The Hacker Tourist - Passage to India [longish] [was : Moving]
John Wester
This is a log of the Hacker Tourist on his first trip to India. Days 1 to 3
where spent in aircraft and asleep, so nothing much happened. Again, this is
a very personal view, and may or may not be of any interest to you
whatsoever. If it offends, apologies in advance.
Passage to India
Day 4
Well, yesterday was fairly uneventful, except for an insurgency group
hijacking some 78 tons of rice, beans and other foods from a government
supply depot, 38 people of a lower caste village being shot by a private
army up in Bihar, the power in the hotel going on and off all night,
trapping me between floors in the elevator and me reading the fine print in
the hotel guide book that says "all currency exchange documents have to be
presented upon exit". Serious penalties if you don't. Apparently the Indian
Rupee is a controlled currency so you can't take any out of the country.
This caused me to rummage furiously in my luggage, coat pockets, briefcase,
notebooks, yadayadayada during the intervals that the power was up. Found it
though! Since I'm exiting via Mumbai (Bombay) I didn't really relish running
afoul of the authorities. Bombay is not noted for its jails.
On the way up to the office this morning, the traffic pattern was subdued.
Why, there were even two traffic cops! Actually directing traffic! Then I
start seeing cops with nasty Kalishnikovs and sundry other machine pistols
at every intersection and every hundred yards or so. Hmm, thinks the Hacker
Tourist. Surely they haven't found out that I almost lost my currency
control document.
Asked the driver and he said a government minister is coming up to Hi-Tech
City (what the development is called). I have to keep reminding myself that
this is still a developing region of the world and that in every state there
is at least one insurgent group. As well, given the relations between India
and Pakistan over the Kashmir and the usual Hindu/Moslem tension, it's no
wonder they lay on the muscle when the brass comes out from Delhi.
That's all for now. Stay tuned
Day 5
One of the things that fascinates me when I travel anywhere off the North
American continent is how technology adapts to local circumstances. For
example, in Europe because of the road widths, you don't see gi-normous
Kenworths pulling 42 foot long trailers. Instead you see cabover DAF's and
Volvos, with short wheelbases pulling curtain sided trailers. This makes the
overall length of the vehicle less and the curtained sides make off loading
in small areas easier (you don't have have a large loading dock to back a
trailer into).
Over here, truck technology has adapted to local requirements as well. The
trucks when I first saw them looked very old, but my hosts assured me that
most of them are only 5 years old at most. That got me to thinking and
looking at these trucks more closely.
The average truck looks like a 1950's Russian truck. Understandable, given
that Russia poured a lot of money into India. The basic layout is a follows:
Take two pieces of thick (and I mean thick) channel steel about 12 inches in
cross section. Don't bend them for the axles, just leave them straight. Bolt
on a set of semi-elliptic springs. No shocks. These springs have about 20
leaves in them and for the heavier haulers they usually but a small set of
quarter elliptic springs underneath the main set. This now makes the axle
mounting points about 2 to 2 1/2 feet below the bottom of the chassis rails.
Next some standard size truck tires. In the case of the cabovers, the front
wheels align with the outer duals, while on conventional trucks the front
wheels align with the inner duals. (This gives these truck a doglegged
appearance as they race towards you as your cab driver has pulled out into
his lane to pass the moped that is is passing the bus that is passing the
trike cab filled with 7 people and the driver)
The cabs are straightforward affairs. The cabovers are just sheet steel on a
steel or wooden frame with no concessions to aerodynamics. Windshields are
flat glass and side windows non-existent. Seats are simple, with no springs.
On the conventionals, the bodies are actually more molded and look like a
'50s truck.
Both have bumpers and if you take wheel radius and spring height into
account these are about 3 to 4 feet in the air.
Now, the engines are very simple diesels. Nothing complicated, no turbos, no
jake brakes. Simple robust engines of marginal power output. Transmissions
are nothing fancy, 4 speeds, crash box. No hi-lo nothing like that.
All the trucks have one bed type that can be altered with sticks and planks
to form high sides etc. On the larger construction jobs, the trucks do have
tippers, but by and large, it's cheaper for manual labour to empty the truck
by hand than for the owner to invest in a tipper body.
