The Smells and Sounds of Home

When I stepped off the plane at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, the thing that struck me immediately was the smell. There was none! Simply put, there was no body odor; no sting of wafting urine; no pungent smell of curry; and not choking thickness of pollution. It just smelled like air. To be honest, after 7 months, I had forgotten what air smelled like. The air smelled so good, in fact, I rented a big orange convertible and happily drove into the city taking in the smell of cut grass and back yard BBQs. It was bliss.



The next morning, we put the top down again and trundled off to our favorite Minneapolis breakfast place, The Grand Café, to smell more cut grass. We slowly cruised through the neighborhoods of South Minneapolis enjoying the sun and relaxed Sunday morning atmosphere of Lake Harriet. I had lived here for 4 years, but had never really appreciated how perfect this area was.


What also strikes you is how empty the streets are. Even at Lake Harriet on a Sunday, which is considered a busy time, the paths and byways seemed almost deserted. My street, as well, seemed almost ghostly with a car passing every few minutes. It does take a little while to adjust to not being surrounding by 13 million people, albeit a short while.


And then there is the silence. No horns; no vegetable guy chanting; no engines humming - just the birds and the clean wind sharing space in the trees and people quietly going about their walk or bike ride enjoying the summer.

I know that for those of you that live in the US, this is no big deal, but for those of us that have relocated to the bowels of the earth, this is Shangri-La, if only for a few weeks.

The Long Trip Home

Traveling internationally is a precarious undertaking on its best days. Even the most advanced countries have are not yet able to control all the variables that go into making a successful trip. You have the people, the weather and the equipment that all must run at a breakneck pace with clockwork precision. Every now and again, one of those variables goes off the rails and creates an experience that is less than memorable. For me, the last 36 hours has been the result of all the variables collapsing simultaneously creating the one of the most ludicrous airline experiences in my extensive travel history.

After arriving at the airport, I proceeded to the check-in counter to begin the ritual of answering the first of a series of idiotic questions about who packed my bag and whether I have accepted any gifts from an extremist, bearded, mullah. This time was extra annoying in that I have a new passport issued in India, so the absence of an entry stamp completely stumped the less-than-clever Continental security girl. I tried to explain to the young minion how one could be in India without an entry stamp, but it was all too much for her. Finally, I barked that if there are irregularities, I am sure the crack Indian Customs Department would surely catch it. She reluctantly let me pass. There were no irregularities found at customs and, after a brief respite in the business-class lounge, I headed to repeat the entire security process at the gate – including all the questions. All seemed normal.

About 10 minutes before the boarding time, there was an ominous announcement about a delay due to technical issues. This is always disconcerting to hear in a country that has no concept of safety, repair or maintenance of even the simplest things, let alone a highly technical and complex aircraft. 30 minutes later, the delay was extended a further 30 minutes and in the end, after an hour of waiting, the flight was finally cancelled. My heart sank!

I need to put some context around this. Firstly, this is Delhi, so there are no extra Continental aircraft sitting around – one arrives at 8:30 and the same one departs at 10:30. Secondly, all the international flights leave Delhi in a span of about 4 hours (10:30pm-2:30am), so if you missed your window, you are stuck until the following evening. Lastly, my flight to the US was on my normal route through Newark which meant that if we did not get out tonight, we would be delayed days due to the hurricane. My success at escaping Delhi hinged on being quick to cobble together a plan. Quick, was not something the Indians do well.


After the cancellation announcement, they told us we would need to remain in the gate area. In Delhi, all passengers to the US are herded through a secondary security check are held captive in a segregated gate area. Also, the baggage claim is in a secure area, so the only way to reclaim your bags, is to follow the route of the incoming passengers, also through the boarding gate. There was no way back, only forward, but forward was blocked by a group of very confused Continental agents

As I said, time was of the essence, but the gate area had now fallen into complete chaos. No one knew what to do or how to get the passengers from the gate to the baggage area. Worst yet, they had announced a plan that all passengers, after collecting their bags, would be put on a bus and ferried to a local hotel for the night in anticipation of departing the next day. The frequent travelers in the gate area, myself included, went apoplectic at this announcement. We knew that no one was flying to Newark on Saturday and we also knew that we were not staying in a random hotel in Delhi. Something had to be done to move this process in the right direction.

