Out of India, Again

Let me preface this post with the fact that I thought I had posted this a week ago... Sorry! It was a busy week.

 When you live abroad, your local, international airport takes on a much more significant role than just an airport. You develop a love-hate relationship with the building, process and people. It offers you both the hope of escape and the unpredictability to take it away. This is even more intense when you live in a developing nation. 

At first, there is excitement about leaving your chosen country. You get to leave behind all the frustrations and annoyances of your everyday struggles with the hope of something better. Better may be just simply going home or better may be 10 days in the Maldives Island. Either way, it is better. The excitement, though, quickly turns to dread, because you know, as complicated as everyday life is, when you go to the airport, everything is intensified. If the government is corrupt, security and passport control becomes a game of survival. If the people are rude, then the lines to check in and at the gate become a fight to the death. If you must deal with inefficiencies each day, then get ready for delays of biblical proportions. It is just the way it is. India is no different and, in some cases, may serve as the model.

I arrived at the airport at 8:05pm. I know this because I now have been assigned a travel concierge to ensure that I am taken care of as I navigate the difficult world of the new Indira Gandhi International Airport or Terminal 3 to the locals (T3 if you are really in the know). He met me at the curb and was very insistent on wheeling my medium-sized bag to the Continental check-in counter 15 feet inside the door. We walked up to the serpentine that leads you to the check-in and he handed the bag back to me. Apparently part of the travel concierge job is not to actually help with the process, but to serve more as a companion through it. I checked in, filled out the appropriate baggage tags (again), received my ticket and exited. We then walked the 35 feet to the passport control where I filled out my form as he looked on and headed for the line. His job was done. As we departed, he gave me that Indian "where is my tip" look to which I have grown so accustom and so callous. If you want a tip, maybe you could pre-locate the check-in counter or at least meet me with some water. Any value-added service at all.  I honestly felt like I was being escorted and watched, rather than helped. .

I can say that check-in, passport control and security are all vastly improved in the new airport. It took less than 20 minutes from pulling up to the curb to clearing security. The Security lines now have state-of-the-art equipment and were actually organized and worked. Also, it seemed as if the operators had actually been trained.  A huge bonus is that Business Class passengers now have their own lines, so there are very few delays with having to deal with the junior varsity, family traveler.  I did spot one line with a giant back-up, so apparently the masochistic security people were still up to the their old tricks.

The new airport is also much nicer, much brighter and much better layed-out than the old one. There are restaurants, shopping and things are clearly marked. The Business Class lounge was also a huge upgrade from the old one with Wi-Fi and an actually buffet of recognizable foods. Best of all, they have now located it after security. Duh! The gate areas are also set up much better. You still have to go through the same duplicative screening, but these, again, are modern and well managed. They are also located at the entrance to the gate waiting area, rather than at the entrance to the jet way like the old ones.

All in all, my new hometown airport is light-years ahead of where the old one was. This makes me happy as it will serve as my portal to freedom for the next several years and it looks like it will be one less thing about which I will need to worry.

The Foreigner's Residents Registration Office (FRRO)

Today was the day we had to register to be residents of India - our first real encounter with the Subcontinent bureaucracy. In order to live in India, every foreigner must register with the FRRO and must carry the residency permit. If you read the blogs, forums and books about moving to India, they all tell you this is the Indian equivalent of hell on earth. They warn of the long wait, the intense heat and the fact that Satan himself is the one that approves your certification. I have been really looking forward to this.


In order to ensure that we did not miss our 10:30am appointment, we left the house at 9:00am sharp. Although the FRRO is only a short distance away, Delhi traffic is unpredictable, so we wanted to be safe. Ten minutes later, we were there. The driver dropped us off outside the entrance and we began to orient ourselves to the compound.

Overall, the compound looked like what I would image the building permit department would look like in Kabul. The entry road is half torn up and there are vehicles of all types parked in every open nook around the buildings. As you enter the compound there is a blown-up/burned out car left for dead on the shoulder of the driveway. WTF!

The entry to the actually building is laid out in a courtyard between the FRRO and the adjacent building. They had thoughtfully constructed the waiting area on a concrete slab, outside, in a country that habitually reaches temperatures over 120 degrees. That is just mean. They did give you seats, though, but they were the plastic kind that were attached by a steel tube on the floor. They were placed so inconveniently close to the steel bonded row in front that only the first to seats of each row were actually used. The whole expanse was topped by a huge, translucent blue plastic sheet which in no way gave any relief from the relentless morning sun, but did bask everyone in a bluish hue making us all look like we had dengue fever.