All of the trucks have wild paint jobs and some of them have wonderfully
garish paintings of hindu gods on the radiator. Dingle balls are de-riguer,
especially from the enormous sunshade over the windshield.
The net result of all this is a truck that can be repaired with simple hand
tools and doesn't require a huge infrastructure to work on it. I've seen
axles being replaced, brake jobs being done oil being changed on the side of
the road. Access to all under-truck parts doesn't require any fancy jacks,
since you have a good 3 to 4 feet under the oil pan!
What you basically have is a relatively efficient device that can operate
under conditions that would be impossible for North American trucks to work
under.
We often forget that technology has to reflect the local environment and the
capabilities of the users.
Oh, yeah, the power is stable again at the hotel.
Day 6
Well, it finally caught up to me. This is my last day in Hyderabad and after
5 days of reasonable health, I've got the Rangoon Crut. Shakes, chills and
an absolute aversion to food. I think it's a combination of things, ranging
from the 11.5 hour time difference, intense all day meetings and epsilon of
sleep.
Anyway, last night my hosts took me sari shopping. Now, one would think that
you go to your basic sari store, rummage about, pick what you want and then
off you go. No, things move at a much more relaxed pace. After yet another
hair-raising cab ride into downtown, Rajender, my host took me to the place
were he buys his wife's saris.
You walk up this side road, past the samosa cart, climb the stairs and at
the front of the shop you remove your shoes. The entire shop floor is
covered with cushions and all the saris are in shelves around the sides. At
the front of the shop is a bunch of men, the owner and his family sitting
about talking. On the ceiling there are fans, slightly out of balance,
spinning like devirshes in an attempt to keep the shop cool. Suprisingly, it
works.
In the shop, toward the back, is a man sitting on the floor. He looks at
least 100 years old. Rajender nods and we all sit down in front of him. He
spreads a golden silk cloth over his lap towards us and after an exchage of
pleasantries and a basic determination of how much I want to spend, the shop
boy starts bring saris. Silk. Gold brocade. Vibrant colours. There is a
pause. The shop boy now comes with saris even more spectacular that the
first. As each saris brought out, we feel the material, look at the brocade
and if we like it, we put it to one side. Finally, the most expensive saris
in the shop are brought out. Clearly out my league, but beautiful
none-the-less.
So, surrounded by a dozen saris, we begin to chose the three that I want to
purchase. Much discussion as to quality, color and pattern. Tea is brought
and shared. Finally, I have the three that I like. The old man motions to
the shop boy and the saris disappear to the front. The shop boy returns with
chit with the price.
Now, Rajender swings into action. He looks at the price, and with a look of
"you must be joking" shakes his head. The shop boy goes back to the owner
and new price is written down. This happens two more times until Rajender is
satisfied that this is the best price possible. He knudges me, "Give the
salesman a hundred rupee tip". That done, more tea is consumed, pleasantries
exchanges and then we go off to pay for it.
All in all a very pleasant experience that took over an hour to transact.
Don't get service like at Costco, now, do you?
I'm off to Amsterdam tonight and will get in Saturday morning. I'll be
spending Monday and Tuesday at Vanenburg, meeting with our Dutch colleagues.
So stay tuned for next instalment of "The Hacker Tourist"
The Great Escape
Well, here I am in the west. Although the Netherlands is one of the most
densely populated countries in the world, the Schiphol (the international
airport) is deserted. No small boys trying to grab your bags, no taxi
drivers hustling your business and it's clean. No grunge growing up the
walls, no bizarre tropical lifeforms trying to tear down what man has built.
And best of all, a phone system that works and lets you jack into the web.
I spent the rest of day 6 lying flat on my back in Ravi's office, or trying
to talk long distance on the great white phone. The two meetings in the
afternoon pass in a haze. I'm not really sure what happened during those
meetings. At any rate, I managed to get to the Hyderabad airport and even
though my hosts thought I was crazy to get there 2 hours early, it was a
good thing. After checking in, the power started doing the Hyderabad Power
Boogie. In what passes for a business class waiting lounge (a 15 by 15 foot
room with some couches and a fan trying to dislocate itself from the
ceiling) we were plunged into darkness every 10 minutes for about 10
minutes. Of course, said fan would stop working and within 10 minutes the
temperature would skyrocket to 31c. The only thing that kept me going was
that I still had the chills so I didn't really notice it all that much. Now
the Power Boogie meant that everyone who checked in after me had no seat
assignments. More on this later.
