it's been a long time, now I'm coming back home (Wait)

The last week has seen me in the bosom of my family, dear reader, although the time has flown by so quickly, I really do wonder where it's gone. Just before I left Kochi and in the time just after I arrived in Sydney, I had had communications with the good folks I can now call my erstwhile employers and we agreed that we could call my assignment with KiBS successfully completed.

I had been involved with the School for six months - four of them in India as you have been reading - and found it a rich learning experience, but I don't know working on one continent while my family is living on another very well. Having been back in Sydney briefly in early December, and notwithstanding the experiences of St Vinnies and so on, I realised how much I had missed Kerry, Fiona, and yes, even Luke! Returning to Kochi via Delhi reinforced what the next six months would be like and I decided that, in the best interests of everyone, it was time to say au revoir to India for the time being.

That being said, I think I can look back over the last six months with some pride. The idea of "successfully completing my assignment in India" is borne out by my having established and gained FIBAA (Austrian government) accreditation for the School's MBA program (the program will be taught in conjunction with the Management Centre Innsbruck, of the University of Applied Sciences in Innsbruck); my having mapped out the teaching program for the inaugural intake of students in September, 2008; my having developed and produced the School's 2008 prospectus; and my having had key inputs into the design of the KiBS teaching facilities.

I look forward to fresh, new challenges in 2008. In the meantime, this week is a time for some reflection (and a juxtaposing of some of the photos that I've taken over my time in Kochi and surrounds to look at where we were and where we got to across professional and domestic fronts. It's also a time for me to deal with an unwanted addition to my Christmas chores.

Unfortunately, Santa brought me one thing extra that I hadn’t anticipated – a “fried” hard disk, that wasn’t fully backed up. I’m in the embarrassing situation of having to confess to my friends, colleagues and wider professional network that I’ve lost all my emails for the past 5 months (just as well I keep my contacts backed up on a different system).

In the circumstances, I've had to ask them if they can check whether we have any outstanding email correspondence, and they’re expecting an answer from me on a particular matter. I find myself having to work through any outstanding matters methodically but at some pace in order to clear the decks for 2008.

Please don’t feel embarrassed about having a chuckle at my expense, dear reader – I’ve already done that (if somewhat hysterically). Anyway, I suppose it does allow me to enter 2008 with something of a clean slate.

Trains and boats and planes - postscript

You can't take anything for granted in India, eh dear reader?

A couple of points as a postscript to my T 'n' b 'n' p blog.

First, you'll be utterly unsurprised to know that the landing in Delhi was delayed and the subsequent flight to Singpaore didn't take off for an hour after schedule (this is not such a bad thing as it's one less hour to spend sitting round Changi waiting for the Sydney connection).

What I hadn't appreciated is that the Indira Gandhi International Airport (IGI) domestic terminal in Delhi is 12 kilometres from the International terminal and there is no form of transport between the two except for the taxi service. This was again a "telling" experience as I landed outside to discover there is indeed no shuttle and taxi is the only option. The "friendly" tout outside the terminal said he could get me to IGI international for INR700, noting that the charge inside was INR750 and he could save me INR50. I knew that was outrageously overpriced and offered INR400, to which he turned up his nose. I proceeded back inside the domestic terminal and purchased a prepaid taxi voucher for INR140! This included payment for transport of two bags.

I don't resile from any of my comments about JAA's anal approach to its reservations system but I do offer a big bouquet to the cabin staff on SQ408 from Delhi to Singaporte - they were great! I even made a point of advising the Cabin Services Manager - I hope I get some of those folks again on another Singapore Airlines flight.

Off to find coffee and croissant now as I get closer to Sydney and home.

Trains and Boats and Planes

Dear reader, the title of the blog has nothing to do with the first two modes of transportation and all to do with the last - I just didn't want to waste the song title (see yesterday's blog for explanation).

The purpose of this blog is to warn you against having anything to do with Singapore Airlines if your itinerary is subject to change or in any way out of the ordinary!

Some time ago, I had booked my flight home to Sydney for Christmas to depart from Delhi (I had anticipated being there for a series of promotional sessions on behalf of KiBS following the APROS conference, but events overtook these plans and I finished up in Patna and then Kochi instead). For the last week or more, my travel agent in Sydney has been struggling manfully to try and get my itinerary changed from Delhi-Singapore to Kochi-Singapore so that I can take a much later, more direct flight to Singapore and reduce the elapsed travelling time by about 9 hours. But would Singapore Airlines (SA) make that change? Nooooo. As far as SA was concerned it had to reticket the whole itinerary and not just the India-Singapore section, and had to wait for a cancellation before being able to re-ticket the Singapore-Sydney section.

Yes, dear reader, you've already spotted the fatal flaw in SA's position haven't you - I would be that cancellation (coz I'm already on the plane!) and they could simply issue the new tickets! But no again folks, that's too logical. So each day I would play Julius II to Ian's (my travel agent's) Michaelangelo Bonarotti, asking (eventually pleading) "When will it be at an end" and hearing "When it is finished" in reply. I had got to the stage yesterday afternoon (remember there's a 5 and 1/2 hour time difference between Kochi and Sydney to take into account as well) when I decided with one of Ian's offsiders that the opening was looking highly unlikely and so I proceeded to confirm my Kochi-Delhi flight and check-in on the Singapore flight from Delhi (you have to do that so that you don't get crap seats like the ones I got on the way to Delhi from Sydney earlier this month because the SA computers wouldn't play nice with me).

I had resigned myself to the extended travel itinerary until I saw my emails this morning (I have been without 'out of office' email connection for the last 24 hours because Tata Indicom insisted on evaluating our claim for a replacement USB modem and I didn't get back online until last night at 9.00pm, only to find the Tata PCMCIA we purchased while we wait a week for the replacement Tata USB modem that the folks at Tata finally decided was warranted). Ian had written to say that it had all been sorted finally - someone else had dropped out, and I could get the Kochi-Singapore connection. All I needed to to was to pop down to the SA office in Kochi and get them to reissue the ticket.

This brings me to the following excerpt of an email that I've not long sent to Ian in Sydney, bless his cotton socks:

"Dear Ian,

Thanks for your emails regarding your success in changing the booking - well done! What the folks at JAA (Just Another Airline, my new name for SA) neglected to tell you is that today in Kochi is a public holiday (for a secular state, the Indians do very well in grabbing every possible opportunity to claim the religious holidays (this one's a Muslim holiday) as their own). Accordingly, the JAA and Silk (JAAOA - Just Another Airline's Other Airline) offices here in Kochi are closed and I am unable to pop down to the offices and get things fixed."

So today will be another day "lost in India" as I head out to Kochi International Airport for a 2.10pm flight that takes me north to Delhi via Hyderabad, arriving at 5.30pm, so that I can wait for the 9.00pm flight to Singapore, arriving at 4.55am, so that I can wait for the 9,40am flight from Singapore to Sydney, arriving at 8.15pm, then home to the bosom of my family.

What I added to my email to Ian, and I share now with you gentle reader, are the following wishes:

I trust that you experience the peace and joy of this Christmas season, and that 2008 brings you everything that you would wish for yourself.

Ride, Ride My Rickshaw (with apologies to the Moody Blues)

I was going to call this blog "Trains and Boats and Planes" after the Billy J Kramer hit of the 60s, or "Trains, Planes and Automobiles" after the John Candy movie of the same name, dear reader, to cover a variety of topics (or is that a multitude of sins?). Anyway, after nearly being "cleaned up" on three separate occasions by two different trucks and a bus just now, while travelling in an autorickshaw back to the School from my visit to the bank , however, I think the Moody Blues variation is much more apropos. I'll get to that part of the story a little later.

