Sick - Part 2

I am, by all means, the typically man when I am sick.  I am grumpy, demanding and overall a little whiney.  Many of you may say that this is my personality when I am feeling great and, well, you may be right, but being sick, like performance enhancers for athletes, elevates these traits to new, and sometimes frightening levels. 

I think this video illustrates about what I speak:

Man Cold

(you have to wait through an advertisement, sorry) 

When I am sick, I like to stay in bed or sprawl out on the coach, moan about how I am on the edge of death (which I actually believe at the time) and eat warm chicken noodle soup brought to me when I call for it.  For 12 years, my wife has patiently and diligently put up with this adolescent behavior.  Luckily for her, I am not prone to sickness… until India. 

In India, the problem is that when one of us gets sick, we are both usually sick.  The solution in India is that we have a staff of people who now must put up with my shenanigans.  Usually, though, even when we are both sick, my wonderful wife is the one organization the staff to care for both of us.

Now that she is in Minneapolis, I have had to take on the adult responsibility of barking orders to the cook and instituting menu changes to things like soup.  In my weakened state, so close to death, this can be very taxing.  Luckily and apparently, Indian men are even worse than western men, so she is dialed in on the fact that I am to be treated like a spoiled 7 year old. 

Yesterday, though, when I arrived back from the clinic, Veena, the cook, was nowhere to be found.  She was supposed to arrive no later than 9:30am, but it was going on 11:00 and no sign that she had reported to work.  This presented a problem.  I had my heart set on chicken noodle soup and having not eaten anything from roughly 24 hours, I had my heart set on having it as soon as possible. 

Around noon, Veena strolled in and was a little taking aback to see me glaring up from the couch.  She could not surmise exactly how deep in the crap she was, but she knew there would be some depth to navigate.  In typical Indian fashion, she immediately began the “excuse diatribe” which spanned from the amount of traffic to the line at the bank, finally ending on the health of her sister.  When all else fails, Indians always take the martyr route.

As you can image, my give-a-shit factor was hovering right around zero and she and I had a fairly blunt discussion on the merits of timeliness, my expectations of someone in my employ and my bowl of soup before a coughing fit set her screeching out the door to buy ingredients for the menu deviation.  

In the end, I got my soup, death has not yet come and Veena showed up at 9:30am sharp this morning.  Hell hath no wrath than a man sick and soupless!  

Sick ... Again

Once again, I am sick.  It seems every time I return to India, I am sick for the first week back.  7 years, I barely missed a day due to illness, but here it is a quarterly event.  Most of the time it is a simple stomach issue, but this time it is a hacking cough, soar joints and a severe headache.  Being doctor adverse, I usually just ignore it, have some soup and ride it out.  Not this time. Last night I had trouble taking a deep breath and, well, I found that troublesome.   

Having no idea how to go about seeing a doctor, I called my trusty and reliable secretary, Ambika.  She called the clinic, but they were booked for the day, so she called the doctor, directly.  Yep, went right to the source.  She somehow convinced him to put aside all the other patients and see me when I arrived at the clinic.  So off I went. 

The whole experience of a medical visit is very different in India, than in the US.  You arrive at the clinic and check in at the receptionist area. There, they determine what you need and where you need to go.  I was then given a token with a number on it and told to wait until my number was called.  My number was called; I went to the counter; checked in and paid for my visit – all $13 of it. 

I was then taken to the 2^nd floor which was a bit like a war movie. The corridors were crammed with people waiting to see their doctor, their specialist or their lab tech.  It seemed like a trauma unit after an air attack.  People sitting, standing or just kneeling.  The only thing missing were the bloody head bandages and crutches. 

I gave my papers to the woman sentry in front of the doctor’s door and was escorted in as soon as the existing patient left.  The office was small with a desk and an examination table, but none of the helpful posters on breast cancer, urinary tract infections or vaginal itching one usually finds in doctor’s offices in the US.  He did not even have the huge plastic model of an ear or heart.

My temperature was taken, breathing heard and blood pressure measured.  As well, we did a throat culture and had some blood taken.  All in all, I was there for about 30 minutes and the conclusion was that I was suffering from an upper respiratory infection - this, by the way, is the technical term for a hacking cough, soar joints and severe headache. 

At the end of the consultation, the doctor types the prescription in the computer during your examination and prints out a sheet with the name of the drugs and the directions of how to use them.  You give this print out to the “pharmacist” who then goes through bins of prepackaged, individually vacuum-packed pills and pulls out what you need.  This is a little disconcerting, as the “pharmacists” have no more training than my driver on doling out medicine.  The upside is that I left with a bag full of medicine for 5 days that cost me $4.38.

In the end, I had confirmation that the hacking cough was, in fact, just a hacking cough and that I was not going to die.  That, in India, is worth the $50 investment. 

Incongruous India!

I realized as I got off the plane last night from China what makes India so overwhelming.  It is the abrupt contrast. 

When you fly into Delhi, you arrived in a brand new airport.  It is clean, air conditioned and fairly well planed.  The customs line moves speedily and with the occasional exception, the airport employees do not smell.  The duty free shop, through which they make you walk to get your bags, is fully stocked, brightly lit and staffed with anxious sales people eager to sell you a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.  Overall, you could mistake the experience for any airport in the world.