India is a funny country. As my hosts said, "We study the rules so we can
ignore them". With that in the back of my mind, I went through security.
"Only one bag, sahib" says the security guy. In an altered state, probably
due to the fever and an overwhelming desire to get the f*** home, I drew
myself up to my full 6 and half feet and looked him square in the eye. "NO"
I said. I pointed to my laptop. "Computer". I pointed to my bag. "Clothes".
I pointed to my boarding card. "Business Class". He looked at me. I think
there must have been something in my eyes. He did the Indian Head Bob, a
curious side to side motion, not unlike the motion of those little dogs in
the back parcel shelf of some cars. Then "La" and he motions me through.
So, through security. Scan the luggage. Through the metal detector. Get
frisked anyway. More stamps. (my boarding card has more stamps than my
passport now. There's a story here and if space permits, I'll tell it to
you). Now we wait. And wait. And Wait. Every so often, there is an
annoucement "Your kind attention please, Indian Airlines IC 618 is delayed
10 minutes. We humbly apologize for any inconvience". Finally, an
announcement. "Due to computer failure, IC 618 will be open seating". Oh
shit. Does this mean that...? NAAAA. Couldn't be. Finally the call. "Your
kind attention please. We will begin boarding IC 618" In the gaderene rush
the rest of the annoucement is drowned out. "Will passengers with children
and elderly passengers please procede to Gate 4". Well so much for that.
Rugby type scrum trying to get through the one narrow door. More security.
Now need to have my bags searched. Beats me how any contraband can be put
into my bags, but there you have it. Another frisk. More stamps. Well, the
festival seating arrangement only applied to tourist class. We had our
seats.
Mumbai. Bombay to the rest of us. Raining. On to the transfer bus to get to
the international terminal. Now, I'm not sure if it shares the same runways,
I was so completely disoriented, but it was some 40 minutes away. Bombay
must be the only city in the world that has speed bumps on the freeway
between the two terminals. Why they were there, I'll never know, because the
traffic was so heavy that we never got above 30kph.
Finally the International terminal. My chills have been converted to a
raging fever. It's pelting down with rain. There are two parts to the
terminal, each with only one entrance. There are others, but sullen soldiers
with nasty looking guns and lhaati sticks (a special stick, about the
diameter of a baseball bat and about 4 feet long) lounging at the other
entrances. Of course, this means that what appears to be the entire
population of a small town, their cars, taxis, buses all just stop directly
infront of one of these two entrances. Now, there's no indication that one
entrance is for Air India (the national flag carrier) and their code share
partners and the other entrance is for the rest. The Hacker Tourist guesses
and guesses wrong. Back out through the throng. 100 yard walk in the 31
degree heat (it's 2000) and driving rain. Past the soldiers. Past more
soldiers. Finally, another mass of people trying to get in/out of one door.
To KLM. It's hot. My shirt is now drenched with rain and sweat and reality
is beginning to become questionable. Feeling like Arthur Dent, I'm convinced
I see Slaartibaarfarst somewhere.
"Excuse me sir, your ticket?" I snap back to reality. I get my seat
assigned. Upper deck on the 747. Through immigration. But I'm leaving.
Shouldn't that be Emmigration? Never mind. Leaving is harder than getting
in. Every page of the passport is scrutinized. Forms have to filled in. The
passport is scrutinized again. And again. Finally, with a sigh of "Oh well,
we can't hold you for anything so I may as well stamp this thing" my
passport is stamped, my boarding card is stamped. I was waiting to be
stamped. Next, on to customs. Nothing here, just two more stamps. Finally,
the business class lounge. An oasis. Airconditioned. Clean. A newspaper,
comfortable seats. And offers of food. The mere sight of food makes my
stomach want to leap up my throat and strangle me. I doze in a club chair
and out of the corner of my eye I see that we should be clearing security.
For frisking, more stamps. Finally, on the plane. The end is near.
We actually take off on time. My seat mate tells me that this is not common.
He's building a power plant down the coast. 800 megawatt, using gas from
Saudi. This is end of the project for him. He's been doing a 6 week in 1
week out schedule for the past two years. After we level out, my stomach
succeeds in strangling me. After that, I pass out and wake up over Belgrade.