As I said, we arrived a little early for our appointment, so we took a seat in the ocean of indigo people and began to take in our surroundings. The first thing that was apparent to us was that the reputation of this agency was universal. It was one hour before opening and there were two lines of at least 150 people a piece. One line was defined by the clumping of like people together - there would be two Europeans, then 5 slightly darker people, then an elderly couple that looked Mediterranean, etc. The other line was defined entirely by the opposite. This was a line of completely homogenous people. They were dressed the same and looked very similar. I glanced around for clues and noticed at the head of this line was a sign "Afghans Only." Well, that explained it. Many people do not realize that India and Afghanistan share a common, albeit small, boarder and these were the refugees from the war. Odd, because I thought the war was going so well according to MSNBC.

It was about this time, 2 or three minutes into it, that we also noticed that we were being overrun with flies. There were, what seemed like, millions of them buzzing about the hot courtyard full of sweating, stationary people. I would have to image that this is the fly-world's version of Disney World. I image that flies from Moscow to San Francisco talk of this land of bounty where you merely hop mindlessly and aimlessly from sweaty person to sweaty person. Between the heat and the flies, I had reached my limit.

I called the driver and we took a short ride down the street to the New Delhi Hyatt for a cappuccino and a muffin. This was more like it - air conditioning, comfortable, cushy chairs and bathrooms that were more seat than hole. We waited until 10:15 and called our escort. He was already at the FRRO, so we decided to head back. We were in much better spirits.

We again arrived, driving past the car skeleton, and were promptly meet by a smartly dressed Indian man who seemed to have everything under control. He whisked us past the dual lines (which seemed not to have moved), through security, and into the dark corridors of the FRRO. We emerged in a medium room that was dimly lit, packed with people and stunk of humanity. Around the boarder of the room, there were various desks with important people sitting behind them.

Next to an unoccupied desk, there were two connected seats that had been broken off from the other rows. We were told to sit there and a series of papers were presented to us for signature. It was, we were told, very important, not to sign outside the box or we would have to start over. We did as we were told.

Soon all the documents were signed and our escort collected them, organized them and walked up to one of the desks. Before my eyes, I watched as the obviously intelligent man took a posture of a humble servant in front of the man behind the desk. The shoulders slumped forward, the head tilted down and there was much head bobbing from side to side. The man behind the desk raised his voice, looked inconvenienced, nodded and waved the man off in a dismissive yet, granting way. Our escort had gained permission for something.

Sunil returned to us with an accomplished look. He asked us to get up and follow him to the long counter at the back of the room. There he basically explained to the attendant that the man behind the desk had given permission to him to finish the paperwork without us present. She looked at the photos on the documents, compared them to us and nodded reluctantly. We were done. This took a total of 15 minutes. I was amazed. We shuttled ourselves out of the office passing people I recognized as first in line earlier.

At 1:30, Sunil called me and told me that he was in the lobby of my office with the completed documents. We had completed the most dreaded evolution in moving to India in 15 minutes and a cappuccino.
We were now offical residents of India.

The Help - Round 2

This weekend, we decided to begin to look in earnest for the perfect servant.  One that would not only clean and iron, but cook, shop and handle the interface between the household and the outside, Hindu speaking world.  We understood that we would also need to spend a little more than the $100 a month that we currently pay.  

On Saturday, we perused the Delhi ex-pat websites and forums seeing what was available as other expat families departed for greener, or at least slightly cooler, pastures.  We came across many ads, but only two really caught our attention.  Both ads were placed by the current employers on behalf of the servants and both were highly recommended and met the criteria for which we were searching. We reached out to their current employers and set up the interview for the next day. 

The first woman, Yanchee, arrived at 11:00am sharp.  She was upbeat and very open to the needed work.  Her English was good and she seemed to have the right attitude.  The downside was that she had only been in the service of her current employer for 6 months and had only done the cleaning and nannying, as they had others to do the remaining work.  Although she claims to be able to cook, we did not have any references for this. She did, though, live just down the road with her daughter who worked for a private house with a separate servants quarters, so she would not require a transportation allowance.    