45 minutes passed and the increasingly agitated crowd was still penned up in the gate area. I finally accosted one of the agents and explained that with every passing moment, our chances of getting out of Delhi diminish. I am paraphrasing, as there may have been and F-word or two thrown in the mix and the occasion reference to the agent’s limited mental capacity. She finally broke and explained to me that they did not have a soldier yet assigned to remove the tags from our carry-ons. In Delhi, when you check in, you are given a tag, a normal name tag, for you carry-on luggage. When you pass through security, they stamp said tag as checked. Apparently, in order to allow us to move forward, this tag needed to be removed. How do you argue against that kind of logic? “Yes sir, we understand that this completely benign process that accomplishes nothing in the way of security is the difference between you making another flight, but it is the process.” Finally, the tag remover arrived and we were off the claim our bags.


We burst forth from the gate area and started the long trek back to customs. I assumed that Continental would somehow have set up a special line to get us through this process quickly, but when we arrived, there was no one there. We entered the line and when I got up to the counter, the disinterested customs official explained that I did not have the right forms. I told him I have never left Delhi and all I needed was him to cancel my exit stamp. You could actually see his hair move as the concept blasted over his head. Finally, the Continental people arrived at the gate and funneled all 300 of us, through a single line. Another 25 minutes wasted.


The bags had all been unloaded by the time we got the carousel. I, along with most of my fellow foreign passengers grab our bags and looked for a Continental agent to help us rebook. None were around. I finally tracked down one and with my most authoritative, “I might know someone who could fire you tone” bullied him into calling the ticket desk. He did, but told me all the flights were sold out. Now, I am a relatively resource guy, so I had already called my travel agent (and woke him up). He told me there were seats on the 12:30 KLM flight to Amsterdam. I relayed this to the agent in a format to which only an Indian would respond – somewhere between “you’re an idiot” and “lie to me again and there will be serious repercussions.” He passed me off to an underling and instructed her to take me to the ticket counter. She refused. Apparently, we had another administrative obstacle.


Because India is a closed economy, they are very strict about duty-free purchases. As an outgoing passenger, you have the option to purchase duty-free items in the airport, but these are meant solely for export. Because we had been exposed to the temptation, all passengers and their accompanied luggage had to be check to ensure that the $15 dollar bottle of Jack was not illegally brought back into the country, thus upsetting the entire Indian economic plan. We were again detained for another 30 minutes while the manifest was produced and each passenger’s bag was X-rayed and their names checked off the list. You can’t make this stuff up!

After being released, I hunted down the gentlemen who I had the direct phone line to the ticket desk and convinced him that it would be in his best interest to take me there. He whisked me off to an empty corridor in which three continental agents had set up a makeshift ticketing desk. It is worth pointing out here that this was the first and only sign of proactively during the entire night, but the lack of organization had made this outstation completely useless as no one knew it existed. The agent dropped me off hastily in the deserted hallway and left making me the problem of the three women. I explain my situation and she feverishly looked at flights to get me to Minneapolis. As predicted, so much time had been wasted that most flights, including the half-full KLM flight, had already closed or departed. Just as the agent had run out of options, my secretary called. She had been working with our travel agent and they had found 1 seat on a British Airways flight to London that for some reason was not showing up in the Continental system. Working directly with my travel agent, the Continental ticketing agent cleverly came up with a solution which had the travel agent hold the seat and then based on the reservation number, the Continental agent would issue the ticket. It worked and I was booked… almost.

