No good deed shall go unpunished

Good guys, honest people, always get screwed, and not in a good way. My life is usually SNAFU, so I am pretty used to life’s ups and especially it’s downs. But these past few months have had a rather high density of incidents, even for me.

Back in mid-August things started out pretty good. I got a transfer to California. I was thinking that I would cash in on the housing crash there. Some of the reports are way overrated BTW – it is not possible to buy a home at 10 cents on the dollar, but it is quite possible to buy a home at 40 cents on the dollar. The day after I put an offer on a house I got fired. Don’t want to get into the particulars right now; might air out the dirty laundry later. Basically, I spoke my mind, and my boss and I did not see eye-to-eye. If only I would have kept my mouth shut, and just kept on keeping on like the rest of the sheep, I still would have been gainfully employed.

While all that was going on, being in California, I had to get a car. As with the house market, the car industry was hit just as hard if not harder. So I was shopping round for a bargain. Found a nice 2002 Volvo V70XC, with little over 50k miles, for little over $12k including all taxes and registration. All the fixin’s too, you could still see the imprints of the child-seats in the leather back seats of the car – obviously a pampered mommy mobile. Everyone we spoke to told us that Volvos are very reliable cars, so we went for it. Being a nice guy, I even tried to make it before the end of the month so the dealership makes their quota. Two weeks later, the transmission fell apart! Almost two weeks and $4000 after that, we had a new transmission in it. The mechanic told us, that we had better drive it as much as possible, and bring it back after about 1000 miles for him to give it a quick look over. Only 325 miles later, that transmission started going! At least this time it was under warranty. However, by this time, we decided that the economy is not going to improve any time soon, and so we are going back to Canada. The landlord called from Hawaii to tell me she will not be able to refund me the $1500 deposit because I am breaking the lease, and so we were just holding out until the car got fixed, this time by Volvo personally, or until we get forcefully evicted, whichever comes first. The car won.

When crossing the border with the car, I got another shocker. I had once previously brought a car from the US to Canada. It was a while back, and I remember very little: I showed up, paid the GST, they filled out a bunch of paperwork, and I went along on my way. This time however they wanted me to prove that I am paying the GST for my car. I actually had to prove that I do not have some odd fetish about paying taxes for someone else’s property. The only way to prove that is with an original title. I had paid off the car only like a week earlier, and asked to have the title mailed to my Canadian address (the mailing, normally takes several weeks or months). So now I am screwed! I had to call my dad, luckily only 3 hours away, to come and pick up us and my crummy stuff, drive my car back over to the American side, get ridiculed by more customs guards, and park it in a field behind the nearest bar for $21/week. From the number of cars parked out there, I am not the only unfortunate. If I had instead told the customs officials that I am only visiting my parents for Xmas, everything would have been fine. I still had what definitely appeared to be a valid work permit for the US, along with all the necessary documentation to get it. I could have driven the car on American (cheaper) registration for another 8 months, thereby completely avoiding something like $1300 in import duties because I have owned the car for less than 1 year. A year later I could have saved some more of the $1200 GST (aka: Gouge and Screw Tax) as the car would have been another year older. I could have avoided all the hassle and more than half the costs, if only I had told a little white lie. The best thing is, that if I do honestly get a job down in the States again and take the car back there, I will probably not be able to get any of the taxes back!

Update 12-01-09: Got the paperwork for the car last Thursday. It came in an envelope that had a return address to the bank and not the DMV. It has to be faxed to the Americans 72 hours in advance; did that. Went to pick up the car today. No problems on the American side. They made me go get the car first; didn’t even have to dig it out of a snow bank, and it started on the first try!!! The Canadians were A-holes as usual. At the drive-through window they asked me how much the car was. I could not remember, pulled out the bill of sale, and scanned through the half-meter long (I am not exaggerating here) sheet, written in size 9 font. I picked one of the numerous “total price” values and rattled that off to the cute chick. I was then told to come in, to fill out the paperwork and pay the import taxes. Inside it’s all guns, bullet-proof vests and too much testosterone – sheesh. The best thing: the chick running the cash register – no gun, no vest! The guy is scanning through my paperwork, and asks: “How come it says here that the car cost [names some number that is about $400 higher]?” Note that this is a $400 difference on a 12-thousand-dollar car. I told him, that I was not sure. “Well, you need to tell us exactly.” I looked at the paper, and told him that I am sorry and I must have made a mistake, “there are, after all, a lot of numbers on this paper,” I pleaded. The 25-year old kid looks me straight in the eye, and says: “You need to know exactly what the car cost. When you gave us the price the first time, that is the only chance you get. You basically lied to us. I could now reposes the car, you could be fined $10,000, and you could be jailed for 10 years!” I wanted to smack him upside the head for being rude to the elderly, but I realized that that would have been more of an insult to me than to him.