The second, Veena, was a much more seasoned veteran.  In her mid 40s, she had been in this line of work for the good part of the last 25 years and had worked exclusively in the expat community.  She had references from several embassies, including Russia and Spain, and recommendations from several high level embassy staff members for whom she worked over the years.  Her endorsements highlighted her exceptional cooking and proactive ability to run all aspects of the household. Her English was excellent and she immediately understood and could articulate the needs of the house.  She was uncommonly, albeit respectfully, upfront about her salary requirements, Dawali (think of it as Indian Christmas) bonus and holidays on which she would not be working.  As well, she was pretty clear on her working hours.  

After the interviews, my wife and I discussed the pros and cons.  The first woman seemed to have the right attitude, but limited experience.   We could, as one sister suggested, work with her and mold her into a great servant.  This would take time, effort, patience and, since she was not coming at a huge discount, money.  The second woman had impeccable references, a proven track record in household management and was reputably a gifted cook. The down side was she was a tad headstrong and I am not sure I am up for being bossed around by another person at home (just kidding, dear). The balance to this is that her "confidence," if harnessed for good, would be a huge asset in keeping the laborers and other nefarious people out of our pockets.  All this upside, though, would cost us dearly.  


In the end, it was a hard choice.  Experience and costly versus pleasant and moldability.  There was much cogitation, but we eventually settled on the uber custodian, #2 Veena. 


Her new adventure starts September 1!   

Airshipment Arrives

You may remember a few weeks ago we packed up a portion of our house in Minneapolis and sent it via air to our new home.  On Monday, it arrived in India and by Thursday had cleared the unbelievably, unpredictable Indian Customs gauntlet and was waiting in a truck outside our flat.


For anyone that has ever moved, anywhere, there is a bit of euphoria when you see your stuff arriving in your new location.  For anyone who has moved overseas, the initial arrival of the airshipment is like pure  crack cocaine.  It is your first fix of really living in your new country.  We had been surviving on two small, orange plastic bowls and two spoons for the last week and the thought of eating with a fork made me quiver with excitement.  Yep, I said it - quiver.


The truck pulled up outside our apartment in the wee hours of the morning due to truck restrictions in the city.  Trucks are forbidden to travel in the city during working hours due to the traffic mayhem they cause.  So, at around 7:00a, the truck pulled up and the driver promptly went back to sleep.  Around 9:00 or so, a small mob began to gather around the truck.  This was either the moving crew or al qaeda had finally discovered where the Americans live. I was really hoping it was the moving crew as I was not in the mood to be beheaded. 


Promptly at 9:30, there was a knock at the door and the group had arrived with their first wave of boxes.  No introductions, no paperwork, nothing.  I simply opened the door and they began rolling in.  Box after box came up the 5 floors and into the flat.  I tried my best to direct the traffic, but the crew was much more focused on the speed of unloaded, rather than the quality of service. In their defense, it was 90 degrees with 89% humidity and they were taking the stairs.  


As the boxes started to come in, I noticed that some of them were crushed and others were actually open.  I had that momentary sinking feeling.  The majority of the crushed boxes were clothing, so this worry passed pretty quickly, but the half opened boxes continued to concern me.  I mean, I know that the upstanding, honest Indian Customs Officials would never think of hi-jacking my $300 coffee machine, but just in case, Olga and I began to unpack the critical boxes with vigor.  


As it turned out, everything was there.  Apparently, Indian Customs unpacks every box of every airshipment just to make sure there are no drugs, guns or explosives being imported.  I get it, but you would think they would reseal them a little better, so you crap isn't spilling out all over India.   


As the last box arrived, the head of the crew gave me the inventory papers to sign.  I asked him how he knew if all the boxes were there and got that look a child gives you when they took the last piece of candy.  I made the guy go back through all the boxes and match up each number to the inventory sheet.  This did not amuse him or his crew, but since my primary purpose of the day was not to entertain the moving guys, I was OK with this.  In the end, we had all the boxes, minor damage and nothing stolen.   


We now have most of our kitchen, most of our clothes and all of our rugs.  We still have another month to wait for our furniture, but it is a start.  And a very good start, indeed.  

Over Promise, Under Deliver - a way of life!

We crossed another major milestone in the journey to a normal life in India - we got the internet!  In the US, getting your internet hooked up is a pain, because you have to deal with an installer who has no vested interest in your on-line happiness.  In India, you have to deal with an entire country that is hell bent on ensuring that you never receive the services in which you were required to prepay.

