Further On Up The Road…
“I am very sorry sir, but the dog will have to remain in his cage until you have physically removed him from the airport premises. We cannot risk disease and contamination. Those are the rules.”
Thus spake the customs officer, and so it had to be. Disease and contamination – he was kidding, right? I could hear 1,276,893 mosquitoes taunting me with giddy giggles as they jostled in line for their late night continental buffet at the baggage claim area in Bangalore’s HAL International Airport. I was tempted to ask the man whether his concern was in fact directed at infections that Simba may contract in this environment – ha ha ha – but thought better of it. There would be ample opportunities for sarcasm and frustrated outbursts in the weeks ahead.
So instead, four of us able bodied men dutifully and unsteadily carried Simba’s crate, with a bewildered Simba in it, into the warm Bangalore night, and there he was ceremoniously given his freedom, watched by a brooding street mongrel out for a midnight whiz, and a few hundred human spectators.
It was October 5th 2003, and we had arrived.
We had had our doubts about the India assignment – I’ve said that before. The experience until then had been a borderline C/C+. The house hunting thing had not gone well. I had found us an apartment on one of my combination reconnaissance/business trips, and Lloyd, our relocation agent had moved quickly to botch the deal, blaming (obviously) a crooked landlord.
Nervous, we all flew out – from Seattle to Bangalore – to see what appeared to be a promising home. Lloyd had sold it to us hugely over the phone, and my mom and dad had checked it out, giving it a strong thumbs up. It was indeed a lovely house, except that it apparently rented as we walked the fifty meters from the driveway to the front door – so said Lloyd. As it turned out, not only had it rented during that short walk, but a dozen painters had also raced in ahead of us, and were busy a-painting the place (for the new tenant, no doubt) as we peeked in. This was bullshit!
We began to freak out, just a little. I mean, I had signed the offer, we were committed to the India gig. But first things first: I took Lloyd out behind the tool shed (or whatever is metaphorically appropriate) and issued the warranted spanking. And Lloyd responded apologetically with the universal Indian head wobble – which, to the uninitiated (yours truly, for example) means “Yes, I hear every single word you said, it is crystal clear. But it does not necessarily mean that I can, will, or intend to, act on your words. In fact, I may not even understand the language you are talking in. However, with an attentive, energetic and well coordinated head wobble, it is my experience that you will stop speaking soon.”
Sigh.
And so we drove, at Lloyd’s bleating insistence, just a little further down the road, to Whitefield – home of the Sai Baba, snakes, and soon, us – and got our first glimpse of Adarsh Palm Meadows, the preferred destination of discerning expatriates from every corner of the world.
To Be Continued...
Thus spake the customs officer, and so it had to be. Disease and contamination – he was kidding, right? I could hear 1,276,893 mosquitoes taunting me with giddy giggles as they jostled in line for their late night continental buffet at the baggage claim area in Bangalore’s HAL International Airport. I was tempted to ask the man whether his concern was in fact directed at infections that Simba may contract in this environment – ha ha ha – but thought better of it. There would be ample opportunities for sarcasm and frustrated outbursts in the weeks ahead.
So instead, four of us able bodied men dutifully and unsteadily carried Simba’s crate, with a bewildered Simba in it, into the warm Bangalore night, and there he was ceremoniously given his freedom, watched by a brooding street mongrel out for a midnight whiz, and a few hundred human spectators.
It was October 5th 2003, and we had arrived.
We had had our doubts about the India assignment – I’ve said that before. The experience until then had been a borderline C/C+. The house hunting thing had not gone well. I had found us an apartment on one of my combination reconnaissance/business trips, and Lloyd, our relocation agent had moved quickly to botch the deal, blaming (obviously) a crooked landlord.
Nervous, we all flew out – from Seattle to Bangalore – to see what appeared to be a promising home. Lloyd had sold it to us hugely over the phone, and my mom and dad had checked it out, giving it a strong thumbs up. It was indeed a lovely house, except that it apparently rented as we walked the fifty meters from the driveway to the front door – so said Lloyd. As it turned out, not only had it rented during that short walk, but a dozen painters had also raced in ahead of us, and were busy a-painting the place (for the new tenant, no doubt) as we peeked in. This was bullshit!
We began to freak out, just a little. I mean, I had signed the offer, we were committed to the India gig. But first things first: I took Lloyd out behind the tool shed (or whatever is metaphorically appropriate) and issued the warranted spanking. And Lloyd responded apologetically with the universal Indian head wobble – which, to the uninitiated (yours truly, for example) means “Yes, I hear every single word you said, it is crystal clear. But it does not necessarily mean that I can, will, or intend to, act on your words. In fact, I may not even understand the language you are talking in. However, with an attentive, energetic and well coordinated head wobble, it is my experience that you will stop speaking soon.”
Sigh.
And so we drove, at Lloyd’s bleating insistence, just a little further down the road, to Whitefield – home of the Sai Baba, snakes, and soon, us – and got our first glimpse of Adarsh Palm Meadows, the preferred destination of discerning expatriates from every corner of the world.
To Be Continued...
posted by Krish @ Friday, March 03, 2006
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