As you might recall, my trip from Patna to Kochi, via Delhi and Bangalore, was something of an elongated one. At one point, having exhausted my reading materials, I was moved to even read the ads appearing on the "flight map" page of the TV (one neat thing about the landing at Bangalore was that the whole thing could be viewed on the screen via a camera in the nose of the plane - fascinating for one such as me not bothered by the flying experience, but a whole new way of being scared witless by those so disposed). If I had any doubt that India is a "man's" country, that doubt was dispelled by one of Kingfisher's ads for its own services:

"Fly Kingfisher this season of good times", it said, "Because the queen of your heart deserves to feel like a king". Apart from the deep-seated gender issues that such a cross over might generate, since when did a queen need to feel like a king to be better off? No, dear reader, this is not just me being pedantic, or even politically correct. I see this as a statement reflecting the "real" understanding of the place of men and women in India, at least among the ad team that came up with this brilliant line as they sought to appeal to the typical fliers who would be viewing the ad. Or is it just me?

The last paragraph covers the "planes" part of the original titles and there are no trains or boats to speak of (very fortunately for me in regard to the trains as far as Subho is concerned), but there are things to say about the auto(mobiles) and to share a story about one person who has a special place in my experience of India - Jayaraj, the auto-rickshaw driver, who picks me up each morning to take me to the office and sometimes drives me back to the apartment at night.

This photo shows us standing beside Jayaraj's auto this morning just outside the Suryakanthi Apartments that have been my home for these past months, just before we headed to the KiBS offices. Jayaraj is very proud of his auto and treats it with as much parental as proprietorial concern, and why wouldn't he? He is on the road every morning at 5.15am and so has been driving around for about 4 hours before he picks me up at 9.00am. After dropping me off, he heads out to another fare or two before he is required at the bicycle shop at 10.00am, where he stays until 8.00pm at night. It is at 8.00pm that he comes to pick me up on the return journey to the apartment and the beginning of another 3 hour stint in the auto before he arrives at home. This is his routine, day in day out, as he seeks to provide for his family and to repay the loan for the new apartment that he is in the process of purchasing.

A sense of the "parental" concern for his auto is given by his answer to my enquiry about sub-leasing the auto during the day while he is at the bike shop, and so maximising the return on that investment: "No, maybe damage". He has had the auto for about 11 months now and in all that time on Kochi's crazy roads, he has had only one minor bingle which produced a broken indicator light and a bend in one of the panel joints (about which he was most distressed as he recounted the story). He couldn't face the thought of any damage to his auto, especially if it was the result of someone else driving.

Along the way, Jayaraj has proved to be the most reliable thing about India - unless there is a "block" (traffic jam") he is punctual to a fault (sometimes even being early and catching me just out of the shower in a demonstration of my own tardiness), he is careful on the road and a pleasant conversationalist to boot. From time to time he passes his friends in the auto business and there is always a friendly wave and a smile to punctuate the encounter.

This stands in stark contrast to the two auto rickshaw rides that Raju and I had on our way to and from the State Bank of India Broadway branch, where the driving was "variable" to say the least and it looked like everyone on the road had already enjoyed too much Christmas "cheer". The trip to the bank was mainly sedate, with the "spurts" restricted to sliding into defined openings in the congestion, but on the way back, it became a real ducking and weaving contest as we and the other traffic, large and small, played the familiar game of "chicken", as we wandered on both sides of the road to get ahead (or eventually to lose one?). At one stage, I thought we were going to be the vehicle in the "auto knocks down pedestrian" as our auto brushed a lady crossing near MG Road (in fairness to the driver, she was doing the "you can't hit me coz I'm not looking at you" approach to crossing, and then she was complaining to the folks who had already crossed about the behaviour of the auto driver!). And hence, dear reader, the shift to the "Ride, Ride My Rickshaw" title.

No lazy Sunday afternoon for me

Every day in India is a rich experience, and yesterday afternoon after I had signed off on my “purple is a fruit” blog was no exception. Ajith had kindly organised me on the Kingfishers flights via e-ticket (which, of course, is supposed be paperless, but you can’t get into an Indian airport terminal without a “ticket”. You might remember, dear reader, my experience in Mumbai back in August when Jay and I had to fight to get me into the international terminal to leave India because I didn’t have a “ticket”; just a piece of paper with the details on it, but it kind of defeats the purpose of the “e”, doesn’t it?)

Anyway, at my request, Ajith had sent an email to the Centaur so that the “ticket” could be printed out and I could get into the terminal. He had not accounted for the woman who had taken his call the night before to confirm that the email had been received and that a copy of the contents would be printed out and passed to me not bothering to actually print out the email. When I came to check out then, and asked for my email …. Ta da! … nothing had been done. The circus began then when the banquet manager led me down a corridor to a room where the “secret computing business” took place and proceeded to try and log in to a Gmail account with a vsnl.com domain email address. All the while the bell “boy” (a nice guy of about 50 years) was haranguing me about the need to get to the airport.

On the basis it was clear the banquet manager had no clue, I simply gave up and walked out, hoping that I would be able to do something at the airport before we passed into the terminal. I was assuming I would be at the right terminal sooner rather than later but this too was a misapprehension. Kingfisher flies out of terminal 1A at Delhi but the taxi driver took me to 1B, insisting that I was in the right place and then looking askance when I refused to give him a tip for the bags I had. It was just as well I hadn’t tipped him because that would have added salt to the wound of his deliberately taking me to the wrong terminal!

I had noticed the road signs and was surprised when we ended up at 1B – on the other hand, I’ve also learned not to take much notice of signs here so I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d arrived at the right place. It was only after I’d walked for 15 minutes over to Terminal 1A, past heavy traffic flowing into and out of Terminal 1A, I realised that he’d dropped me off at 1B because he didn’t want to negotiate the 1A traffic! Insult was added to injury while the Kingfisher front counter lass gently berated me for being late (as if I had chosen to be so) then encouraged me to “rush” into the terminal to get checked in (at least she gave me my “ticket”, duly presented to the CISF officer at the door). Inside I was given another chiding for my tardiness, along with my boarding passes in crappy seats for Delhi-Bangalore then Bangalore-Kochi – at least I was getting closer to my objective. Well at least in terms of distance – we were delayed on the ground by ¾ of an hour before took off and so the 1 hour turnaround at Bangalore had now been reduced to 15 minutes.

With a sense of the most simple solution (forgetting the 300 OHS regulations that would have been broken if we’d been in Australia, the US or the UK), when we got to Bangalore we were “de-planed” and kept waiting on the tarmac while our bags were unloaded and the 10 or so of us who were making the Kochi connecting flight were shuffled across the tarmac to the waiting turboprop that was going to take us to Kochi (again an hour late, given “the late arrival of an incoming aircraft”). The ever reliable Ajith was there to pick me up and take me, via a masala dosa at the Dawarka restaurant, back to the apartment, where I unpacked bags, packed the washing machine and packed myself off to bed. So there it is, another adventure filled day here in India, and no lazy Sunday afternoon for this little black duck.

“Purple is a fruit!”

This is the claim made by Homer Simpson when he was trying to justify his continuing delight in donuts and why they are just junk food. This morning while I had breakfast in the coffee shop of the Centaur Hotel, near the IGI airport, I got closer to a sense of what he meant when I had toast with a mix of confitures – honey, strawberry jam and orange marmalade. Whether there was any fruit in either of the jam or marmalade was definitely open for consideration but there was no doubting the colour and so I would be moved to say, if purple is a fruit, then so is “red” and “orange”.

I had enjoyed the toast after an excellent masala dosa (even better than the one I had had the night before, with vegetable somosa as an entrée), and along with a most interesting conversation with the waiter about the developing economies of Australia and India (and the growing relationships between the two countries); the likely competitiveness of the upcoming Test cricket series between Australia and India; and the failure of the Europeans and the Mesopotamians (the waiter’s term) to appreciate the enlightenment reflected in Hindu lore and the experiences of the great Hindu holy men. Accordingly, I was somewhat reluctant to leave the breakfast table in the hotel’s café, but the day beckoned.