The quest started on Friday with the purchase of Olga's cell phone.  In our case, the internet service provider and the cell phone provider are the same, so our communication fate was held in the small, dark hands of Vipin, the AirTel Rep.  He arrived on Saturday as pre-arranged with a mountain of paperwork and some government requirements.  Apparently, due to the terrorist bombings in Mumbai, you now have to pass through a government registration process to get any type of communication - this includes cell phones and the internet. For each service, we were required to provide a copy of our passports, a copy of my employment visa and a passport grade photo for each service.  On each application, I had to sign each copy of my passport and across the bottom of each photo.  These documents would then need to be submitted for approval through the always quick and efficient Indian bureaucracy.  I took a calming breath. Vipin departed with our documents, our money and our hopes of in-home communications with the promise of returning the following day, Sunday, to activate the cell phone and Monday to install the internet.  Yep, I totally fell for it.

Sunday came and went, but no sign of Vipin.  In the land of "over promise, under deliver" this did not surprise me and I was zen with him missing one day, especially since nothing ever gets done on Sunday.  As Monday began to ebb and the Heat Miser (remember him from the Christmas claymation - well, he lives in Delhi now) began to turn down his intensity, there was still no word from Vipin.  This, I was not Zen with.  I called Amrita the relocation consultant.

Amrita possesses the unique ability to motivate even the most seasoned malfactor.  She has a wonderful combination of girlish charm, high piercing voice and the ability to nag endlessly in order to get her clients what they want.  She is one of few people who have truly found their calling.   Eight minutes after placing the call to Amrita, Vipin texted me to tell me he would be over in the evening (and asked to be contacted directly, rather than through Amrita - job well done!).

Vipin arrived as promised with the activated chip, but told us that the first month of the phone must be prepaid.  Only after one month of prepaid, can you convert the service to postpaid or, as we would say in the states, billed.  Apparently, in India the way you prove you are creditworthy is to plunk down 300 Rupees ($6.43) and wait a month (talk about predatory lending practices).  We forked over the cash and he promised to return to the office that evening, deposit the money and activate the phone. As for the internet, it would be installed Tuesday.  Damn! I fell for it again.

Tuesday morning, no phone and no internet.  I texted Vipin expressing my disappointment and he assured me that the phone would be turned on by 7:00pm and the internet technician was delayed, but would be arriving in the late afternoon.  At 7:01pm, I called Amrita.  At 7:05, Vipin called me apologetic, but clearly a little irritated that I had invoke the vexation of Amrita.  He again told us that he personally guaranteed that the phone would be activated tomorrow morning and the internet technician would be at the flat first thing the following day.  My response this time was that he had given me his word before, but now I am unable to believe him.  I told him he had lost his credibility.  There was silence.

India is an interesting dichotomy when it comes to credibility.  It is held in great esteem and to have someone publicly question your credibility is considered a huge insult.  Ironically, no one in India actually does anything to protect their credibility or acts in a remotely credible way.   I find that questioning someones integrity is a surefire way to get what you want, but also can damage the long-term relationship.  I did not need a continuing friendship with Vipin, so I played the card.

Sure enough, first thing Wednesday morning, the internet technician showed up and started running cable. As well, by mid-afternoon, Olga's phone was taking calls.  Vipin called about 3:00 to ensure that his credibility was restored and I, giving him my final concession, told him it was.

We are once again connected, albeit at 2 mbps, to world and another step toward normalcy!

The Help

Saturday morning, there was a small and meek knock at the door.  The perpetrators were three sheepish, Indian women huddled in a small group.  I looked inquisitively at them and, for a moment, they similarly at me.  Finally, the older woman said in a deep Indian accent, "clean" and pointed inside.  I realized they were sent by the landlord as a response to my request to have my apartment cleaned.  The trio entered the apartment, took a good look around and began to babble something in Hindu.  

It being day 2 of captivity, we were tired, disoriented and pretty desperate to get the apartment cleaned, but I needed to size up the situation quickly as the group was already moving room to room and assessing what needed to be done.  Each time they entered the room the two older women would become animated towards the younger.  It became clear after room 2 that they were presenting the younger as the employee and themselves as the brokers.  We had not even considered a full time servant at this point, but merely wanted the heaps of dust removed from the cabinets. Crap.  Another freak'n thing I have to navigate RIGHT FREAK'N NOW.  