Breakfast. Well, we try. It stays down for about and hour. My stomach
strangles me again. My stomach and I negotiate a grudging truce.
Finally touch down in Holland. Passport control is desultory. No forms, just
one stamp. Out through customs. I go through the green lane. Not that it
would have mattered, there's no one in either lane.
And the hotel. I spend what seems forever in the shower. Scalding hot water.
I begin to shake. I turn up the heat and stand longer. Finally the shakes
stop and after towelling off I fall face forward on the bed. The phone is
ringing. It's my cousin. It's 3 hours later. "Can we come and get you?"
Travel broadens the soul, but like the chick with the ruby slippers said:
"There's no place like home." Click Click.
Cheers!
John.
John Wester
This is a log of the Hacker Tourist on his second trip to India. Days Again,
this is a very personal view, and may or may not be of any interest to you
whatsoever. If it offends, apologies in advance.
Flight into Danger
Outbound
Trepidation. Apprehension. The Hacker Tourist felt these and a coiling sense
of dread as he boards the flight into danger.
Things have changed since his last foray to the sub-continent. The stock is
in the toilet, the company is beginning to look like a kilt that has been
washed in hot water: Shrunk to a mere shadow of its former self.
Although he hadn't got anything official, the Man had taken him to one side
and told him that in the new org structure as a holding company his position
was toast. He wondered why he was getting on this flight if he was going to
be on the street when he returns.
Never mind. Put it away. The worst that could happen is that they drain his
mind and then pay him out. At least he had a layoff clause in his contract.
The HT turns to look at the tourists returning to their bratwurst after
roughing it in the Canadian Rockies from the comfort of their motor coach.
It meant a crowded flight. Even up front it was full and the airline was
offering 500 dollars and a 500-dollar travel voucher for a seat.
Frankfurt
The flight was uneventful, except for the dipstick grabbing a smoke In the
lavatory. Some people! He was taken away in cuffs when we arrived.
The flight had left 30 minutes late and with only 45 minutes to make his
correction to Mumbai a vision of him doing a passable imitation of Deon
Sanders on a punt return to get to the Delta gate.
Not to worry though. An incredibly severe gate agent greets the HT and with
a Teutonic "Ze flight haz been delayed by funzig minuten" and directed me to
the high speed shuttle that takes you to the other part of the airport.
Frankfurt airport is a bit different. It's a hybrid between a spoke and hub
(like Calgary), separate terminals with a rail link like Denver, and a strip
mall arrangement like DFW.
To get between terminals you jump on this LRT thingy. This whisks you away
and thankfully the Germans have resisted the siren call of voice synthesis.
Unlike Denver and Atlanta, Frankfurt's little railway doesn't bombard you
with: "The train is leaving the station" and "The train is arriving" and
"The train is stopping, please hang on" Instead, just a perfunctory
announcement that you are at Terminal C.
I guess that the Frankfurters figure that if you can't tell that the train
is doing something that trains have a normal tendency to do like starting,
slowing down, or stopping then you probably are incapable of doing something
simple, like booking an airline ticket, using a telephone, or washing
yourself and therefore wouldn't be at the airport in the first place.
The funny thing is, when I got to the gate, I could seee the Airbus A340
from the lounge. Only 200 meters distant, yet because of the unique topology
of the airport, a 2km jaunt. Go figger.
Mumbai
On final, at night, almost all cities look the same. Pinpricks of light,
some more concentrated than others, casting orange pools along the streets.
It's close to midnight and the only real difference as we get closer to the
ground is the endless traffic. This late at night even Los Angeles roads are
relatively empty.
Heat. Moisture. Monsoon. Sheets of rain crashing against the aircraft and
then the shuttle. It feels like the steam shower we're putting into the
house but there at least I can turn it off.
The powerful smell of humus, vegetation, exhaust fumes and the accumulated
scents of millions of people mingle and assault the nostrils. The smell is
all the more powerful after the sterilized air in the aircraft.
In the bus the driver has a small shrine on the dashboard. Rather than use
candles, he's wired a small light into it from the dashboard, using a
definitely dicey set of wire connectors and electrical tape. In some places
the tape has worn and when the bus hits a bump a small spark jumps to the
dashboard and the lights in the bus, outside of the bus and in the shrine
flicker.