Because you are perceptive dear reader, you’ll have noted that I write this blog, not from Kochi where I was supposed to arrive yesterday evening, but from a hotel in Delhi. Another reason for my observation about the Indian airline schedules in the “Time after Time” blog is that I was a victim of them once again yesterday. My flights from Patna to Delhi to Kochi were originally supposed to begin at 9.00am on Saturday morning (with a 4 hour layover in Delhi, while I waited for the 2.15pm Spicejet flight from Delhi to Kochi). Jeena from the KiBS office had already alerted me to a 2 hour delay in the Patna-Delhi flight several days earlier, so I was pleased that my “lay around” in Delhi would be reduced by two hours. I duly arrived at the Patna airport at 10.15, only to discover that the flight from Delhi had been delayed such that the flight would not leave now until 11.55am. Again, I was “happy” to have the layover time further reduced.

Unfortunately, the delay extended, and extended, and extended so that we did not leave Patna until 3.00pm and duly arrived in Delhi, just after 4.00pm. I was hopeful that the delay was generic and that I could count on all the other flights being duly delayed but it was not to be. The Spicejet flight (from 2.15pm) had only been delayed by just over an hour and so I had missed my last opportunity to get to Kochi on Saturday afternoon.

The IGI airport experience was a series of frustrations as, first, the Spicejet booth at the baggage counter was unstaffed. Then I was to discover that I needed to go the Departures Hall (a separate building at IGI), where, having finally convinced the Indian Civilian Security Force (ICSF) member that I needed to get into the Departures hall even though my flight had already left, I found the Spicejet ticketing counter labelled with the “Counter Closed” sign. I made my way to the check-in counter to be told I needed to go to the “Counter Closed” counter (by this stage, someone from the “Counter Closed” counter, which wasn’t really closed – it just looked like it – had spied me and chased after me to take me back to the counter). Having been made to walk back to the “Counter Closed” counter, I was told there were no more Spicejet flights to Kochi that day (why I couldn’t be told that about 3 walks earlier is beyond me, but there you go).

A phone call to Ajith in Kochi and eventually I was booked on this afternoon’s 3.15pm Kingfisher flight to Bangalore (yes, dear reader, Bangalore) and then the evening Bangalore-Kochi flight (all the other direct flights to Kochi having already been booked out). But the fun wasn’t finished yet. I needed to get back into the Arrivals Hall to make arrangements for hotel accommodation. The ICSF man, who clearly had minimal English, would not let me into the arrivals hall, then his 3-striped boss (whose English was also minimal) would not let me in. Serendipity had a Kingfisher employee with reasonable English passing by and, following a discussion in Hindi between the three, in the context of a growing horde, I was ushered into the Arrivals Hall with flourishes from all in attendance.

Ajith had given me the names of the Airport Hotel (right at the airport) and the Centaur Hotel (a little further away) and I presented these to the government tourism operator in the Arrivals Hall (hence my need to return there). His response was a reasonable, “Which one?”. My response, in turn, was “Well, which one would you stay at if you had the choice?” First, he pointed out the locations of the two on the map and then said, “Well, the Airport Hotel is close and the rooms have recently been refurbished”. “What about the Centaur?” and it became clear that his concern was about which cost more. I refined my “search question” and asked.”What if you had the choice and the money?”. Without hesitation, “The Centaur”, he replied.

Off to the Centaur via a car duly organised by my tourism operator friend, where I discovered that, while the Airport Hotel has recently been refurbished, the Centaur is somewhere in the middle of being refurbished. Still by this time of the day (6.00pm) and a desperate need to just lie down, I was not overly troubled. Checking of emails and so on, a quick dinner of masala dosa and veg samosa, and it was sleep time, which I extended to a luxurious 8:15am this morning (I’m not sure how I’m going to get back into the 5½ hour time difference in Sydney when I arrive on Friday night, but right now, Sydney looks a very attractive proposition). And so I pack up to head off to Bangalore and Kochi (eventually).

Go KiBS! (try and get a song title out of that one Artie!)

Friday was the day of our the presentation and counselling session, and I presented in the Roznama Sahara booth to somewhere between 300 and 400 participants, who listened attentively to the presentation (all in English) and responded with a range of sensible and pertinent questions (again all asked and answered in English). The Sahara team once more were very supportive, promoting the presentation throughout the day and providing all the necessary support resources (data projector, screen and all sound systems) to us gratis. I was felicitated (by Nayyar Khurshid, the Business Head Bihar Region) and the session was MC’d by Gyaneshwar Pandey, Head of the Marketing Team for Roznama Sahara (the Urdu language newspaper).

Later in the evening Subho and I met with Naresh Nandan of Genesis India Limited, one of the organisers of the fair, and a company involved in a variety of telecommunications and microfinance services. Naresh was interested in developing a relationship with KiBS for future fairs, as well as assisting in getting us into the top colleges here in Patna. I was interested in exploring the Genesis involvement in its microfinance services, noting to Naresh that his company had found a place to flourish at the bottom of the pyramid and him acknowledging my awareness of CK Prahalad’s work and his company’s strategy in this regard.

And here is the result reflected in the respective newspapers the next day.

The Battle of the Saharas

In my previous blog, I reported on my visit to the Sahara regional offices. It was this visit that highlighted the degree of competition between the Hindi and Urdu counterparts and the first (and probably last) time that I have been fought over by two newspapers. As I mentioned earlier, the fair stand was the initiative of Roznama, the Urdu language paper – they would use my presentation as a nice piece of co-branding , having attracted the western (white) professor to the stand. The journalism workshop, on the other hand, was the initiative of the Hindi language newspaper. They were just as enthusiastic to get photos and a story of the western professor in their edition the following day and would, therefore, gazump (gain a prior benefit over) their Urdu “colleagues”. Indeed, so concerned were the Roznama folks, that the very presentation of the “Go KiBS” workshop the next day was threatened. A deft piece of diplomacy on the part of Subho (and, I think, the intervention of the part of the Patna Regional Manager, telling the two groups to settle down) averted the potential disaster and we were able to both visit the regional offices and do the presentation the following day.

In the meantime, since I am interested in Views from a Room, please see below two photos from my Utsav Delux(e) hotel room, showing a little oasis and the context within which the oasis is situated. The other photo is a view from the KiBS booth of the crowds milling around.

Are you going to the Patna Fair? (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkel)

Not too much parsley, sage, rosemary or thyme to be seen here as I arrived at the Patna Book and Education Fair, where we had planned for me to run some presentations and counselling sessions for prospective students. Subho had gone ahead to set things up for the day (he had already been in Patna for about 5 days and so had his own routine pretty much down pat) and I followed later in the morning. Things did not proceed as we had originally planned, however, (when does that ever happen in India?) but it was to the good, and a tribute to Subho’s networking and relationship building skills.

Just round the corner from our own KiBS booth (see photos of Subho in the booth and pointing the way), at the intersection of Rows H and J was the (very large) Roznama Sahara booth (Roznama Sahara is Sahara’s Urdu language newspaper in Patna, which, theoretically at least, is supposed to complement its Hindi language Sahara counterpart here in Patna but with which it is, I was to discover, engaged in intense competition). Anyway, Subho had met and begun developing a good relationship with the people staffing the Sahara stand, arranging for us to present our "Go KiBS" seminar on the Friday afternoon at the Sahara stand, taking advantage of all their support and technical facilities. On Thursday I spent good exposure time, being introduced and felicitated on several occasions, as well as presenting some awards. We (KiBS) also were promoted to the crowd of 300-400 engineering and science students who turned up for a later counselling session with one of the local chemistry professors (Professor K Singh), where I was seated at his side throughout his presentation.