I took stock of the situation knowing that if I sent them away, I may never get the the apartment cleaned and the thought of trying to do it ourselves was as unappetizing as ice cream with beef gravy.  I regrouped and punted.  I called my Director of Finance for translation and handed the phone to the ring leader. 


Ten minutes later, the phone was handed back to me.  The deal was the the younger girl (probably mid 20s), was looking for full time work.  She would clean the flat over the next two day as a trial and we could consider her for full time employment after that.  Sounded reasonable, so we nodded and off she went.  


There was still a nagging feeling in my gut, though, of business unfinished with the cleaning thing.  Ok, she would clean the apartment over the next two days, but for how much and how much did she want for full time employment?  How much was even reasonable?  I had not had time to do my homework and therefore had no bases for negotiation or even the means to communicate to her if I had.  She spoke no English.  I was operating way outside my comfort zone.  


Luckily, the landlord stopped by about mid-afternoon and I was able to express my concerns.    After giving me that "you Americans are so cute" look, she pulled the girl in and began asking her a series of questions.  Where are you from?  Where did you work previously?  What can you do, ironing, cooking, errands?  From what we could surmise, our new friend's name was Bubbly (like one who has bubbles) and she was indeed looking for full time work.  She would clean, iron, wash dishes and do some minor cooking. OK.  This all sounds reasonable.  We settled on a monthly salary ($106.58) and she got back to cleaning.  


On Saturday and Sunday, Bubbly did a thorough cleaning of flat.  Bathrooms, closets, shelves and kitchen are now sparkling.  Monday, though, we started to realize that there really is only so many times a floor can be washed in a day before you begin to get the law of diminishing returns.  As well, since we have no kitchen items, eat out every night and have very little furniture, Bubbly has had very little substantial work to do outside of ironing (which is awesome) and cleaning the bathrooms.  We are quickly finding that there is just not enough work for her.  As well, the real time consuming tasks like shopping, meal planning, running errands and basic communication are not in her repertoire which poses a long-term problem.  Considering this,  I think we will keep Bubbly on for a while, but ultimately we will need to look for a more complete servant. I am sure, though, this will cost us.  We may have to fork out $200 a month!   

The Property Management Company

A few months ago, we interviewed several property management companies to manage our house as a rental property.  This should not have been a complicated process nor should it have been rife with risk or stress.  But then, taxpayers shouldn't be bailing out mis-managed Union pension plans either.... but I digress.  

This is not my first time in the ring with managing a rental property.  Sixteen years ago, I built my first house in DeLand, Florida and after four years of occupancy, decided to rent it and move back north.  The management company I hired was excellent and I barely knew I had a rental property except for the monthly check and the occasional maintenance and upkeep bills which they deducted from said rent.  I had 2 tenants in 10 years and sold the property to the second tenant for a handsome profit and minimal agent fees.  Piece of cake. 

This new property management company, if one could call them that, is proving themselves to be less competent in every way.  We met for the first time 2 months ago and I was very specific about my expectations.  I wanted clear, proactive communication and I wanted things to be managed.  No surprises - No fire drills.  

The property was listed in mid June.  Two weeks into the process, I received an email from the management company suggesting that I reduce the rent due to inactivity.  It seemed awfully premature and I refused.  Two weeks later, we had people beating down the door to rent the house and several people contacted us directly (by knocking on the door), because of the lack of response by the management company.  Hum.  

When I first spoke to the owner of the management company, I asked him to disclose all fees associated with renting the property as we were debating renting versus selling.  He told us that there was a rental fee that was equivalent to one months rent that would cover all expenses of renting the property and a monthly management charge.  Seems reasonable and was in line with what the other prospective companies had quoted.  Before we left, though, I started getting emails and letters concerning all sorts of new fees that would be required.  One fee, for $1000, is for the city of Minneapolis to inspect the property to license the conversion from residence to rental.  Really, $1000?  Two issues with this - first, I could have used this information two months ago when I was making my decision and secondly, what lazy, union government agency gets $1000 for an hour of work? 

On top of that, we found out that the house will need to be rekeyed for the new tenants.  Again, could have used this info during the decision making process.  I do not disagree with the idea of rekeying as I would want the same, but the timing is a little odd.  Can anyone spell disclosure.  