The Westjet of India, Alliance Air runs some of the oldest 737's known to
man. On the outside, the paint is faded and crudely touched up with a very
broad brush with colours that must have been the original hue. No advanced
avionics, and what avionics there are is mounted in a dash panel that looks
like it came out of an elderly Otter that had seen hard service hauling
drilling mud to the prospectors in northern Saskatchewan.
In the passenger compartment, things aren't much better. Overhead bins have
been brush painted with a chocolate brown paint to hide the dents and
scratches. The carpet is frayed and threadbare and people stumble as they
catch a toe on the edge where it joins the beat up rubber carpeting of the
galley. The panel that holds the emergency something or other is hanging on
by one screw.
My hosts later tell me that they have some of the best pilots in the world
and this was confirmed by the silk smooth landing.
Hyderabad
Looking out over the small lake (Lake Banjara) the HT looks at the temple
that has been his constant companion for the last 2 weeks. Every morning at
5:45, he hears a single bell. Then, spot on 0600, a cacophony of horns,
bells, drums, cymbals and dog knows what else is unleashed. The din lasts
for 15 minutes or so and then, as quickly as it started, it stops and all
what the HT can hear is the Donald Duck squawks of the auto rickshaws and
the various tootling of truck, bus, and taxi horns as the vehicles argue and
swirl around each other like a colony of disturbed landbound gannets.
The small lake is murky. Around the edges a thick scum has formed and
carries with it all manner of flotsam: a Styrofoam cup, a flip-flop, a
portion of a bicycle seat and something that looks like the remains of a
floral necklace. Every now and then, one of the hundreds of golden
dragonflies alights on the surface to lay its eggs.
Further out in the lake, you can hear and sometimes see small fish jump, the
ir white bellies and silver sides flashing in the light. These fish are not
edible. In fact the authorities are actively discouraging fish in any of the
lake because toxicology studies show the usual triad of heavy metals,
pesticides and herbicides.
How much of the flotsam is due to the torrential rain that fell before the
HT arrived isn't clear. Two days before he arrived some 26cm fell in 24
hours causing the rivers to overflow and the runoff to fill and broach many
of the natural lakes and "tanks", artificial reservoirs meant to capture
runoff. In many cases these tanks overflowed because of illegal construction
and landfill, reducing their storage capacity. And it's not just the private
sector that is guilty. In some cases, post flood surveys showed that the
government had either issued permits, even though they knew the land had
caveats on it, or, they built buildings for their own programs.
For the most part the city seems to have recovered; the only visible signs
are gullies along the side of some roads that mutely tell of the torrent
that flowed just a few days ago. Here and there some low lying areas are
still filled with standing water and in some places enterprising folk have
dug right through the asphalt to create drainage. These are being slowly
filled with chunks of rock, as drivers get tired of having their car's
suspensions hammered to oblivion.
Up toward Hi-Tech City, the road has turned into a cattle track, both
literally and figuratively. The heavy construction equipment hauling blasted
rock from several building sites have pummeled the softened road and any
small imperfection and pothole has become a taxi swallowing negative speed
bump. Negotiating around these often means playing chicken with beat up
Ashok Leyland lorries that give no quarter.
In Hyderabad, any large construction requires heavy duty blasting. All of
the area around the city is hills made of hard, unyielding granite. Sitting
on top are boulders. Huge boulders, some the size of large trucks and small
houses dot the hills. Some are stacked on each other looking for all the
world like the megaliths of Europe. Any sort of building requires the hills
to be leveled and the boulders to be removed. Much of this is done by
blasting. You can hear the muffled whump from the office. The large
fragments are broken up by teams of jackhammer operators, each with their
own compressors mounted on the back of an ordinary farm tractor that doubles
as transport for the operator and about 5 of his friends. The passengers
perch precariously on the fenders and the platform that mounts the
compressor.
When the HT was last here, there were already rumblings of serious
displeasure about the regularization of electrical services and pricing. In
other words, a move to deregulation and subsidy removal. The pot had been
boiling for some time and during the first week boiled over into violent
clashes with the police. Nobody is saying who threw the first stone, but
after the fire hoses, tear gas, laati charges, rocks and gunfire, 4
protestors are dead and dozens injured and most of the city shut down. Like
most old cities, all traffic seems to have to go through the centre and any
disruption of the flow here brings the city to a standstill.
