacle of themselves. There is also a couple of pretty drunk Indian guys, whom have befriended the band. The indian guys gave us birthday cake the other night- I like them.

So the indians left during a song, and returned with re-enforcements.

“Another sir?”

“What?”

“Would you like another beer sir?”

“I don’t think so,” I say looking over my shoulder.

The waiter follows my gaze, and says: “you think there will be trouble sir?” The waiter is looking less comfortable than I am. The hotel is clearly ill equipped to deal with a full on brawl between rival guest factions.

One thing I have learned here is that I carry myself with too much “authority”. I have a deep, strong, LOUD voice, and people here get a little weirded out by gringos. People at the office, construction workers. Stare at me, and the security guards jump up and salute. I never get used to that. There are other security based things I cannot talk about, but let’s just say everyone gets out of my way.

What I am trying to say is that I am different enough, and people are deferential enough that I can destabilize things- a simple fist fight get’s really fucked up with such a random element in the room.

So I look at the line of young Indian guys with folded arms, the drunk Philipino guys trying to grind on the singers, the singers trying to balance good fun and sexy with crazy drunk, and horny guys away from home…

“This will end badly.”. I reply.

“Do you wish to take your beer in the restaraunt sir?”

“Yes, I think I would be quite pleasant.” I reply.

As I type this on my blackberry I hear from across the hotel:

[Singing] “It’s fun to stay at the YYYYY MMMMM “[music cuts out abruptly]

DAMN these are some mighty fine curry prawns.