The thing that really put me over the edge, though, was the inspection they did the Friday before we left. The management company sent over their maintenance guy with a nice, pre-typed list to ensure we have all the right things that a rental property should.  I assumed we would be checking things like the furnace, plumbing and gas lines .  Things that could not be fixed while we were occupying the property.  Nope!  We were left with a punch list of items like - need doorstops on all doors and need curtain rods in all bedrooms.  Now this really pissed me off as these are things that could have been brought to my attention a month ago, you know, when I had the tools to fix the items myself. But, true to form, these guys are the masters of the last minute fire drill.  What would take me 10 minutes to do two weeks ago, now must be subcontracted due to lack of equipment.  Naturally, they were kind enough to offer to do it for us for a charge.  I started to rub my forehead, because clearly I must have had idiot written across it in bold, red letters!  I threw the guy out and sent a nasty email to the owner.  

Luckily, the people that clean our house also have handymen on their staff and took care of these essential items.  Since we have been in India, I have received more emails concerning "services" that will be provided like Furnace Inspections, radiator bleeds, etc all for a nominal charge.  Again, I think these are essential to have done for the well-being of the house, but would loved to have known about them in advance of renting.  In the mean time, I am formulating a plan on how to deal with this management company.  It will not end well for them - this I can guarantee! 

Chronic Gas (Friday Night)

As night began to close out our first full day in India, we were doing the thing that all people do when they move into a new place without any stuff to occupy their time – we fiddled about with everything in the apartment. We opened drawers and closets; we walked out onto each terrace; we opened the refrigerator; and finally we turned on the stove …. er, well, attempted to turn on the stove.


I turned the knobs, but there was no sound, no click and definitely no smell of gas. Damn! Another freak’n problem. I got in the lift and went down to the carpark area where I typically find Gupta G, the building’s makeshift superintendant, sitting around with a group of workers doing a whole lot of nothing. I mimicked to him (as he does not speak English) that I had an issue and off we went upstairs.


I led him over to the stove, turned the knob and when nothing happened, he gave me the head wiggle of Indian acknowledgement. We had an understanding. He turned all the knobs sniffed each burner and buggered off down stairs. A few minutes later, he returned with Rham, the landlords “Man Friday.” Rham turned each knob and sniffed each burner. He did not, though, run away, but reached over and flipped a switch on the wall. The knobs now made the expected click, but no flame. Rham sniffed again and fled to the basement.


Let me explain how the gas works in this flat. There is no centrally provided gas in Delhi due to the seismic zone and the odd tendency of gas lines to explode during earthquakes. In most apartments, you rent a gas cylinder, haul the cylinder to your flat, store it under your stove and hook it directly into the stove itself. Very inconvenient. In our apartment, the gas cylinders are cleverly stored in the parking area and individual lines are run from your respective cylinder to all the gas needs in your flat. Very clever and very convenient.


So, Rham went down stairs to turn on the gas. He appeared a few minutes later, turned the knob, the click sounded and the wonderful sight of the blue flame appeared around the burner. All was well!


About an hour later, I was in the kitchen reading up on the technical wonder we now call our oven and honing my skills on the creation of cheesy bread. A few minutes into my research, Olga came in and said she smelled gas. I was standing directly next to the stove and smelled nothing, so I dismissed it as the wonderful Delhi aroma seeping into to our new house. About 10 minutes later, we went into the drawing room to watch TV and the smell was much more pungent. It was gas and a great deal of it. Hum? Why was there gas in the drawing room, but not the kitchen?


We sniffed gingerly around the room looking the source, but could find nothing. It made no sense. We then opened the door to the office and were slapped in the face with a fully saturated room full of the noxious compound. The overwhelming smell of a highly explosive gas in my apartment triggered my memory that the landlord had installed a gas fitting in the office for a heater. Apparently, the installers forgot the fine art of capping the fitting. When Ram turned on the gas, he inadvertently created our own personal gas chamber. I scrambled to find Ram, turn off the gas and ventilate the apartment. I opened all the windows and doors, but it was a slow exchange with the stale Delhi air outside.


Eventually, after several hours, the flat finally vented itself and the apartment was soon safe again for human habitation. All that was left was to wait for the gasman to cap the fitting in the morning and all would be restored to normal.


Hey, what’s a foreign relocation without a good gassing and a brush with death!