As far as I can tell, the world’s longest undefended border works only for terrorists. Every time I cross it, I feel nervous, and all the people wearing bullet-proof vests and guns at their hip are far from friendly. On our recent “visit”, my daughter noticed a bunch of them standing around a computer laughing. She asked me what they are doing. I told her that they are probably watching some funny movie on the computer. She said that maybe she could do a job like that when she grows up. I did not want to tell her in front of the dozen or so armed officers bored out of their minds, that she can already do a job like that at 9 years old! The North America Free Trade Agreement is some lunatic’s work of fiction, as there is nothing free about it that I can see. The only benefit, is that Canadians are allowed to go work there at a cost of $50/year, as opposed to something like $450/3 years for other nationalities. As for moving goods back and forth for free, or some layman going down there (or coming up here for that matter) to just get any job – forget it!

I often ask myself: Am I actually doing my children any justice by teaching them to be good, law-abiding citizens? Would I not be preparing them better for that cruel world if I were to teach them to lie, cheat, and steal at every opportunity?

Update 16-01-09: I have been corrected. It’s not “lie, cheat, and steal”, it’s apparently called “being diplomatic” and in that case it’s OK.

I want a job at AT&T…

…testing, because they don’t have to do squat! Here is a transcript, paraphrased, of a conversation I had with a couple of computers the other day.

“Hello valued customer. This is a computer programmed by a mumbling idiot. If you would like to add credit to your account, please press 1, …”

“1″

“Thank You. if you would like to use a credit card press 1, if you would like to use a gift card press 2, ….”

“2″

“Thank You. Please enter the huge long number on the back of the card.”

“1234567…………890″

“Thank You. If you entered 1234567…………890, please pres 1.”

“WTF? I dunno, either I’m gonna get lucky, or you’re gonna make me do it again, no? 1″

“Thank You. Now please enter you phone number.”

“Say what? I just got this phone, I don’t have the number memorized! And anyway, are you telling me you can’t even figure out the number that is calling you?“

“I’m sorry, I did not understand. Please enter you phone number.”

“There is the 611 number that always not only knows what my number is, but that I am also getting short on credit, and is always so helpful.” hang-up, dial 611

“Hello, this is a computer programmed by a complete moron! But at least complete moron programmed me with voice recognition.” pause “I see that your credit is low, would you like to take care of that?”

“Yes.”

“Great, would you like to use a credit card, or a gift card, or …”

“Gift card.”

“That’s great. Please enter the extremely long number on the back of the card.”

“1234567…………890″

“Thank You. Did you enter 1234567…………890?”

“Yes.”

“Oh wait. I just realized that I can’t recharge your account from here. But I can transfer you to the computer programmed by mumbling idiot. Please note that he will require you not only to re-enter that gigantic number again, but also to enter your own phone number.”

My Last Days of the Celtic Tiger

Apologies if you’re expecting some summary of the play, but I thought the title fitting for my situation.

I have only a few days left in Dublin and last night I took one last stroll on the Boardwalk along the Liffey. I thought about past two years of my life. On the personal side of things, completely unrelated to Ireland, things did not work out as I had hoped or even anticipated; but life is like that sometime – that’s what keeps it interesting. Overall I am very glad of my time in Ireland, but after two years it is time for me to move on. Ireland is beautiful, but it’s a country that “only a mother could love.”

One thing that I must clear up. Lots of people have mentioned that the weather, specifically the rain, is what forced me out. That is not true. I must be probably the only person on this island that did not mind the weather. I actually like a cooler climate. I like that once in a while it rains, it gives you constant green grass and (afterwards) clear blue skies. Joking aside: my top three are at the bottom of the following list.

Things I will miss

• Guinness! Unfortunately, the black stuff does not travel. Just as I no longer drink Sam Adams outside of Boston, or Staropramen outside of Prague, I don’t think I will enjoy a Guinness outside of Dublin. It’s not just the local atmosphere, it actually tastes different.
• Irish people. I am normally no good with people, but Ireland was the easiest place for me to make new friends – I don’t know what that says about the Irish. They are some of the most tolerant and friendly people that I have met anywhere.
• Lots of very kool things to see. I thought it was great, that most (not all!) of the historic sites have free admission and you can actually climb all over them. The kids especially loved this.
• The country. Dingle peninsula, Wexford, Giant’s Causeway, and others. Apparently I have seen more of Ireland than most Irish. Sorry I did not make it out to Achill Island, but I guess I gotta save something for next time?
• For their size (of the country, not talkin’ ’bout obesity here) the Irish will not be just swept under a carpet. The recent Lisbon Treaty vote in Ireland proved that they are a serious contributor to the EU, and they will voice their opinion.