In between these two Sahara stand sessions, I had the opportunity to visit the Sahara Regional Offices, here in Patna, where a workshop for about 70 journalism students (co-organised by the American Center in Kolkata) was coming to an end. Again, I was felicitated with the Sahara Regional Manager and gave a short presentation on the importance of senior management and CEOs receiving the equivalent kind of training that the students were getting so that they knew how to provide the right answers to the questions they were being trained to ask. Nilanjan Hajra, the AV Section Chief at the US Consulate General in Kolkata was keen to see how we can organise the sorts of executive seminars on working with the media I suggested.

So Thursday was a day where I was sri’d, ji’d and sahib’d within an inch of my life, as I was indicated, felicitated, and congratulated by Sahara’s team of marketing folks (Sri David, Davidji and David Sahib – all undeserved honorifics and, in one case, all used in a single sentence about me. At the end of the day, Subho and I were able to sit down to a dinner of chilli chicken, veg korma and roti well satisfied with the day’s activities.

Time after Time

I wonder if we could get the authorities here in India to produce an airline timetable that lists all the fights 2-3 hours earlier than currently scheduled. That way all the flights could be reliably 2-3 hours late and still get away at the times originally expected. Yes, you guessed right, dear reader – having organised to get to IGI (Indira Gandhi International) Airport at 6.30pm for the 7.25pm flight, we didn’t take off until just after 10.00pm (“due to the late arrival of the inbound flight”), which is about the usual delay one experiences around the system.

Still, it gave me the opportunity to chat for a couple of hours with Zubin, a PhD student I first met at the Association of Indian Management Schools (AIMS) conference earlier this year. Zubin is doing some really interesting work in trying to link the western notion of moral development with its Indian (Karma Yoga) equivalent and getting some generally reliable results. He was presenting some more of his initial findings on the validity and reliability of the scale he has developed and we were able to explore some of the measurement concerns that have developed round his efforts at operationalising the concepts.

So I arrived at the hotel in Patna – Hotel Utsav Delux (it is actually Deluxe, but in true Fawlty Towers style, the “e” was missing from the sign out front) – at 12.05am instead of the scheduled time. It is the first time I’ve stayed in a hotel where the toilet paper is an optional extra (no, this is not a joke dear reader, through Subho, I had to ask (indeed, nearly demand, to overcome the hotel employee’s reticence) for toilet paper, a roll of which was eventually forthcoming). No time for quibbling though because it is a full day at the fair ahead.

Friday on my Mind ....

don't whether I'll be having fun in the city of Patna tonight (coz my girl, pretty as she is, is in Sydney - hey Kerry!), but it is Friday after all, and as I sit with Subho at our KiBS stand here at the Patna Education and Book Fair, I'm reflecting on the KiBS prospectus presentation I'll be doing a little later at the Sahara Media and Communications stand just round the corner from where we're based.

I return to the song title theme, dear reader in light of my brother Artie's comments on the A380 blog, "I'm a bit disappointed that you didn't grasp the opportunity of continuing your song title puns with the title of this post. I suppose The Stranglers are a bit more my era, but "Goodbye Toulouse" would have been perfect". Yes, much and all as it might distress you, there are (at least) two of us with the punny sense of humour - thanks bro!

Artie was also given to comment on my intro blog to the APROS experience and, again, revealed a wonderfully warped sense of the absurd, along with a good memory for the "Bruces" sketch from the Monty Python gang: " 'ontologically' Maaaate, I didn't know you were into bird watching. I'm a bit worried about these people you'll being presenting your paper to. I thought Bruce was in charge of logical positivism and what about the sheep dip?" This offers me a nice segue back to the APROS conference.

Before I rejoin that exposition, I'm pleased to report that, after a rather horrendous couple of days, the bodily functions are in full flow once more and the news from the urologist is "all good". The biopsy results were all negative so, while my urologist will no doubt continue to refer to my "monster prostate", at least it won't be referred to as "monstrous". Right, the "too much information" paragraph is at an end, and it's back to APROS.

What I didn't mention in my last blog about APROS was the stark contrast I experienced in the two technical session streams I attended. In the afternoon session it was all postmodern, social constructivist speak, as we explored "organization, identity and location" (I was interested in Mary Barrett's work on authenticity and the capacity to apprehend indigenous art in all its combined dimensions). The atmosphere was warm, supportive and mutually enthusiastic, promoted by the excellent work done by the stream facilitators to engage us all in the subject matter.

I had anticipated a similarly postmodern and supportive environment in the sessions of the stream in which I was to present my paper (the Leading Global Organisations), but found myself in the late afternoon session in an enclave of positivists, determined to present their numbers and to comment on the elegance of their statistical analysis (since my paper, with its deliberatively provocative title of "Tromping on Trompenaars and hiving off Hofstede: Wither monocultural theorising in a multicultural world" (TTHH for short), was focussed on a critique of such approaches, I wondered at the sense of my inclusion in this stream). Worse, I found my myself in the academic equivalent of a "feeding frenzy" where, having smelled the blood of the early career researcher, not too confident or eloquent in his exposition (and then unnecessarily defensive in response to the criticisms) a subset of the assembled academics circled and sought to take chunks of the young man. As a senior (white) academic, I felt compelled to come to his aid, and began my own interjection over one of the interrupters with "I think it is a perfectly reasonable and sensible thing to ...." (I forget now the substance of the commentary, but still remember the viciousness of the attack. I have seen similar performances at other conferences in the past, but didn't anticipate the same in what I thought was going to be a "kinder, gentler" context). My presentation was to be on Wednesday so I hoped that things would settle down by then.

Tuesday was the next full day of the conference with workshops morning, afternoon and evening and then the conference dinner that night. Again it was postmodern in the morning, positivist in the afternoon and mix of the two in the evening at the dinner. The second half of the OIL stream was a positive in its atmosphere as the first half and the "sharks" had not come back to the leadership stream (their blood lust apparently sated by their antics of the evening before), so I was now looking forward more to the presentation. The dinner was a wonderful cultural experience of dances from around India and Damian Ruth (from South Africa vis Massey University in New Zealand) for one found it an exhilirating delight. I too was much more interested in the dancing than the food and such, which was just as well because the final dance troupe, a group of very colourful and enthusiastic Sikh gentlemen, were quite insistent on getting a selection of us (including your humble scribe, dear reader) to dance with them - I certainly could not have done it on a stomach full of food. Again, fortunately, the body was slowly starting to "come good" and so I was not as inconvenienced as I might have been if the dinner had been the night before.

Wednesday was crunch day for me, with the TTHH presentation in the morning and a "getting published" workshop on behalf of Emerald in the afternoon, before I headed out to the airport to travel to Patna. The first half of the day went well. The TTHH paper was surprisingly well received - it has been said to me in the past that, when I put my mind to it, I do a more than passable impression of a diplomat; perhaps those skills were to the fore while I "tramped" on the positivist obsession with the "between groups" variation and the highlighting of cultural (and other) differences between countries, without due consideration being given to the "within groups" variation and the cultural differences within countries that reflect their multicultural nature. For the first time, I read poetry (poems from Banjo Paterson, Henry Lawson, Pete Gebhardt and Oodgeroo Noonuccal) as part of an academic presentation and felt energised by doing so.

The afternoon session was reasonably well-attended, especially given the competing demands of Delhi and so I was pleased to be able to provide a series of insights on getting published to the assembled group. Damian Ruth had come along out of interest and his presence was enriching for the questions he asked and the insights he provided in return. I have already sent a "soft" copy of my powerpoint presentation to those who requested it and so feel good about having effectively discharged my Emerald responsibilities. Back to the room, the final pack (and, still, half a dozen or so trips to the loo) and then it was off to Delhi airport. A series of delays, meant that, although we were supposed to head off at 7.30pm, we did not take off until after 10.00pm and so I finally arrived at the hotel room in Patna and hit the hay at midnight. The Patna story (and some backfilling with photos) will have to wait until the next blog dear reader, as I head off to my KiBS gig.