Apparently, the British Airways folks were not as enthused with the plan and refused to issue the seat until 100% of the plane checked in. In India, this is a typical mid-level. bureaucratic power play. It is senseless, but it makes the BA agent feel important. When this happens, you have to weather it as the whole intent is actually to get you frustrated. Finally, after waiting until the last final minute, the British Airways agent motioned me to the desk, but made sure that I knew that she was doing me a favor. Just to drive the point home, she refused to book the Chicago to Minneapolis leg in First Class even though that is what I paid for. I would need to speak to American Airlines in Chicago to get this done. I did not care at that point, as I was leaving Delhi. Good riddance!


I boarded the British Airways flight to London, settled in my seat and looked forward to the 36-hour trip home. Finally!

Corruption!

There is a lot of coverage in the media these days covering Anna Hazare’s anti-corruption movement in India.  He is currently fasting for 15 days to convince the government to pass anti-corruption legislation to curb the rampant graft that is literally choking this nation.  He is being hailed as Gandhi-like in his approach and the ranks of his supporters are growing every day.  From the outside, one would think that this must be an exciting time to be in India as the population mobilizes against corrupt government officials and politicians.  Well, you would be wrong.  Let me explain. 

Firstly, any news story reported from India is bound to be blown way out of proportion.  The Indians love their drama and the media here can make a four-day media event out of a cow crossing the road – especially if it is a Pakistani cow.  They are not totally at fault, though, as the average India loves to participate in anything that attracts a crowd be it a car accident, a mob beating someone to death or a futile protest.  Moreover, this is the land of 1.5 billion people and a small gathering will see numbers in the thousands.  Even a small protest looks massive on European or American standards.

Secondly, any support this guy garners is coming from the educated class that makes up a small portion of the Indian population.  They are fickle with a small attention span and, in my opinion, are only interested in this protest, because it is against a specific group, the government.  I believe they feel that others should be held accountable, but their participation in corruption, both giving and receiving, is fine and even necessary and they should not be held to the same standard. 

Even if every educated person in India supported this guy, the corrupt politicians simply head out into the villages, provide some food and a TV set and instantly they are elected again.  The TV thing actually happens in the state of Tamil in the south.  In the last election, voters were “rewarded” for voting a certain way with washing machines.  In the election before that, it was TVs.  Which brings me to my final point. 

Corruption is part of the fabric of India and Indians.  While we, in the west, think of things as right and wrong as defined in moral terms, Indians have a more flexible understanding of the concept.  They believe that if the immoral action results in good, then it is OK.  The crux of the matter is that good is defined by the individual rather than a moral imperative and usually revolves around the success of the act rather than the merits of the act itself.  This leads to a great deal of rationalizing and not a great deal of accountability and consequences. 

This is not a modern concept for Indians, though.  If you look at the Hindu epics, such as the Mahabharata, many of the deities are depicted as morally questionable.  Moreover, many of the gods, like Lakshami, are gods devoted to wealth and material prosperity. If the gods are corrupt, what does the society that worships them aspire to? 

In the end, I believe that Anna Hazare is a good man and his cause is noble.  I also believe that a hunger strike against corruption in India is like a telethon in Texas banning beef.  It is futile and someone liable to get hurt! 

Road Construction from Hell

My office is located in an office park that sits just above a junction where the roads from Agra, Faridabad and Noida merge to head into Delhi.  Usually, this is an advantage, as it feeds into the city on a long, straight four-lane road (in reality 6 lanes) that moves relatively expeditiously on normal days.  I have been relatively oblivious to the issues created by this as the chaos from merging these major arteries is usually sorted into the controlled havoc that I have come to recognize as “normal” by the time the traffic reaches my area. 

Apparently, a few years ago, they decided to “fix” the junction by creating overpasses and underpasses to facility a smooth transition.  This construction has been going on since I arrived, but until now, has not impacted my route.  That all changed last week.