Things I will do without

• Bulmers – sorry Paul, but this stuff is mangy.
• Irish drivers. One thing that the Irish are very bad at, and they will be the first to admit it, is driving. Horse and cart, not a problem. Once you remove the reins, and replace them with a wheel and pedals, that becomes a huge conundrum. The department of transportation tries to help them out a bit, with things like putting traffic lights at roundabouts, which only confuses the heck out of foreigners. Even parking is a mystery to the Irish. As far as I can tell, the rules are as follows. No lines on the road: it’s a free for all. White lines along the side, usually painted in the shape of a box: paid parking. Once you pay, do not let yourself be restricted by the white lines, be creative, see if you can cover as many lines as possible with the car, after all you paid for it! Single-yellow line along the side of the road: no parking. Double-yellow: seriously, no parking! OK, you can park here, but only if all the available space designated by the single-yellow line is already taken up by parked cars. Zig-zag yellow: this time we really, really, really mean it, please don’t park here … for too long. Exemptions are: mamys wielding an SUV who really have talk to their girl friend about the fabulous new sweater they just saw in the store for sale yesterday when coming home from a Mary’s house oh and did you see how much weight she gained….. Rich snooty people driving expensive Mercedes. Anyone who would be inconvenienced by walking the extra distance. And lastly, anyone who is just plain lazy.
• Constant wailing of alarms in the background. Several people tried to convince me, that house and car alarms are a theft deterrent, while standing in front of a bank, alarms blaring, police cars idly driving by as if nothing is happening. They were unsuccessful at convincing me. Alarms in Ireland, or at least in Dublin, serve only one purpose that I can see: very effective noise pollution.
• Dublin sidewalks. They actually created concrete tiles, that are slippery when wet (did I mention it rains here often?), and they build the entire sidewalks in Dublin centre out of this stuff!?!? Not sure what is wrong with pouring concrete on the spot and then ruffing up the surface before it sets, but someone in Dublin apparently thought they could invent a rounder wheel.
• Irish cost of living. It’s an island, it’s out of the way, it is expensive. Buying a new house here today, is simply out of the question.
• Irish medical system. Don’t get sick here! You will be worse off coming out of a hospital, then going in. Visit to a GP: €50 on the spot. Visit to a specialist: €150 just to see you; don’t forget that a GP had to refer you … for a €50 of course. The Irish think it’s a good deal, when the insurance kicks in €30 for that visit! I actually got given out to about bringing healthy children to doctor for an annual checkup! “We don’t see healthy children here, we don’t have time to see all the sick children!”
• Irish school system. It’s the 21^st century people, there is no place for the church in a public school system! Schools are overcrowded and underfunded, staff is young and inexperienced.

Slan agus beannacht

Bus Átha Cliath – bring a crash helmet and swim trunks

So I recently moved a little further away from the DART (and a little further away from the coast). The choice was financially necessitated, not a voluntary one. By coincidence, although anticipated, my work office moved as well, also further away from the DART. The total physical distance between me and work now is approximately the same as it was before, however I am forced into a new form of transport: the Dublin Bus. I won’t even get into the three months I have left on my DART annual pass. The DART is like VIP Royal treatment compared to the Dublin Bus. My commute to work used to take approximately 1 hour 30 minutes door-to-door, out of which 1 hour was spent walking (by choice, ’cause I do need the exercise). Now my commute takes approximately the same 1 hour and 30 minutes, however my Slí na Sláinte is now less than 10 minutes!

The first thing that you will notice when getting on the bus, is the attitude of the driver. As I have stated many times before, the Irish IMHO are a wonderful people, extremely friendly, helpful, and generally very polite. The Dublin drivers (I don’t have experience with any other Irish city) are a major exception to this rule. These are some of the most bitter people you will ever meet. I am not sure if new employees have to go to special training to become assholes, or if during the hiring process they hand pick the most caustic people they can find, and then brainwash them to absolutely hate all of humanity. These fiends are then given a massive double-decker, and ordered to drive it as fast as possible skimming along the sidewalks crowded with pedestrians that have no sense of self-preservation!