As you may have gathered from the above, the conference (especially combined with my incapacity) was a full on experience and, as I tried to stay close to “facilities”, I was not able to get out and about in the city of Delhi and do the tourist thing. I did, however, get a significant photo that you see here. No dear reader, this is not a scene from the “Red Fort” or another gaol in the Delhi precincts. This is a photo of the door to my room in the Nandala College at the Management Development Institute (MDI) at Gurgaon, the venue of the APROS conference.

Monday, Monday ....

not so good to me ... (for you, dear reader, who may be somewhat younger, the Mommas and Poppas had a hit with Monday, Monday in the 60s, although the next line for them was "so good to me"). At least my bro Artie is paying attention and giving me feedback through his comments on the more recent blogs (thanks mate - I dream of that gerbil; no dear reader, no explanation - you just wouldn't understand: it's a bro's thing).



'scuse me ...



back again from the 20+th trip to loo today (I was trying to keep count but this whole thing is so debilitating that I've given up even bothering to do that).



Today was the first day proper of the APROS conference, and an interesting (nay fascinating!) experience it has been (when I've been able to engage with people and not been facing the porcelain or standing above it)! We bussed down to the Galaxy Hotel in Gurgaon for the inauguration ceremony for the conference - a series of speeches in the usual mould from the good and great about the value of the conference, and its hosts, MDI. The star turn today was Stewart Clegg, who spoke passionately and persuasively about globalisation and the winners and losers of the process. A bite of lunch and then sessions throughout the afternoon and into the evening, finishing at 6.30pm. While the rest of the conference attendees have made their way to the Dean's Bungalow for dinner, I've remained in my room so that I'm close to the place where I've been making a number of my visits so far today (and will continue to do througout the night, no doubt).



I'm going to come right out and say it ... ontologically and epistemologically, I'm a critical realist! Surrounded by a coterie of social constructionists, I've not too many people to talk with in the context of the same philosophical framework here (nice and all as the people with whom I've come in contact over the last 48 hours are). Nonetheless, I've been able to make a quiet contribution to the discussions at different points .... bugga, 'scuse me again (yes dear reader, even in mid-sentence I'm driven to the bathroom to stand and deliver (not much for all the straining and groaning) before returning to the key board ..... so I have felt useful in my participation. The Leadership stream within which I will present my paper appears to be something of a logical positivist enclave, so I will challenge them on Wednesday morning with no numbers and a conceptual discussion that did not appear likely to take place in this evening's session. We shall see.



And so I begin to bring myself to then end of the day, or at least my active participation in it (I could probably go on, but I'm really now just so exhausted from the constant strain and groan routine, that I'm just going to drop into bed and a night's attempt at sleep). Good night, dear reader.

the A380 … why would you build a bigger airplane and provide fewer toilets?

I got to Singapore and updated my facebook status to say I was “recovering from iatrogenic septicaemia, but chuffed that I had just flown on the new A380” airbus that Singapore Airlines is running between Singapore and Sydney. One of my facebook friends immediately wanted to know about the experience (of the flight, not the illness), the best/worst features, and so I told him. The standard of Singapore Airlines remains unchanged, in terms of the high level of cabin service it provides. That being said, when you’re in “cattle class”, the food is still crap and it takes forever to get served, etc etc. As an aside, I noted the number of people who needed “special meals”, that didn’t look particularly special to me – am I getting cynical in my old age? The one thing that stood out for me (especially given the parlous state of my urinary system and the need to go to the loo about 12 times during the flight from Sydney to Singapore) was the removal of two the (quaintly named) “lavatories” at the back. I actually asked one of the cabin crew while I was standing in one of the ever present queues “Why would you build a bigger airplane and provide fewer toilets?” He said that there were more in the middle of the plane than before, but all the signs and configuration of the plane point the 100 or so people in the rear of the plane to the two lavatories at the back – something for Singapore Airlines to think about?and so here I am dear reader, in Delhi and with an opportunity to join a group of my academic colleagues on a tour of Delhi but unable to do so because I cannot travel too far from a loo for any length of time. Thanks Vinnies! (not)

…. so what happened to the care and the caring?

St Vincent's Hospital (Vinnies), in Darlinghurst, Sydney, has a long-held, hard-earned and well-deserved reputation for the quality of its care and its caring. However, its Emergency Department on last Friday night was, in this humble writer's view, dear reader, a cesspit of cynical disregard, characterised by a desultory and incomplete triage investigation of me by one nurse, and the pompous refusal to review the history by another (“I might have a look at your papers in a minute”), which saw me walk out of the hospital in disgust at the cavalier disregard for my well-being some three and a half hours after I arrived (I add quickly at this point that a subsequent visit to another hospital some little time later resulted in my being given two infusions of intravenous antibiotics and a further oral dose to be going on with). I write this blog on what is now Sunday morning, Delhi time, with a flight to Delhi via Singapore, and a thirty hour period of shivering shakes and regular (constant) visits to the loo (punctuated by the grunting and groaning that accompanies a severe urinary tract infection), in between. A day and a half later, I am no less disgusted by the failure of basic standards of care that I experienced, and so I write about them here.

My story begins on Thursday morning last (6th December) when, as I had indicated in an earlier blog, it was my “visiting the doctors” day. First thing Thursday morning, it was off to a day surgery in Westmead so that my urologist could find his way into my wallet through my rectum, by performing a trans-rectal biopsy of my “monster” prostate gland (his description), and through my urethra, by performing a cystoscopy at the same time (two for one while he had me knocked out; that’s a joke, Andrew). “Sleepies” from 8.00am to after 9.00am (during which time the procedures were carried out), tea and couple of slices of raisin toast, then home for an hour before I headed to the endocrinologist for the annual check - losing more than 10kg, and having consistently lower blood sugar levels for a number of months, was rewarded with a significant reduction in my diabetes medication. Hip hooray for me and I was on my way to the city to continue my engagement with the ANZAM conference and meet up with Bev and Katy from Emerald.

Thursday morning was the third time in the last several years I have had the same biopsy procedure done. The first time, under local anaesthetic, resulted in my first dose of “iatrogenic septicaemia” (combined with the urinary tract infection (UTI) and the painful and exhausting attempts at urination for several days afterward), despite the dose of antibiotics that I had begun taking before the procedure and continued taking thereafter. The second time, in September this year, was done under general anaesthetic and a prophylactic intravenous dose of antibiotics administered at the time of the procedure was apparently sufficient to prevent the iatrogenic results that accompanied the first procedure (see the blog titled “Cute terms that doctors use” for an explanation of the term “iatrogenic”). The anaesthetist on this occasion was determined to make sure that there were no iatrogenic effects and mentioned before I went “under” that, as well as the intravenous dose, he would also give me a prescription for an oral antibiotic to make doubly sure. Unfortunately, I realised later in the day that, when I left the surgery, I did so without the prescription (if it had been prepared, because it wasn’t proffered). Still, based on the previous experience, and with lots to do during the rest of the day and evening for the ANZAM conference, I got on with the business of the business, confident all would be OK.

A good afternoon at the Conference, with Bev and Katy turning up from the ANZMAC conference in New Zealand ready for work and we were off to the Conference dinner (like most dinners, a not unpleasant experience, with rubber chicken, hot bread rolls and cold mineral water). We took our leave from the dinner early and went for a stroll down to the Rocks so that Bev and Katy could experience the Opera House from the other side of Circular Quay (where I think you get the best view) and then around under the Harbour Bridge to Pier One. A convivial time there, where Katy and Bev decided my Yorkshire accent was probably worth a 7/10 (well they are Yorkshire lasses after all) and we were off back to the conference hotel, walking all the way in the absence of a vacant taxi that could not be secured for love or money.