As you walk through the exit doors of the airport, though, your experience changes dramatically. Your first sensation is that you have walked into a blast furnace.  The heat is so overwhelming; you actually need a moment to catch your breath. It seems almost man-made, but you realize quickly that you are outside and it is simply India in the early morning.

The second sensation is the staggering mass of humanity that greets you.  It is 2:30am and there are hundreds of people huddled outside the exit doors, held back by the miles of aluminum railings design to separate the hoard from their prey. They stand there packed behind the barrier in almost complete silence simply staring at each new person that emerges. It is an eerie feeling.  As each traveler appears, their counterpart, whether it is their driver or family, wave and race to the corridor that cuts through the hoard to grab their bags and escort them out of the crowd.

After breaking free of the mob, you realize that the airport, in addition to being a conduit for travelers, is also home to thousands of people.  There are people sleeping beside every pole, in each nook and on top of every ledge.   As well, in every available open space around the airport, there are makeshift cities consisting of tents, corrugated huts and people sleeping under nothing, but the smog which hangs in the dank air.   For the novice traveler, this must be jolting - Huge expanses of unfinished, dirt tracts surrounding the ultra-modern airport full of people whose entire portfolio consists of a rag to wipe the sweat as they sleep in the mud.

I am pretty sure this is not the first impression the tourist board had in mind when they came up with the slogan “Incredible India!” 

365 Days of Captivity

On Friday, June 24^th, I completed one year in India.  It seems like longer… a lot longer!

I remember when I arrived last year and I kept telling myself that the next stage would be better:  it would be better once I found an apartment; it would be better once the monsoons arrived; it would be better once the monsoons departed; it would be better when winter arrived; it would be better when winter left and I stopped freezing; it would be better when it got warmer; and, once again, it would be better when the monsoons arrived.  Not uncommon to most expat assignments, the first year is full of hope and wonder. 

Again, as with most expat assignments, the second year is a bit different.  I am pretty sure that this is similar to what the wrongfully convicted go through when they first enter prison.  At first you believe that optimism and hope are the keys to survival.   After a while, though, you realize that simply living day to day and coming to terms with your surroundings is the best way to get through it. For me, I now realize that I cannot control the weather, give those without common sense wisdom, nor make 1.5 billion people bathe.  The key to survival in India is controlling what you can control and letting the rest go.  You must live the Prayer of Serenity!

God grant me the serenity 


To accept the things I cannot change; 


Courage to change the things I can;


And wisdom to know the difference.

--Reinhold Niebuh

Sad Day in India

Last Wednesday night, Olga left for the US to begin working again at least for a few months.  We had discussed the option of her returning a few months back, but the plan never seemed real until roughly last Monday and then it seemed all too real.


When we decided to come to India, Olga left her job on a 1 year Leave of Absence.  Really not knowing how this opportunity would unfold, we wanted to take all the precautions necessary to ensure that if we needed to make a speedy getaway, we had something on which to fall back.  After a year, we still are not sure, so it seemed prudent for Olga to return to work for a few months and earn another year's worth of Leave of Absence.  Now her LOA and my contract will expire together giving us the flexibility to make the right decision for our next assignment.


This all is logical and makes perfect sense on paper, but as we were driving to the airport for her flight to freedom, it made less sense to me.  India is a hard assignment. You have the people, the heat and general craziness that surrounds you every day, but the one thing that keeps you going is knowing that your best friend was always waiting at home to listen to your crazy stories and frustrated tales.


As I look at the next three months, these will be the hardest for me in India. Although my routine does not necessarily change too drastically - work, swim, eat, sleep - it will be a lot less fun without someone to share the agony.  Misery loves company and I do love the company I married!

Car - The Saga Continues

As I always say, nothing in India is what first appears to be. We got the car back on a Monday and Kailash, wisely, drove directly home to pick up my wife for her "errands." A few hours later, my assistant charily came into my office to inform me that the air conditioning in the car had ceased to work on the way back to the office.



I was incensed. It is 115 degrees and the car has no air? You must be joking!  The car just came back from service! Ugh!!! My decisions were either ride in the car for the 30 minutes home in the heat or take a taxi with the intoxicating smell of unwiped ass. Have I mentioned that I am “living the dream?”


I opted for the heat and we set off for home. Now, I am old enough to remember cars without air conditioning. As a matter of fact, I owned one in college (a 1980 Renault 5 – otherwise known as the LeCar). I remember being hot, but I also remember that when you rolled down the windows, the breeze was usually sufficient to keep you relatively comfortable. Armed with these memories, I climbed into my car.


Within 2 minutes I knew I had made a gross miscalculation. Even though I lived a summer with my Renault in Washington DC which is known for the stiflingly hot summers, Washington is not New Delhi. At 120 degrees, the breeze coming through the window is so hot that it feels like standing in front of a hairdryer on full heat. It actually burns your nose as it rushes past your face creating an infernal tempest within the vehicle. It is simply not possible to drive with the windows down. By the time I reached home, I not only had to remove my tie, but I had taken off my shirt and was soaked through my undershirt.