As an added union benefit they have no timetable and no strict route to follow. Yes, they do have something published on their site. But in the morning on my way to work, like most other tax contributors, I’m not checking the Internet. Majority of the bus stops around Dublin are only marked with a yellow pole with the company emblem at the top – no indication of what bus actually stops there, where it goes, or what time it may get there. That’s because they get to make it up as they go along! If you want to see Dublin, screw the local travel agencies. Just take a bus someplace and (try to) take the same one back. In both directions you will get to see completely different sites. After doing a little research to find which buses go to where I now live, I discovered that “heck, the 41 goes up there.” There are, all together, six 41’s. However, besides the number they do not have much else in common. The plain 41 takes the longest route, and because it goes through the airport where there is a good possibility of meeting first time visitors to Dublin, this route has the most vile of the drivers. Then there are the 41a and 41b; after a month I still have not discovered where they go or where they stop. But I have seen both of them drive by, and with people on board, so I can only assume they stop at some point somewhere. Then there is the 41c, which actually ends up being the most convenient one for me as it often stops closest to my house. It also has the distinguishing feature that most of the passengers do not speak English. In Dublin this means it is frequented by cute Polish chicks, and nackers who may be Irish but certainly do not speak either of the official languages. At least to make things fair, the drivers on this route do not speak English either. Then there is the 41x, the XpressO. This is suppose to be the fastest way to get to Dublin centre; an assumption based on the restriction that this route must go through the Dublin tunnel, other than that the driver is actually actively encouraged to “make it up” as he goes. Unfortunately, the tunnel dumps the bus out on completely opposite side of the city centre then where the bus must go. The morning commute traffic ensures, that although the buses depart 10 minutes apart, they all get to the destination at exactly the same time! On the way back this bus does not take the tunnel, so it is actually faster getting home. To offset this, there are fewer 41x’s in the evening than in the morning. Lastly there is the 41n, the Nitelink. This bus takes all the drunks home after they get ejected from the pubs. It is the average of all the other 41’s in terms of its route, but the sum in terms of its cost to board. Also, volume discount tickets cannot be used on the Nitelink routes.

The other day, though, I had the best experience. My day started off with me sleeping right through my morning alarm … and continuing right through lunch. But I also slept through the heavy morning rainstorm. When I got on the bus I immediately noticed that the floors are particularly wet, significantly more so than the sidewalk outside. OK, so maybe the sun outside is drying the sidewalks faster than inside the bus? As I made it onto the upper deck, there was actually water running, not dripping, down the stairs – fuck, some idiot must have left the windows open overnight. By this time the bus was already moving along the road at a pretty good pace, so I did not spend too much time pondering the situation and made for a seat, unless I find myself on the floor as the driver dodges another cyclist. Sat down, the bus was almost empty, so I got a nice window seat. However, as the bus came to a stop at the next red light, a torrent of water washed over my feet from behind. I swear, there was double-digit inches of water on the upper deck! “Well you need to take one of them new buses, they don’t leak as much!”, a colleague told me afterwards. Now first off, I did not even realize that one has a choice of what model bus will come, and second this was a new bus. The floor of the upper deck is nicely convex shaped so that all water will stay upstairs and pool along the walls, and not go down the stairs except in the case of really creative manoeuvring on the driver’s part. To prove I’m not pulling your leg, I am including a short video I shot.

Warning: we apologize to our viewers for the poor quality of the upcoming video. It was shot by an incompetent amateur using his camera phone for the first time.

Just another day for Iarnród Éireann

That’s Irish Rail. First a little background for out-of-towners. The Dublin public transport is one of the worst in the civilized world: it’s expensive, inefficient, and unreliable. With the unexpected population boom due to the Celtic Tiger economy, the public transport system was caught off guard and is completely unable to cope with the volume of daily commuters. Now that the Celtic Tiger is dying, and foreigners are leaving the country, the system upgrades are finally getting caught up. However, it’s a work in progress.

A map of the stops should help with the following tale.

On my way home from work today the DART stopped somewhere between Grand Canal Dock and Pearse. It was an unusually sunny day, 19°, and as is usual most of the windows in the car were closed. After a few minutes wait, the friendly voice of the driver came over the PA telling us there is a problem with the “points” (that’s DART-speak for electrical system) and that it will be a few more minutes. After the few more minutes, the same voice announced that it will be at least another hour, and that immediately the train is changing from a Malahide train to a Bray train (essentially turning around)! Back at Grand Canal then, everybody got out of the train. Grand Canal is not one of the bigger stops, and it is not capable of fully-loaded peak traffic train being unloaded there. After several minutes, all the one available exist was completely blocked. In the meantime, a Drogheda Commuter arrived. More information for out-of-towners: the DARTs are cheaper, non air conditioned (why bother in Ireland), short distance, slower, electric trains; compared with the Commuters which are more expensive, air conditioned, long distance, faster, and most importantly diesel trains. We, along with a fully packed platform, figured that the diesel train can get through Pearse which has no electricity, and hopefully on the other side at Connolly all the Malahide-Bray DARTs are being turned around and going to Malahide again. So everyone, including the poor souls which genuinely needed to take the one-per-hour Drogheda train packed in. The train moved about as far as the previous DART and stopped. Obviously there was a DART stuck at Pearse, with no electricity, thereby leaving only one track available for two way train traffic. At this point, it is worth revisiting the previously mentioned benefit of air conditioning. Since the train is air conditioned, unlike the DART, it has no need to have windows that open, unlike the DART. Unfortunately, the air conditioning is able to effectively cool the air only during Irish winters and only if there are people comfortably seated. In this case, it was an unusually warm Irish summer day, and the train was absolutely packed wall to wall. The air conditioning was simply not coping. People were calling loved ones at home, with news that they have no idea when or if they will be home. Some even joked over the phone, with gems like: “Hunny, please have the squeegee ready for my face when I get home.”