Day One of Captivity

We awoke – Ok, the last of several times we awoke – at about 5:00am as the sun beamed through our ginormous, uncurtained bedroom window. The harsh reality of our choice to move to India began to settle in: a very dusty apartment, rented mismatched furniture and no food or a means to cook it if we had it. Welcome to our own personal hell.


The first thing we did was clean some closet space and begin the unpacking. Only the most critical spaces were cleared and only the most essential items unpacked. This was an incredibly slow process as we were both tired and to be honest, not really motivated. We unpacked some items, watched some Hindu soaps, and unpacked some more. Not what you would call – focused.


About 11:00, Munna arrived and we went to the mall to get some food and do some shopping. It had been about 14 hours since our last meal and we were getting a little grumpy. The mall is roughly 2 miles from our flat, but in Delhi mid-day traffic, it was a 45 minute drive. We were dropped off and made our way to the Punjabi Grill for Olga’s first meal in India. It was Punjabi Cuisine (duh), which meant it was moderately spicy, but fairly simple. The meal hit the spot, moods improved and we were off to go shopping.


Besides lunch, we came to the mall to buy food. You can buy most anything in our neighborhood market, but the grocery store in the mall carries all the foreign (read recognizable) brands. As it was our first day, we decided to play it safe and go with what we know. Naturally, we would pay dearly for the privilege. We bought some basic items to tide us over, decided we had had enough of the Indian Mall culture and called the driver to take us home.


Once home, I realized that if we were going to survive the first few days, I needed to take care of the TV situation. As interesting as Hindu soaps are at 3:00am, we needed some English channels. I was able to log on to the satellite TV web site through my phone and get this minor, albeit complicated process done. In the end, we opted for the “Annual Mega Package” which gets you 245 channels. The rub is that you pay your entire yearly cable bill up front. When all was said and done, though, the total bill was $119. Literally, 4 seconds later there was a blip on the TV and we had access to a cornucopia of entertainment delights. Cheap and quick. There may be hope yet.


At 4:00, Amrita, the relocation consultant, arrived to take us shopping for more serious items. First, we went to the fabric market to find fabric for our drapes. They do not really have ready-made curtains in India, so you must hire a tailor and buy the fabric. After much discussion, we decided on the fabric for the two large windows in the drawing room and master bedroom (the rest would wait). We asked for the requisite amount and an army of ninja-like fabric-wallahs descended on the area to measure and cut. 42 meters was dispatched, folded and packed in a matter of minutes.


The second task of the day was to finally buy an oven – the last of the big-ticket items for the kitchen. There are several options available in India, but we decided to buy the hybrid model. It is smaller than the conventional oven, but larger than a microwave. It has the ability to cook like a standard convection oven (temperature control, etc), microwave, and can do a combination of both. In addition, it has the ability to steam and make yogurt (when I figure out how, I will tell you). True to buying anything in India, it was delivered later that evening.


The last stop was to find a cell phone for Olga. This is seriously complicated process compared with the US. In India, you must first buy a cell phone from one of the many cell phone stores in Delhi. These are independent shops and have no connection with the service providers. They simply sell you the phone. You must then choose a service provider and have said provider sell to you and activate for you a SIM card. Usually, you have to trek down to one of the providers and get this done, but the relocation company arranged for the provider to come to us, since they would also be hooking up our Internet. Hopefully, they will be here Saturday as promised. We settled on a sleek little Nokia, paid the man and set off for home.


Once home, we settled our tired selves down in front of our new English-channel-gett’n TV, ate some ham sandwiches and went to bed.


Thus ending Day 1 of Captivity.

The Adventure Begins

(The Adventure actually began last Thursday night, but I do not have internet, so sorry for the delay)

Last night, we arrived in India. This is a monumental milestone as it means that we are officially no longer US residents. This means no US address, no US phone number and no US Internet IP address. It is amazing what you can’t get without these things. Even in this new borderless world of the Internet, you cannot get reruns from HULA or listen to Pandora with a foreign IP address and forget about getting your favorite magazines - good-bye “Departures,” “Real Simple” and “Automobile.”