Friday was the closing day of the conference where, although the conference continued in full swing till late in the afternoon, it was time for us to pack up the goodies and take our leave as exhibitors. Bev and Katy were booked on a 5pm flight to Singapore and so they took their leave at 2.30pm to head out to the airport. I “manned the fort” until later in the afternoon – the courier came at the appointed time and took off with the Emerald regalia to be returned to their offices in Bingley, UK. It was about the middle of the afternoon when I got the first hint of the shivers to come and for the next couple of hours I was hoping against hope that my suspicions were incorrect (especially as I had to fly out to India the following morning).

By 7.30pm, it was clear to me that I was in the first throes of another dose of an iatrogenic illness, and I contacted the Concierge to see about getting access to the hotel doctor or a visit to one of the local medical centres. I was steered away from the hotel doctor on the basis of cost and a visit to the Darlinghurst Medical Centre was proposed. I hadn’t counted on trying to get a taxi on a Friday evening in Sydney on 7th December! After 10 minutes of fruitless effort on the part of the hotel staff, I hopped in a hire car (HC835, driver’s name Michael), who insisted that it was a minimum charge of $55. I figured I would have him there for a reasonable time and, in the circumstances, as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. A trip down to the Medical Centre, a script for Keflex in hand, off to the chemist, back to the hotel would see me having an expensive ride but not too far over the top. Then the cruncher – it’s $55 each “flag fall”, says this guy, so when I get back in the car after visiting the clinic, he’s going to charge another $55 for the return ride (this is a $12.00 cab fare in each direction, a total cost of less than half the price of the one way fare he was trying to gouge me for!). The mongrel act of this bloke didn’t stop there because he decided he didn’t know where the Darlinghurst Medical Centre was and eventually dropped me at the door of the St Vincent’s Emergency Department – I was already feeling weak and vulnerable, not thinking as clearly as I might and so, with a grudging completion of the taxi docket, gingerly approached the triage counter.

I had already heard the triage nurse telling the person in front of me, in response to the question of “How long will it be?”, that some people had been waiting already up to 6 to 7 hours, so I wasn’t filled with any sense of well-being and confidence as I approached the counter. On the other hand, I knew that I just needed a script for the antibiotics and that, really, a quick conversation with the doctor and a writing of the script and I’d be away. Well ……..

Name? David Lamond
What’s the problem David? I had a trans rectal prostate biopsy yesterday morning. I’m developing all the signs and symptoms of a dose of septicaemia, and I just need a script for antibiotics so I can “nip it in the bud”.
Well come in here so I can check a few things (temp and pulse OK but BP 146/100, quite high for me, as I tried to explain, since yesterday postoperatively it was still a very healthy 110/70). We’ll get you to pee in this bottle and see what’s there (bottle duly filled, although it took a little while longer, because I’d not long been. That being said, I guess the good thing about “frequency and urgency” when it comes to urination is that another one will be along soon).

Well, have a seat and we’ll get to you. And that, dear reader, was the extent of the interaction I had with the triage nurse.

Over the next three hours, I was witness to a variety of the Kings Cross dross wandering in and out of the department, making one and another demand on the staff, the hospital and the world in general, a young woman who thought she might be pregnant and was bleeding, a lad who had been celebrating not too wisely but too well and had damaged his foot, and a guy who came in, told the triage team he’d run out of a prescription for something or other, and walked out about 15 minutes later with his prescription in hand. All this while the triage staff were regularly responding to enquiries with “We can’t tell you how long it will be because we don’t know when the next serious emergency is going to be brought in through the ambulance doors”.

I might say at this point that in my efforts to engage the staff initially, and even when engaging the pompous CNS (Clinical Nurse Specialist) in his special blue scrubs, I did not play the “Do you know who I am?” card. None of the “I’m a nurse, my wife’s a nurse, blah, blah” – I was just trying to engage the staff on a human level, but perhaps, for these particular individuals at least, that was too much to ask. I tried getting a blanket to wrap round my shoulders because the chills were really setting in by this stage. “Yes sure, darls”, came the reply, but I was still without the blanket 20 minutes later when she left the hospital at the end of her shift. I even sarcastically “thanked” her for the blanket, as she walked out the door past me (sitting in clear view without a blanket) and her response was an air-headed “You’re welcome!”

I had hoped that, with the change to a new staffing group, things might improve and, for a moment, they did – “I asked your colleague for a blanket about half-an hour ago, but it hasn’t arrived yet, do you think I might be able to get one, please?” Sure! and the blanket was duly provided. I went back to the triage counter about 3 times during the time I was there to ask about how much longer it might be before I was seen. The last time was the worst. The CNS in his special dark blue scrubs had just been wasting everyone’s time for the previous 10 minutes, trying to score cheap schoolboy debating points with a thought-disordered junkie, when I approached the counter and said “Entertaining as this is, I really need to get seen and get going; can you tell me how long it might be?” “Well, there’s 9 people in front of you, so that’s at least 2 hours and then whatever emergencies come in, so probably 3 hours …” His matter of fact, almost dismissive response, was one offhand comment too many and I began to react. “So a case of iatrogenic septicaemia doesn’t count as an emergency any more? Or you probably haven’t got that far in the record keeping, given the desultory excuse for a triage examination I got when I arrived.” “I refuse to discuss the dynamics of your case.”. “Look, all I want is a script for Keflex and I’ll be on my way”. “We can’t do that, you have to wait your turn”. “Like the bloke who walked in earlier because he thought he had a supply of some medication but had run out, was able to leave 15 minutes later with his script?” “Well, I might review your case in a few minutes, if I have time” …. that was it for me, what was the point? In my physical state, I wasn’t up to trying to be civilised any longer with these uncivil people and walked out.

One can understand the reaction of nursing staff to drug disordered, personality disordered people like Melinda, who kicked a great glass crazing in the front door of the Emergency entrance (and insisted her Mum would ring all the TV current affairs programs to expose the lack caring experienced by her and her ilk), or Daniel, who came demanding a wheelchair to accommodate his bad back with all its steel rods and bolts, and then proceeded to try and throw the wheelchair through the triage nurse's station when he wasn't getting the attention he wanted as quickly as he required. I was glad as I observed their inappropriate, manipulative, thuggish behaviour, that I had given away the nursing role several decades ago and no longer had to be 'clinically correct' in my (covert) responses to them.

On the other hand, I was mightily unimpressed with my own treatment (which was, perhaps, a function, at least in part, of the daily exposure to the acts of (emotional and physical) bastardry committed by the Melindas and Daniels with whom they come in contact). A result of being overworked and underpaid? Well I can’t answer for the second part, but definitely not overworked on this shift by what was coming through the “walking wounded” door, as the boys and girls behind the glass had plenty of time to chat with each other gaily. I was sitting opposite the triage counter and able to observe (and hear) the exchanges.

I walked from Vinnie’s back towards Williams Street, hoping I could pick up a cab to take me back to the hotel, which I eventually did, at a cost of $10. I approached the hotel staff again and tried to get some sense about the hotel doctor, and the service was eventually contacted by the Duty Manager. I spoke to the doctor, explained the full story, and he wanted to charge me $300 for somebody to come and write me a prescription. I said, I can go to one of the suburban hospitals and back for a lot less than that, and his response, unsurprising by this stage, dear reader, was “That’s a good idea”. And so it was.