Eventually we passed the work crew, which consisted of five guys in glow-in-the-dark vests leaning on one shovel. After about half an hour we reached Connolly. Malahidians stumbled out of the train, while the Droghedians immediately filled the gaps between the remaining bodies. We chcked the red LED signs for hints of where to catch the next train headed to Malahide. As it turned out, Irish Rail in their kindness added an extra stop to the train that we just got out of: Malahide. So we rushed back into the already overflowing train. After several warning beeps, a stern warning, and couple of pokes from a cattle prod, the driver somehow managed to close the door. Even thought the train was going non-stop from Connolly to Malahide, it was moving along rather slowly. Someone pointed out that the driver was probably being careful and making sure there were no leaves on the tracks – referring to an earlier incident, where trains in the morning had to move at a snail’s pace, due to “tracks being slippery because they are covered with leaves.” I’m not making this up! Anyway, this got a light-hearted chuckle out of everybody, easing a tense situation. Once the train picked up speed, people again started calling their loved ones at home again, that they might not be home as late as they originally thought. One gentleman, however, announced to his wife: “I will be in Malahide in about 10 minutes darling. Yea, I just happen to catch a travelling sauna that was going that way!”

This is what I love about the Irish – everything with a sense of humour and a grain of salt!

Managoři – kotva vývoje, vrchol pitomosti

Dostal jsem v $JOB nový task. Docela jsem se těšil: task byl postavený na jedné open source hračičce, bez jakéhokoliv zadání, a bez jakéhokoliv časového omezení. Takže nemůže být neúspěšný. Mýlil jsem se, a hodně!

Nainstaloval jsem si novou hračičku. Jak už jsem zmiňoval, je to open source, což znamená s mizernou dokumentací a z nedokončenými featurami – nevadí, větší důvod se v tom pohrabat. Tak jsem si s tím začal hrát, co a jak to tedy vlastně dělá. Za dva dny přiběhl $BOSS^3, a jak to prý to jde? Mile mi překvapilo že vůbec ví že existuji, a řekl jsem mu, že jsem si to zatím nainstaloval, a že pátrám co to tedy vlastně dělá. On na to, že to nestačí, a že mu budu muset dát nějaký seznam menších kroků na kterých budu pracovat spolu s cíli které dosáhnu, aby se mohl sledovat pokrok a on se každý týden mohl chlubit před $BOSS^4. Přidal, že „hrát si s tím“ není ani úkol ani cíl! Zasedl za klávesnici u svého nového laptopu, který je o dvě generace výkonnější než můj desktop, otevřel nový mail v Outlooku a jako co. Podotkl jsem, že jsem doposavad čekal na nějaké zadání právě od něho. On se začal rozčilovat, že on není technik a neví co vlastně chce, a že mu to musím dát já. Začal si vymýšlet pitomosti, které jsem rychle pochopil směřují úplně jiný směrem než moje představy, a hlavně než je hračička schopná splnit. Když jsem mu začal vysvětlovat náročnost úkolu a schopnosti hračičky, začaly se mu oči glazurovat a pomalu upadával do bezvědomí. Jediné co ho vzkřísilo spět do reality, bylo když jsem trochu omylem upustil, že kód našeho softwaru vypadá jako že byl vyvíjen metodou vzít klávesnici a hodit jí ze schodů. Za to jsem dostal deseti-minutové kázání, že s takovým názorem se daleko v téhle firmě nedostanu. Odbyl jsem ho, že mu tedy něco dodám do konce dne.