The usually route I take is now blocked, so we must join the hoard of displaced motorist on an access road that runs parallel to the construction headed in the opposite direction in order to make a U-turn to come back through the construction and get on the long, straight road home.  If it sounds complicated, it is. 

As typical with India, there was no forethought into how to deviate the thousands of cars that use this route every day; there was no thought when they closed the main road as to what impact diverting 100,000 cars onto a dirt road in the middle of the rainy season would have; and there was absolutely no thought given in how half of those cars would make the U-turn.  It is the most assed-up road construction solution I have ever seen.

It begins with 3 rows of cars on a single lane access road, packed bumper to bumper, jockeying for position for the 2 inches that the car in front just gave up.  This lurching movement is not unusual in India.  What makes this one extra fun is the car caught on the outside runs the risk getting bogged down in the mud and jacking up what little forward progress the group is experiencing.  If it does head off into the mud, the odds of getting it unstuck within the current day are nil. 

Any progress, though, is controlled by the cars trying to make the U-turn a half a mile ahead.  In India, no one has the ability to anticipate needs, so as the mass of cars inch past the turn off point, one car in the left lane will realize that, in fact, he needs to make the right turn.  He will then inch forward blocking all forward movement until he can get across and out though the small opening in the construction barrier.  Just to make things interesting, the motorist in the right lane, seizing the opportunity to move forward will lunge into the open spot in front of the opening and block the car moving from left to right essential ensuring that no one moves for the next 20 minutes.  Lastly, since the opening can accommodate roughly one vehicle at a time, the opening will now be filled with cars coming through in the opposite direction trying to join the flow. All the while, everyone is blowing their horns as if the sound waves alone were going to free up this mangled mess.  It is absolutely maddening!

It now takes me over an hour to simply get through the ¼ mile labyrinth of cars, mud and barriers before getting on the long, straight road home.  A once serene 20-minute commute has turned into an epic, endless gladiator battle with chariots of steel. 

I have learned to simply put in my headphones, open a book and let the driver handle the traffic.  Less Indians die this way!

HSBC - The World's Most Incompetent Bank! - Part II

Upon arriving in India, my Director of Finance told me that we, as a company, bank with HSBC and he could help me set up an HSBC account through the Indian branch here in Delhi.  This would give me all the benefits of HSBC’s global network and when I returned to the states, the account would follow me home – a kind of end around of the incompetency of the US branch.  Sounded reasonable.  

He called the bank and they sent a Vice President to my office to fill out the application and collect the documents.  They, then, followed me home to get the signatures of my wife and copies of her documents.  This is service, I thought … naively having only been in India a few months!

Now that I have been in India for over a year, I now understand that Indians would crawl through a mile of human waste to get your business, but would not walk across the office to keep it.  This was no exception.  From the moment the account was open, the illusion of customer service disappeared and was replaced by a level of incompetence typically only seen with politicians.  As much as I would love to lay the blame at the feet of typical Indian incompetence and laziness, I think this is one of those mystical occurrences when a poorly run organization mixes with a culture that embraces all its shortcomings. The result is an experience that so absurd, it defies logic.

It began with the cash transfer into the account.  The gentlemen that were so helpful in coming to the office and the house to open the account may have left out one critical detail concerning how their bank handles transfers - they take a significant chunk for themselves.  I was furious.  I was not angry at the fee, as I am reasonable enough to understand that the bank needs to make money, but I was pissed that they did not disclosed the fee.  I made my usual calls to the bank explaining to the VP that it was not a question of “if” the fees would be refunded, but “when.” “The real question”,” I explained, “was if he would be around to see it!”

Anyone who knows me, knows I have a sense of “justice” that runs deep –especially when I think I am in the right (which is almost always).  I believe this justice needs to be pursued with every ounce of strength I can summon – the more casualties the better!  I am not saying this is right, I am just stating a fact. 