I found my way to the Ryde Hospital where, after a much better triage experience (by this stage my temp had risen to 38C, although I’m sure they would have found blood and protein in the urine sample I provided at Vinnie’s, but there, I think, they were just trying to dismiss me as a “big girl’s blouse”, unable to deal with the “expected” side effects of the procedure) and a full history taking by the registrar, I had inserted an IV catheter for the purposes of drawing blood for blood tests and giving me a couple of hits of IV antibiotics. The contrast with my Vinnie's experience could not have been more stark. I had joked with a friend earlier in the night that I would have to get sicker to be seen at Vinnies - I guess by the time I got to Ryde ... I was!

I waited for the results of the blood tests and the registrar showed them to me to confirm that the IV antibiotics were the correct response to what was a very high white cell count (the clear marker of infection). He also gave me the Keflex I needed for the urinary tract infection, taking my mobile number in case the liver function tests and kidney tests he also ran revealed anything untoward (fortunately not). I left him with my thanks, not just for his competence but also for his humanity. From Ryde, it was a dash back to the hotel, quick packing and checking out, so that I could get to the airport in time to check in for my flight to Delhi. It’s ironic that the only time I’ve been sick in the last couple of months is when I have returned to Sydney from India.

Cute terms that doctors use

Since my nursing days back in the 70s, I’ve always been tickled by the capacity of our medical doctors as wordsmiths, coming up with words to describe every situation in which they find themselves as medical practitioners. Two that have struck as of more than passing amusement are “idiopathic” and “iatrogenic”, used when we talk about aetiology (causes of illness or disease). The former (I first heard it in relation to idiopathic epilepsy), refers to illnesses simply “of unknown origin”. In other words, if you have a problem, and we don’t know what’s causing it, we describe it as “idiopathic” in origin. Iatrogenic is the term applied to the kind of illness or disease that is caused by the ministrations of the physicians themselves – when I carry out a particular procedure and it results in illness or disease, we preface the description with “iatrogenic” (although not too many doctors I know are keen to use the term). I raise this, dear reader, as a kind of preliminary blog to the next blog I’m writing, because I’m currently recovering from iatrogenic septicaemia. More, I’m suffering effects exacerbated by the failure of several “nurse specialists” to properly deal with my condition.

and the band played on ...

It's Wednesday evening I'm still not doing a very good job of keeping up with my blog commitments, dear reader. Since I began and left unfinished the last entry on Monday evening, I've spent Tuesday getting in to the City to attend the ANZAM conference at the Sofitel Wentworth; set up the booth that I'm staffing on behalf of Emerald Group publishing and put in a full day today, tending the booth, answering enquiries and catching up with a lot of colleagues who are part of the Australian connection. Home in Carlingford this evening as I have to head off to a local day surgery first thing tomorrow morning for a surgical procedure, before I head back into the City to get back to the conference. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy being home with the family.

Lest the following photo get lost in the melange of the moaning and groaning that I am prone to in the next couple of blogs (yes, this is a bit of reverse engineering folks, back filling after the event), I've included a picture of Bev Foster (far right), Katy Oddy (middle) and myself at the ANZAM conference (say cheese!)

my city of Sydney ....

When he was host of a Tonight show on TV in Sydney in the 1960s, one of Tommy Leonetti's claims to fame was the recording of a song called "My City of Sydney" (a tribute song in the vein of "(I Left My Heart in) San Francisco" by Tony Bennett). As I sat down to write today's blog (yes, dear reader, I have been remiss this week, with nothing on the page since last Sunday, well Monday - apologies I will try to do better) back home in Sydney for the first time in more than two months, it is the song title that came immediately to mind as the title.

I'm writing towards the end of the day (7.30pm Sydney time), although it still feels like the middle of the afternoon (as it would be if I was still in Kochi and operating on Indian time at 2.00pm, 5 and 1/2 hours behind, with summer time in operation here). In fact it feels a little more like much earlier in the day, as I managed to sleep in until 1.30pm, so I haven't been awake for long at all. It's been great to see Kerry (who's sleeping now, ahead of night duty tonight and tomorrow night), Fiona (who has already locked on to the Hershey bars I brought for her) and Luke (albeit briefly as he has worked at Taste of Tuscany last night and again tonight).

a peculiar Sunday evening ... we're ladies; we do ladies' things

As is his wont on Sunday afternoons, Ajith arrived promptly at 4.45pm to take me to the English language mass at the Infant Jesus Church on the edge of the High Court precinct. We were treated to an American English mass today, courtesy of a visiting Bostonian priest, who offered us another variation on the pronunciation of "God", "body" and such, in what was an otherwise simple and moving experience.

Again, as is our wont after mass, Ajith took me for a "mini" shop, as we tried to find a nailbrush (I wash after every meal (and before every meal) of course, but I find that, no matter how hard I try to get those last crumbs and stains out of the fingernails, I'm not able to do so). Ajith expected it would be the case, and it was the case, that we weren't able to get such a "special lady's tool" at a mere supermarket, but I did pick up a few other bits and pieces (including the mossie zapper refills that are so necessary for dealing with the time between about 6pm and 8pm each evening).

As usual, I was in a calm and reflective mood after mass but my antennae were sent bristling by the furtive behaviour of the cashier who tried to give me Rs.119 instead of Rs.129, hoping I wouldn't notice. I quietly questioned the change and she immediately apologised for her "gaff". All she needed to do was give me the Rs.10 and I would be on my way, but it was turned into a saga which included an attempt to give me a new receipt with the Rs.10 deducted to match the amount in my hand. I stood my ground requesting and eventually demanding the correct change so that I could be on my way. What a fuss over 30c you might say, dear reader, and I guess it was. As I said to Ajith in the car, if you're going to try and "diddle" people, do it big! I gather though, if the cashier can manage Rs.10 here and Rs.5 there, it all adds up.

We then drove down the "ladies street" to the shop Ajith hoped was open, and it was. Here we entered the shop of carefully ordered "ladies items" (again, apparently men have no use for a nail brush). We found a nail brush easily with the shop assistant, who then went looking for another (presumably more expensive) and was "deaf" to my pleas that the one he had originally located was fine and I didn't need another (yes, all the shop assistants here in the ladies' shop were polite not unattractive young men ... go figure). Then it was would you like a hair brush, sir? One look at my photo will tell you how unnecessary one of those is, so I'm not sure whether he was looking for an additional sale or just taking the mickey (having a joke at my expense). Anyway, this was somewhat reminiscent of Little Britain and the "ladies", who do "ladies' things". A most peculiar evening, dear reader.

members of the Lamond "menagerie"

One of the joys of walking in the park is the opportunity to watch the squirrels flit about, as they look for the scraps left behind by the other denizens. They compete for those scraps with the crows, who are everywhere but, not surprisingly, spend time in and around the park feeding off the visitors.

The shots below show Syd and Cecily Squirrel (yeah, I know kitsch, but cute!) individually and together, along with Russell Crow(e) (yeah, I know, even worse), and Rusty with the family.





















I don't know whether the other folks who walk in the park find the squirrels as cute as me, dear reader, but I think they're a lot of fun to watch, and I'm glad I had the camera with me today to get these particular shots (I can get Rusty and his mates any time).

I also spent some time as I walked reflecting on the impermanence of life, after my travels yesterday. It was a reminder about the importance of recognising that life is not a dress rehearsal - this is what we're dealt and we get on with doing what we can with it. So later today, I will join Ajith at the English language mass down near the High Court building and then get on with the business of ensuring that, when our ad is shown in the Times of India tomorrow, people have a functioning website to visit as a result.

Saturday in the Park

well, Sunday actually, but who am I to spoil a song title?

With today being devoted to getting the website "right", I took the opportunity this morning to get another walk in the park down at Shubash Bose Park. Between obeying doctors orders and travelling to Phoenix last week, I hadn't been to the park for about a fortnight (Sulemain was sufficiently concerned to ring the School last week while I was away to find out what had happened to me, which was nice of him). I took the camera just in case and came away with some shots that are worth sharing, both of themselves, and for comparison with the early shots when I arrived.