$BOSS^2 se na to celé díval, a snažil se všechny uspokojit. $BOSS, klasický přizdisráč, tam byl také, ale vzhledem k tomu, že už byl pátek a blížilo se k 5 hodině, jediné na co ten myslel bylo jak co nejdříve zabít co nejvíce mozkových buněk. $BOSS^2 se nade mnou slitoval, nemluvě o tom, že jeho task je hlídat že všechny úkoly na celém projektu se plní včas, a tak jsme něco spolu sesmolili do 6 večer. V pondělí mi poslal jeho chápání mých vysvětlivek, a jestli bych byl tak laskav a doplnil tam nějaké časové odhady a vyznačil jasné cíle. Chvíli jsem se mu snažil vysvětlit nekorektní chápání převážné většiny úkolů, a on i chvíli předstíral upřímný zájem. To ale vedlo jenom k většímu plýtvání mého času, takže jsem to do půl hodiny vzdal. Stále bez jakéhokoliv jasného zadání, jsem si vymyslel čeho bych tedy chtěl docílit, rozhodil jsem si to na asi další tři týdny, a nějak jsem to napasoval na fiktivní představy $BOSS^2. Další den mi to poslal zpátky, že prý jejich plánovací software, a tedy korporátní metodika, nepřijme aby kterýkoliv jeden úkol byl delší než tři dny, a jestli bych tedy všechny úkoly mohl rozdrobit na menší kousky! Rychle jsem vyhodnotil za bezcenné mu vysvětlovat, že tohle jsou jenom moje představy jak obdobné hračičky fungují, ale vzhledem k tomu, že nevím jaké mouchy má tato konkrétní hračička, tak nevím jaké problému budu muset řešit po cestě a jak dlouho budou trvat. Začal jsem tedy rozvíjet děj této sci-fi pohádky dále, když on přilétl, jak prý na tom jsem, že za 30 minut potřebuje na meetingu podat status jak daleko jsem postoupil s těmi úkoly které on si minulou noc vymyslel. Řekl jsem mu, že na tasku už pracuji dva dny, a tak asi první dvou-denní úkol je už splněný. Spokojen a s úsměvem odhopsal pryč. Zatímco on na meetingu podávat správu jak ta fantazie pokračuje, já jsem rozvinul děj té povídky a poslal jsem mu ho zpátky.

V tom přišel mail od $BOSS^3, že by potřeboval status update. Normálně vážně použil slova: „state of play of the task list“. Prý by si tohle přál jednou týdně, pokud možno pokaždé ve stejný nespecifikovaný den. Šel jsem za $BOSS, že už musím podávat status třem úrovním managementu, a jestli to takhle bude pokračovat, tak si každý týden přidám do odhadů jedno-denní úkol „podávat status managementu.“ On odvrátil pozornost od své práce natolik, aby mi vysvětlil, že mám špatnou attitude, a jestli takhle budu pokračovat, tak mi brzy vyhodí z práce. Hlavně bych si měl uvědomit, že $BOSS^3 ovlivňuje výši mého budoucího platu, který by se měl rozhodnout někdy během dalších pár týdnů.

$BOSS^2 přišel, že nová korporátní metodika praví, že ode dneška veškeré úkoly nesmí být větší než DVA dny, a budu tedy muset upravit můj plán. Uplatil mi tím, že se postará aby mi $BOSS^3 přestal otravovat. Nejnovější verzi činohry jsem mu odeslal do hodiny, a krátce po tom přišel zase s prosíkem. Prý se můj celý task časově nevejde do jeho představ, kde by chtěl aby můj závěrečný cíl byl hotový než on odjede na dovolenou, a jestli bych to mohl někde zkrátit. Úplně v klidu jsem mu odpověděl, ať vyhodí úkoly 3, 6, a 15. Samozřejmě jsem vůbec neměl tušení co úkoly 3, 6, a 15 jsou, ale začal jsem si vzpomínat na zkušenosti z $JOB-1 kde meetingy na téma „potřebujeme tvořit plán“ vůbec nebyli o tom co budeme dělat, ale o tom jakou barvou vybarvíme nepřehledné a nesmyslné omalovánky které si v Excelu vymyslel nějaký $BOSS^n. Myslel jsem, ze mám vyhráno.

Právě mi přišel mail, že jsou velice spokojeni s mým řešením tohoto cvičení, a za odměnu můžu chodit na denní meetingy, kde budu osobně podávat status o mojí pohádce!

Neškodná destrukce

Tak jsem se zase jednou dostal na blog. Nemám nic zvláštního, jenom pár drobných novinek / historek. Dejte si .

Tento týden jsem trochu povolil uzdu mého duševního pyromaniaka. Doma používáme svíčky, spíše pro efekt než hospodárnost. Jedna konkrétní svíčka je asi 15cm v průměru, 15cm vysoká, má tři knoty, a je obalená kusem břízové kůry. V úterý knoty už dojely do konce a svíčka naposledy zhasla. Anebo? Zrovna dohořívalo v krbu, tak jsem tam ten zbytek hodil. Během asi půl minuty se 100cm³ vosku transformovalo na 10L hořlavého plynu. To byla prdel! Hukot komínem se rozléhal klidnou nocí. Jak se studené a permanentně provlhlé zdi kolem komínu moc rychle ohřáli (a roztáhli), začal cely barák praskat jako by se připravoval zhroutit, a viditelně se začala vypařovat vlhkost. Vyběhl jsem podívat na show z venku. Při zemi byl docela dost hustý čmoud jak se začali spalovat saze v komínu – odhaduji, že od postavení baráku na začátku 70 let, komín nikdo nikdy nečistil. Z komínu lítali ven rozžhavené kusy hořícího materiálu, a čas od času i plameny. Krásně to rozsvítilo zahradu a okolí. Celé show trvalo asi tak čtvrt hodiny. Teď mám sice zákaz cokoli přikládat do krbu, ale stálo to za to!