Having had enough of that, I opted the next morning for the taxi whilst my driver took the car in to the shop, Harpreet Ford. With my limited, albeit not completely useless, knowledge of engines cultivated over many hours stuck in the middle of Chautauqua Lake with a dead motor, I deducted that we were probably having belt issues - my biggest clue was the screeching of the belt every time the air conditioner was turned on.


About 11:00am the report came in from the driver that the workshop had identified the compressor as the issue and it would need replaced. This was a major part and it would need to be ordered. The car would need to be in the shop for a least three additional days. I asked the driver to insist on having the belts tightened before we committed to a new compressor and, interestingly enough, after the workshop reluctantly did the work, the air conditioner sprung back to life. Hum? The Workshop, though, was still adamant that the compressor was the culprit and tried desperately to convince Kailash that after several hours it would again fail rendering the air conditioner useless. I ordered the car back to the office, post haste.


A few days later the belts began to squeal again, but the air conditioner continued to work, so we used the car through the weekend and sent it to another Ford workshop, NCR Ford, across town on Monday. They not only confirmed that the compressor was fine, but they discovered that the wrong belts had been installed during the service and this was the root of the problem. I now boiled over... quite literally!


I found out the name of the Managing Director of Ford in India, as well as the financial group that owned the dealership and workshop and sent two scathing emails about unethical behavior and brand reputation. I received an immediate response from both, as well as a call from the workshop manager a few minutes later. Apparently the arrow hit its mark.


This is India, though, so you almost never get the response you anticipate. The manager was acrimonious in his tone and completely obstinate in his position that the compressor was the issue. He was basically doubling down on the lie. I asked him to explain the wrong belts and why the air conditioner has worked flawlessly since the car left the shop, but he was unyielding in his answers. He actually told me to come down and replace the compressor and this would prove that he was right. Apparently in his world, replacing a good part with another good part to solve a problem that no longer exists is proof that his solution was correct in the first place. There is definitely a village in India missing their idiot! In the end, we opted not to replace the compressor and the car has been running fine for the last week. 


I still, though, have one more email to draft to Ford and the financial group describing the service manager's response, attitude and his desperate need for replacement!

The Saga of the Car

Two weeks ago my car, a 3 year old Ford Endeavor, started making odd noises. After some investigation, my driver and I concluded that it was the clutch assembly and would need to be addressed immediately. The next morning, after dropping me off at work, he trundled (loudly) down to the local Ford Workshop for the repairs.



As with everything in India, getting your car fixed is neither straightforward nor easy. Yes, you take it to the local Ford authorized repair facility, but that is where the similarities and, for the most part, the sanity ends. To add further irritation, most drivers can be bullied into unnecessary repairs (due to their position in the food chain) and therefore have to call the boss to authorize any work adding more time to the already arduous process. Just to add insult to injury, the workshops do not stock any parts, so once they have diagnosed the issue, you must wait several days for the delivery of the correct part. This can turn an hour job into a week without a car. Lastly, like all jobs in India, people may be “certified” to do their job, but no one actually has any training.


But the impact is not restricted to just frustration of the process, it takes a personal toll as well. When the car is in the shop, I am forced to take a taxi and my wife is forced to stay home. These may seem like little things on the surface, but they are deal-breakers when it comes to surviving in India. Firstly, even though the taxis are arranged by the office through a vetted taxi service, the drivers are unfamiliar with where you are going and, worst yet, for the most part, have severe hygiene issues. There is nothing quite like a 30 minute ride in a cab with a guy that smells like 2 parts body odor and 1 part urine. Depending on how bad it is, you can actually arrive at your destination physically ill from the stench. Secondly, and more importantly, India is only survivable for spouses because of their network of friends and activities. Remove their means to get to their “functions” and their tolerance for your decision to uproot their lives and bring them to Hades goes down considerably. Combine a 30 minute taxi ride with a guy that smells like an armpit and a cooped up spouse and you will do anything to get the car back!


None of the aforementioned would be the exception for this case.


Kailash, the driver, took the car in on a Thursday morning and the workshop attributed the issue as predicted the clutch assembly. While it was in, we thought we would also have the scheduled service done – you know, oil, belts, etc. Two birds with one wrench, so to speak. After the usual telephone tag between the workshop, the driver and the office, we settled on a plan and a timetable and they went to work. They ordered the parts with an arrival date on Saturday and they predicted that by the end of that day, we would have our car back. Good news! Well… again in India, things are not so simple.


In order to pay for the car, we would need to cut them a check. Simply enough, right? Tell us the total, we will cut you the check on Friday and give it to you when you are done on Saturday. Not in India. The cost of the repairs can only be calculated when the job is completed which would be on Saturday. Saturday is also the day the office is closed and no one is in to cut the check. Hum? So we added another 2 days to the process. In the end, a job that actually took 4 hours to complete ended up taking 4 days.


Finally, Monday afternoon, the car was finished and I was finally picked up in my own, non-smelly air-conditioned, car.


Well, actually not…… but that is a whole other story for tomorrow!