I began an email campaign at HSBC India that started with the local branch and finally fell on the ear of the Regional Vice President of the Bank.  I outlined how trust is essential in a banking relationship and once a bank gets a reputation of unethical behavior, especially in an expat community as tight as the one in Delhi, customers began to flee from the bank like Obama from accountability (too soon?).  It could really damage the careers of all associated with said financial institution.  3 hours after the email was received, I had confirmation that the charges were reversed and the offending banking officer had been terminated.  You can’t say I didn’t warn him.

Over the next 12 months, things continued to get worse.  80% of my checks were declined for signature match.  Seriously, signature match? What year is this?  In India, every check is manually compared to the signature on file and any deviation, no matter how slight, causes a rejection.  Can anyone remember the last check you had rejected for signature match? In addition, my ATM card stopped working . . . in December; checks I ordered were never delivered; and bank never returned my calls.  A few weeks ago, I reached my limit and went down to the branch to address these issues in person.

The type of account I have has an individual assigned to it called a Relationship Manager.  My Relationship Manager was a 20 something Indian woman that knew less about banking and the working of HSBC than I did.  After sitting in the lobby for 10 minutes while she chatted happily on her mobile, I was finally asked to come in to her office.  We went through the list of issues and her proposed solutions.

• Signature Match:  Her solution was to complete another signature card and, in her mind, that would cure the issue.  I tried to explain that all signatures have slight deviations from signing to signing and if I filled out another card, my next signing would deviate from that.  There is no exact repeatability in signatures; there is only reasonable match.  This stumped her, so I let it go hoping to use my political clout on another, more solvable issue.

• ATM Card: In her system, my ATM card was fine even though when we walked down to the ATM machine it was rejected.  This confused her, but did not inspire her to solve the issue.  I asked for the card to be reset and a new PIN sent to my home.  Reluctantly, she agreed.

It was at this point, that she realized that my address had been blocked.  This, obviously, accounted for why the first group of checks had not been sent and why all correspondence from the bank had never reached my house.  Apparently, they had tried to send something in February and it was returned, so they blocked the address for security purposes.  In all fairness, my mail is a little unreliable due to my refusal to pay a bribe to the postman last November during the Diwali season (it is like Christmas).

I asked her to change the address to my work address, but this was a major issue.  She needed me to provide a utility bill from my work address with my name on it.  Now, I am not sure where you work, but where I work, the company typically does not put its water and electricity into the employee’s names.  I explained this to her using a pithy combination of fact and sarcasm – it was not appreciated.  In the end, she agreed to unblock the address, reorder the checks and send both the checks and the PIN to the home address.  I skeptically agreed and left the bank with no hope of ever seeing the posted items again. 

I few weeks later, I get a call from a woman from HSBC informing me that my cook was attempting to cash a check and inquiring if I wrote said check.  I said that I had.  She then explained that the account had been frozen, yes frozen, due to me not updating the account with my new visa information.  “My what?” I retorted.  She explained that all foreign accounts needed a current visa on file or the account would be frozen.  I explained to her, in my best Denis Leary voice, that I had no idea and this is the type of information of which one might want to inform their account holders – you know, since the result is a frozen account!  This time, my pithy combination replaced fact with a flurry of explicatives – the sarcasm remained the constant (needless to say).  This was rapidly followed by my explaining to her that she needed to figure out a way to pay my cook or “I will get in my car and come down there and bring a shit storm upon you of such magnitude that people in the bank will talk about long after you have been fired!”  I remember this quote because upon uttering it, I looked up to see my secretary in my doorway with her jaw completely dropped. She often reminds me of this.    

The cook was paid! 

At this point, I had had enough.  My secretary and I set about to find out who the top dog was at HSBC in India.  Once we found her name, we then set about deciphering the HSBC email suffix system.  Once we cracked this, I wrote an email to the President of HSBC India outlining all the above issues sans the sarcasm and cursing.

Within 2 hours, my account was reopened, my address changed, a third checkbook ordered and, along with my new PIN number, sent to my work address.  When the call came, you could tell that there was general sense of “give this man anything he wants.”  I should have asked for a higher interest rate on my accounts!