Zase jsem se dal na čtení. Poslední roky dost málo čtu, a už tomu bylo hodně dlouho co jsem přečetl něco opravdu dobrého. Našel jsem stránku kde je mnoho odkazů na různé knížky po Internetu, a na jeden typ se pustím do Accelerando.

Začínají se mi formulovat plány na léto. Vypadá to, že asi budu v Čechách na přelomu července-srpna; posledních pár dní bych mohl dostat i vycházku. Je dost lidí kterých bych rád viděl, a nevím jestli všechny stihnu. Doufám, že problém se zmenší nebo vyřeší tím, že lidi už budou sami na jejich dovolené…

No a taky něco o mích mazlíčcích.

etanol měl hard-drive crash – jeden ze tří jednotek zapojených do RAID0! Samozřejmě jsem neměl úplné zálohy. Ztratil jsem pár důležitých dokumentů, několik mailů během posledního půl roku, asi 5GB programů, asi 15GB knížek, kolem 100GB filmů, a přes 50GB opravdu dobrého porno. Shodou okolností jsem alespoň den před tím udělal kompletní zálohy všech fotek. První věc jsem si vylil zlost na instalačním CD pro WinXPx64 – viz obrázek. Vadný disk jsem tam zatím nechal, a přehodil jsem to celé na RAID5 – špatný disk je takhle alespoň částečně použitelný. Pak jsem komp upgradoval z WinXPx64 na Win2k – tedy z rychlého ale nefunkčního systému, na pomalý ale skoro funkční. Zvolil jsem tentokrát jednoduchou instalaci: celý systém na jedné partition, jeden super-uživatel, jeden administrátor. Nainstaloval jsem všechny ovladače (zvukovka ještě dělá problémy), poslední Windows opravy, samozřejmě antivirák a firewall, během třech večerů. Potom jsem zapnul Internet a automatické opravy: přes jednu noc se tam objevilo asi tři stránky dalších oprav. Taky jsem se zklamáním zjistil, že Linux 2.6.19 nemá správné ovladače aby přečetl disk v této konfiguraci.

Instalace Gentoo na thetao zatím čeká. Mám za prvé hodně jiné práce (v práci), a za druhé jsem se nějak poslední dobou vrátil ke staré lásce: Knoppix. Určitě s tím strávím nějakou dobu. Pohrávám si i s nápadem, že bych zkusil být contributor pro Knoppix. Už delší dobu plánuji přepálit si svojí verzi Knopixu a mám několik nápadů co na něm bude. Potom určitě chci přepsat asi dva Knoppix hacks: 21 a 36.

Asi měsíc se flákám s překladem pro DistroWatch. Až (jestli?) to jednou bude, tak to bude tady. Potom si chci přepálit W2kSP1 CD na W2kSP4, jen tak jestli to zvládnu. Přemýšlím, že bych chtěl začít být trochu víc aktivní (a taky produktivní ve volném čase) ve FOSS projektech, no a tak zase přemýšlím o laptopu – něco levného, hračka, starší P3. No stále co dělat.

Lidi, hezký víkend!

User guide to humans – anyone?

What a freakin’ lousy Monday yesterday!

So I had someone ask me another one of those innocent questions this morning, and my knee-jerk reaction was to answer with my “what answer would you like?” The question was: “So you’re from Canada?” The answer that I selected, from the numerous possible correct answers, was: “Sure.” I thought if the guy was genuinely interested, he would pursue it. This got a couple of uncomfortable laughs around the office, so I though I’d better correct it and not alienate the person on his first day. I gave him the (slightly) expanded correct answer; by the end of it, he lost interest.

After that morning, things only got worse in the afternoon. Someone asked me over chat if I had any idea on how to fix their non-functional e-mail. So I needed to know what we’re dealing with: “What program are you using?” “I don’t know.” “Well that sucks. So if you wanted to check your mail right now, what would you click on?” “Internet Explorer, but if you’re going to be annoying, then just forget it.” I have no idea what happened there, but I do admit that I get these sorts of reactions often. The odds are, therefore, that the problem lies in the transmitter and not the receiver. After that, I tried to apologize and recover, but the discussion only got worse.

I spent majority of the day with headphones on, whipping code. This little gem of bash-gibberish took me only three hours of trial-and-error. Man, I gotta stop reading depressing shit like the Unix-Haters Handbook.