In the snaps above, dear reader, you see the work in the park first when they were digging for the pipeline from the harbour to the oil distribution centre and today when they've (pretty much) filled in the hole. The three photos below give a sense of where the work in Yyattil Junction (cnr Hospital Road and Chittoor Road, where I live) has developed to. It's been 12 months since the work began, so I suppose there would come a point when the work would be done - that point seems to be being reached, but Jayaraj the auto man reckons another 12 months to go.

So things do happen in Kochi and development does take place, but just not at the pace that might be expected in other places.

In that regard, I had something of a bizarre conversation with Ajith and Raju over some employment conditions I was trying to come to terms with - "in station" and "out of station" refer to whether you're in the office/city or not, while "bata" allowance is our (the Australian) per diem. I found this like something out of a 19th century British East India company listing (which it probably was). It's right up there with the idea that "manager" is the senior term and "executive" is the title you give to a junior member of staff - well there you go.

life is what happens to you ....

..... while you're busy making other plans.

So said John Lennon in the song "Beautiful Boy" and yesterday was a very good example of it. Indeed the writing of this blog is a further example as I had written a couple of hundred words in this blog several hours ago and had moved onto other things before I discovered that my bon mots (or perhaps not so bon mots) had disappeared in the interim. So I re-present them here.

Yesterday, Saturday, was to be the "website" day, when we finalised all the aspects of our website ready to receive the flood of enquiries we anticipate in response to our Times of India ads and I arrived in the office ready and energised for the task. However, with the arrival of Raju and Subho, I was given the sad news of Jay's mother's passing, at the family home in Thrissur (this was not unexpected, but one is never ready to lose a parent).

As a mark of respect, and a want to offer our condolences to the family in person, as is Indian custom, we took a taxi to Thrissur, via the flower shop to purchase the wreaths that we were to lay with Mrs Kandampully's body. It was only necessary for us to stay a short time (only the close family would proceed to the final ceremony and cremation). With our respects paid and our condolences duly expressed, we headed back to Kochi, stooping briefly for a quick meal.

Kochi to Thrissur is a distance of about 73km (Sydney City to Springwood) and would have taken about two hours to navigate on Sydney roads. We were on Indian roads, however, and subject to the "discipline" of other Indian drivers. In consequence, we departed KiBS at 10.45 am and returned at 5.00pm, with not much left of the day to do the work we had originally planned. And so it is with life, also described by another John of my acquaintance (John Hoskin, the Uniting Church minister at Carlingford for a time), who said "Life is an experience like getting on the plane for Italy and arriving in Istanbul". I'm content with our decision to head to Thrissur - it was the right thing to do.

"spicy" is just another relative term, I guess

After another long day slaving over a hot website, I gratefully accepted Raju's and Subho's invitation to join them for dinner in the evening. I was conscious that Subho had been below par for much of the day, and he asked as we were leaving the office if it was possible to find "other than spicy food" in Kochi. I thought of Gokul and its vegetarian delights as the obvious choice, on the basis that you could as spicy or as bland as you like. Imagine my surprise though when we arrived and, in the process of ordering, Subho says "Ah, chilli gobi - just what I need". I know my tastebuds are pretty "spicy" for a westerner and so I wouldn't think too much of chilli gobi normally, but after Subho's performance earlier I confess to surprise. Even more surprised was I when he polished it off and was satisfied that it was nice and "bland" for his needs. I told him that he was about to become part of blog lore and this is me keeping that promise.

that poster!

You might recall dear reader that, in my blog before I headed off to Phoenix , I made reference to the CPI(M) local elections and congress being held over 9,10 and 11 November (in case you've forgotten, dear reader, the CPI(M) is the Communist Party of India (Marxist) and is the party currently in government in Kerala). I had also noted that, as a show of "power", the streets throughout Kochi had been festooned in streamers, banners, and posters, including one most incongruous one on the way out to the Lakeshore Hospital, with Gandhiji juxtaposed with Saddam Hussein and Yasser Arafat. As it happens, I was able to get a photo of said poster and I attach it herewith.

As I was taking the photos, I was approached by a local guy, Salim, who was keen to tell me how disgusted he was that the poster had even been conceived, no mind actually produced and erected. I have spoken to the Party Secretary and the Minister about this, he said. It is outrageous to group a man who never shed a single drop of blood (Gandhiji) with those terrorists and murderers (Arafat and Saddam), he continued.

The "explanation" he received was that they were grouped together to express an anti-American feeling. Salim remained unconvinced at the "logic" of this and was insistently apologetic. We know better than this, he added. Gandhiji should never be pictured with "them". I don't know whether his views were a reflection of the general populace (or indeed, whether they were even aware of the apparent incongruity of it all). At least there was someone with whom to share the rage.

what a difference a day makes .....

well 10 days really, but I think the continuing trail of song titles is worthy of maintaining. The first two photos you see here were taken day before I left for Phoenix, Arizona, for the Decision Sciences Institute (DSI) conference, and the morning after I returned (following a 43 hour door to door travelling time, from the time I left the hotel in Phoenix till the time I dropped my bags inside the front door of the apartment in Kochi).

It's good to know the work was continuing apace while I was away (not that my presence or absence does or should make any difference, but it's still good to know). The second photo shows the work that has taken place in the time I was away, while the first photo is part of the continuing chronicle on the Indian approach to OHS (occupational health & safety) on a building site. I can only look on and shake my head at sights such as the one above.

I had a much shorter travelling time to Phoenix (only 32 hours door to door) and arrived on the Thursday evening ready for a event filled four days. Friday was indeed a good day, out at the Arizona State University (ASU), presenting several workshops on "getting published" for Emerald Group Publishing to groups of doctoral students and early career researchers. The first of the sessions was recorded (audio and video) for a podcast and I'm looking forward to seeing the end result (Matt, the guy doing the recording, has a great reputation for the quality of his podcasts, but I constitute a test in terms of being made to look good (he said with an appropriate level of self-deprecation) so, if he can do so, he'll be the real star). The folks at ASU were a warm and hospitable lot and I had a thoroughly enjoyable time. I wish the same could be said of the DSI experience.

The first clue came when I arrived, and logged on to the conference website, having alerted the DSI folks a week earlier that, among other things, the University affiliation I had been given (Big Pond) was actually part of an old Australian email address, and found that nothing had been amended. When I registered in the afternoon after the great ASU experience, the day was spoiled by discovering that, not only was the "getting published" session I was supposed to be doing not listed in the hard copy of the conference program, I didn't even appear as a delegate (despite having registered back in September). I raised these issues with the conference chair, who was suitably apologetic, but, given that the conference pack was full of separate fliers advertising the "getting published" sessions run on behalf of the DSI's own publications, I couldn't help but think they didn't want the "competition". I wish they'd told me that earlier - we could have saved some money and me the sturm und angst of 75 hours worth of door-to-door travelling.

Anyway, despite the best efforts of the organisers, I still managed to attract 10 people to the session on Sunday afternoon (including three who I was pleased to present with Emerald awards for the quality of their publications in Emerald journals; their photos appear in this blog as well, with me in tow (see below) - now you can see why Matt will have his work cut out to produce a podcast that won't scare people (he said with another self-deprecating grin)). The folks who turned up were appreciative and interested and I remain appreciative of their enthusiasm and participation.

In the interim and on the Monday before I began the long journey back to Kochi, I was able to get on with a variety of tasks, including finishing off a book review for the Journal of Management History I had started in the plane on the way over, so the time wasn't a total waste conference wise. I also got to see some not unattractive sights out of my hotel room window (Arizona is basically a desert and Phoenix is a city built in the desert, lending itself to some unusual sights, but also some pretty ones). I've captured a couple of those sights in the following photos (this is a real memory hungry blog, eh Google?)