In the end, the bank is now on its very best behavior with me.  The original Relationship Manager is seeking other career opportunities; I have written two checks that have not been rejected; and my ATM card is working like a champ. I received a follow up call a few days later asking if all my issues had been resolved.  I told the person that they had for now, but that I will not soon lose the email address of the President. 

In India, it is good to know the boss!

HSBC - The World's Most Incompetent Bank!

When you live in a foreign country, banking is always a concern that must be dealt with upon arrival.  You have several choices and your choice typically depends on how advanced the financial system is in your chosen country.  For instance, if you were moving to Europe which has a very advanced and competent financial system, you would get yourself a good credit card that does not charge a fee for foreign transactions and live through your plastic.  If, though, you were sent to say India where the 40% - 50% of the economy is transacted through the black market, cash becomes the primary currency.

This leaves you with two options.  Option 1 is to use you ATM card to withdrawal your cash.  The upside to this is that you have all the mechanisms already in place to execute it.  You have a US bank, an ATM card and best of all, since you are still paid directly into your US bank account, you have a reserve of money on which to draw.  The downside is that your bank may want a fee or worse yet, a percentage of each withdrawal.  This can get expensive very quickly.

Option 2 is that you set up a bank account in your new country.  This is incredibly cumbersome in highly regulated countries like India and requires more paperwork than downgrading a sovereign nation’s bond rating.  There are now, though, banks that have networks in many different countries that allow you to set up an account in your home country and effortlessly transfer money around the world for your discretionary use … or so they say. 

When I was “selected” to go to India, I reached out to one such bank, HSBC.  I have seen their ATM machines ion every country from Vietnam to Turkey, so I figured it must be a competent global bank.  I figured wrong.   

The odyssey began in June of 2010.  I thought I would get ahead of the curve and open an HSBC account in the US.  I went on line and filled out all the forms, but near the end of the process, the website crashed and the application could not be completed or submitted.  I logged out and began again.  When I tried to submit it this time, the website told me it was a duplicate application.  Hum?  I called their crack customer service folks in Buffalo, NY, but they were about as helpful as Nancy Pelosi in a deficit reduction workshop.  In the end, they told me to wait a few days and resubmit the application on-line.  The next day I left for India. 

While in India, I was able to get in touch with someone in Buffalo who actually knew what to do.  She put me in touch with a “Relationship Manager” who took all my information, submitted the application and said that a packet would be mailed to my house with all the account information and passwords to initiate the account.  A month later, when I arrived back in Minneapolis, it had not arrived.

I called my “Relationship Manager” and he told me that it showed mailed and therefore it must be an error on my side.  I did not take his assessment of the situation as quietly as he would have liked.  We eventually agreed that HSBC should mail it again.  I explained that I would be vacating he address in two weeks, so I need it post haste.  Two weeks later, as I turned out the lights for the final time in the house, it still had not arrived. I gave up as I had more pressing issues at hand … like moving to India.

Three months later, I returned to the US for business. I, again, called my “Relationship Manager” to explain that I had not received the package.  He told me he would once again mail it out.  I explained that I no longer resided at that address and he would need to main it to a different address.  He said that he could not do that.  He would have to mail it to the address on the account.  If I would go on-line and change the address, then he could mail it anywhere I wanted.  I, choosing my words carefully, explained that the account password is in the package and without it, I cannot log on to change the address to which the package with the password should be mailed.  Are you freak’n kidding me?  He retorted that there was nothing he could do.  I, then, asked for him to close the account.  In order to close the account, he would need to send me a form and get my signature, but he could, once again, only send said form to the address on the account.  I cannot fully account for the next ten minutes, but it would suffice to say that I invented a new category of rage – Bank Rage!

In the end, I worked my way up through the bank hierarchy and eventually found someone to close the account.  And that is where the HSBC story should have ended, but it did not…