Anyway, we arrived at 8:21pm last night into the new New Delhi Airport. It apparently opened sometime between the time I left two weeks ago and the time we arrived. No one told us we were arriving in the new airport and it actually took us about 15 minutes to realize we had landed there. When you deplane, you are met with very confusing signals. All the carpets smell new, but are vintage 1970s orange and brown patterns. The signs are also vintage third world with black backgrounds and yellow lettering. There are still a ton of workers standing around doing nothing, but they are now in clean new uniforms that say creative things like “Team Housekeeping” and “Team Carpet Cleaner.” By the time we got to passport control, though, it was clear we were in the new airport. The usual dank and dark government cattle stalls were replaced by glass and metal in a huge and airy atrium. There was even a special VIP line for Business Class passengers. The baggage area was also bright and easy to navigate with the added bonus of priority bags pulled off by the attendants and handed to you. A very nice touch, indeed.

Our arrival went very smoothly. Our visas worked without incident, all our bags arrived and nothing was confiscated. For anyone that has ever lived abroad, you know the fear of arriving for the first time with your bags full of household items that may require a lengthy explanation. As well, anyone who has traveled to any developing nation knows, once you have gained the attention of the foreign bureaucratic, you are in it for very, very long, and potentially expensive, night.

We passed through baggage control without incident and met Munna (my driver) waiting patiently for us in the first row of the crowd. He took the overloaded cart and escorted us to the car. After a few minutes, we were on the road and on our way home. As Delhi began to envelope us with its oppressive traffic and over-populated streets, my wife’s expression began to turn from conservative optimism to one of, well …. disbelief. After 11 years of marriage, I know the well-hidden expression of “are you f’ing kidding me” disguised as a weak smile. As we got deeper into the city, the aforementioned expression began to digress into severe nervousness and uncertainty. I may have oversold the India “experience.”


Tired, we finally arrived at the flat only to find it had not been cleaned. Not cleaned in Delhi means that everything has a nice covering of “city” over it - the floors, the countertops and even the drawers in the closets have the funk. This does not please said, anal-retentive wife and I get the look that the US soldiers must have given their Japanese captures during the Bataan Death March – hopelessness, combined with a tad of resentment. Luckily, the rental furniture did arrive and we had a bed. After 21 hours of travel, this is a major, albeit small victory.


We settled in, made our bed and went to sleep. Well, I went to sleep. I have learned over the ages not to get too much sleep on the plane if you arriving in the evening. My wife, on the other hand, slept like a baby for half of the 15 hour flight. After a few hours of coma sleep, I was awakened by the nagging feeling of “you ought to get up and entertain the woman you dragged half way around the globe.” So like a good husband, I got up and we watch Bollywood soaps from 2:00am to 5:00am. All in Hindu (I had apparently forgotten to upgrade the satellite package to include any English channels). At 5:00am, we sauntered back to bed just as the Delhi sun was rising and beaming itself through our huge floor to ceiling, curtainless, windowed bedroom.


We were up for the day – our first day in India.

The Visas

As one can deduce from the previous blog, the shipments are gone, the house is empty and all is on track for our final move to India.  Well, almost everything....


Thursday afternoon we were finishing up with the house making sure that everything was in its proper place and the house was in top rental condition.  The housecleaning crew had just finished and everything was polished and shiny.  As I took one last look at the empty living room, the phone rang.  Odd, I thought, but I answered it anyway out of habit.  Lucky I did, as it was the Indian Consulate in Chicago.


Apparently, the Consulate did not receive all the papers for my visa and the gentleman that was calling was simply giving me a courtesy call to see if I would fax them directly to him rather than go through the long process of rejecting the visa application and the need for resubmission.  I said that I would have them to him ASAP.  My dilemma was that that I actually did not have any of the paperwork and worse yet, my fax machine was on its way to India.  All the paperwork was with the company lawyers and it was 4:30pm.  I left some frantic messages with both the relocation group and law department and around 5:00pm got a call back that the papers were faxed.  


Friday morning, I got a call from the lawyers that my visa had been approved, but my wife's was just beginning the process.  Her visa could not be started until mine was approved as her approval is based on my approval.  OK, makes sense, but someone might have figured this into the timing when we were in the planning stages a month ago.  We had a scheduled departure for New Delhi on Saturday, but based on the new information, it looked like we would not see the visas until Wednesday of next week at the earliest.  


So we are now sequestered in a hotel in downtown Minneapolis awaiting news of our future.  Best case scenario is that the visas are approved on Monday, overnighted here for Tuesday pickup and we are on a plane Wednesday.  


So we wait.