It's the festival of Ganesh this week. Friday was a holiday to kick the
whole thing off. Ganesh is this elephant headed god. Now I think the story
goes something like this:
Shiva was pissed with this young guy he didn't recognize and in the manner
of your better quality of god got into a scrap with him. (Oh oh, plot
point) In the heat of moment Shiva disconnects the lad's head from the rest
of the body. Needless to say with terminal results. Now enter Shiva's wife
from offstage. All wailing and howling.
"Shiva! You putz!" she shouts at the bloodied and bruised uber-god. "That
was your son! You may be the destroyer of worlds but not of my son. You're
an uber-god, clean up this mess and give my son back."
So like Tim the Toolman Taylor, Shiva goes back into the garage muttering to
himself. "He could have said 'Hey Pop! It's me, Ganesh!' How was I supposed
to recognize him? He's even bigger than Al Borland. And that mousemobile he
rides on. Where'd he get that? Disneyland?"
Naturally, like the uber-god that he is, he's lost the original head and
after rummaging about in his cosmic kharmic garage he finds an elephant head
sans body. Of course Mrs. Shiva is yammering at the garage door. "Are you
done?" (I wonder if she sounds like Fran Driescher?) "Well", says our god,
"Bit of duct tape, breath of life, good enough for me. She won't notice.
Heck, old blubbo is big enough he'll be able to wear that head with no
problem."
Ever since then Ganesh has been a favorite god and is always consulted prior
to embarking on a new venture. And yes, he does travel on a mouse.
But what I'd like to know is: "What is it with all these God types not
recognizing their kids and then offing them?" It's not like they’re not
omniscient or anything like that. Like, the Greek, Roman, and probably some
Hittite, Amalakite gods did the same thing. What is it, a pandemic case of
divine amnesia, or do these guys just have a cosmic hate on for their
offspring?
Anyway, the upshot of all this is that all across India, merchant
associations, communities, municipalities, unions, you name it build the
huge (the smallest I saw was about 12 ft tall and the largest topped out at
40+ feet) statues of Ganesh. These plaster of paris on steel sculputures are
painted in garish pink - like crayola flesh gone bad. Of course, he picks up
two extra arms (probably more of Shiva's duct tape at work)
So the gig is that you line up and make a food or money offering, say your
prayer and off you go. My host says that you have to approach this with a
clear and balanced soul, Ganesh will help you realize your request.
At the end of the festival, all the statues are loaded onto trucks and then
lowerd into wells, lakes and other bodies of water to symbolize death and
rebirth.
Inbound
The usual. Delayed flight from Mumbai to Heathrow. Less than one hour to
make a connection. Sigh. Booked a room at the Kohinoor in Mumbai since the
HT had an 8 hour plus layover. Some sleep. Mumbai, like the mythical city of
film noir fame, never sleeps. Even at 0430 going back out to the airport,
groups of auto-rickshaw drivers huddle under trees, smoking and gambling.
Dogs rummage in garbage and rank upon rank of blank and yellow taxis sit,
waiting for the scrum to start the following morning. In some, their drivers
sleep, folded into strange shapes, like human origami.
Then, finally, home. The thing that strikes the HT is the silence. The
absolute silence of Calgary. Even on the busiest roads, the HT thinks that
he has gone deaf and actually there is more noise than he is hearing. But he
’s not deaf. Calgary is just that quiet.
Robert Low
>
< snip >
Both posts were just great! I wish I'd thought of doing similar for my
trips into China, but I always get ideas -way- after they are
applicable! :-(
You ought to see if you can't flog these (and any others) to a travel
magazine or something! Well done!
Bob
John Wester
work them up into a novel about the decline, fall and rebirth of a dotcom.
Something along the lines of Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon, and Michael
Ridpath's Trading Reality.
Cheers!
John
"Robert Low" <lo...@acm.org> wrote in message
news:39CF9D48...@acm.org...
Robert Low
>
> Thanks for the kind words Bob. I am actually compiling these and trying to
> work them up into a novel about the decline, fall and rebirth of a dotcom.
> Something along the lines of Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon, and Michael
> Ridpath's Trading Reality.
Good Luck!
Bob