The events of the day reminded of the many times that I referred people to “How To Ask Questions The Smart Way“, after they did not like the answers that I had provided to them. Almost everyone of those misguided souls today still thinks that I am an A-hole. I started with precise, correct, and unfortunately (for me) very lengthy answers. People did not like those. Now I try to restrict my answers to single-words. Still can’t seem to win. Next week: grunts. Am I too old to start experimenting with designer drugs?

To top it off, in Ireland everyone drinks whiskey, so I can’t get decent rum and I was out of cigars!

Security in a modern world – is there such a thing?

Warning: another soapbox entry.

I love the security here in Ireland. Significant majority of houses and cars here have non-silent alarms. They go off all the time (day or night) everywhere, and nobody cares. Not one single Irish person, after hearing an alarm, has jumped up and said: “I had better call the garda, there might be someone breaking in there.” Not one, not ever! They have, however, uttered on occasion: “I hope that thief hurries up and steals that car already, so that the noise will stop.” So the only purpose that alarms serve is as an annoyance to your neighbours, but certainly not as a deterrent to thieves.

Yesterday, my amazement / annoyance reached a new high. My mother locked her keys in the house. When she returned home, she discovered that she left one of the second storey windows in the back open. She then set about trying to borrow a ladder from one of the neighbours, so that she could break into our own house. Thank ghod none of them had a ladder and she did not discover the one in our own back yard, as my mother is not one of the nimblest people that I know. However, one of the nice ladies next door, in a very neighbourly way of course, tells my mom: “Well, our neighbour’s keys open our house. So here, try ours and see if they will work.” Guess what? Of course they worked!

When I lived in New Hampshire, they took this same simple problem and solved it in a very simple way. First off, do not annoy your neighbours with stupid alarms. Nobody, including the thieves, cares! If you are worried, buy a gun. Second, to prevent yourself from locking your keys in the house, don’t lock the house. It’s that simple! In fact, when I owned a house out there, the back door lock did not ever work the one time I tried it. When I moved in, on the first day, my next door neighbour told me: “Anything you need feel free to borrow, whether I’m here or not. We don’t lock the doors. Just please put it back in the same place when you return it, so that I can find it again.” Another neighbour there, I have an open invitation to this day, to sleep over at their house anytime I am in the area, whether they are home or not! I will confess, that this was way out in the country and not in the city. I do not actually believe the city folk adopted this, admittedly extreme, solution.

Just in case you’re wondering: both my car and our house have dummies: pretty blinking lights, but that is about all.

Commuting around

So, lemme pull up my soapbox here, and let’s get started…

What is up with the train system around here?!?!

Some of the stops, at least the ones that I seem to use, have the tiniest little exits. The train is around say 50m long and can carry probably a thousand people, and the station exit is like 1.5m, 2m in better cases, wide doorway. Train pulls up, and everyone is trying to get out – in the morning to get to work and in the evening to get home. Unfortunately, there is a bottleneck of approximately 2×2m of physical space at the exit to the station, that is simultaneously being shared by the hordes of masses trying to get out, new passengers trying to get on the train that just pulled up, AND if that wasn’t enough turnstiles that make sure you are a paying passenger. The genius behind this marvel of civil engineering should be publicly flogged!

How about those announcements? The tracks are shared between DART – the slow train, and the Commuter – the distance fast train. The Commuter does not stop at all the stops as the DART. So once in a while, you are waiting for your DART in the middle of nowhere, and this gentle voice comes on the intercom: “Please step away form the line, train now approaching.” The next moment a trains WHOOOOMMMS past doing in excess of 50km/h. The resulting shock wave and the wind draft slams you back and forth as you’re trying to not get sucked into the train line. The announcer should be freakin’ B.A. Baracus with a megaphone yelling: “Run for your life, fool!”

During a hard day’s work

So I have been slaving away (almost) a whole week now, and every once in a while a ‘geer needs to unwind. For my money ( actually my employer’s money right now ) here is how I chose to blow off some of the available bandwidth on the information superhighway.

Please note, that this list may get updated at an unannounced future date, without any warning whatsoever.

• Herman – This is my all-time favourite cartoon. It was funny before Dilbert, and it still gets me RTFLOL.
• Badmonkey.ca – A guy I know back home puts this site together. I am envious of the amount of time her has to maintain the site!
• The World Cup in ASCII – This is just too kool not to pass on!
• alt.humor.best-of-usenet – Ahhhh Usenet; some of the biggest jerk-offs on this planet insist on leaving a permanent mark on this world. This is one of the media they often chose. I will admit, yours truly has been known to partake in this practise as well – you will have to search for the instance(s) yourself.
• bash.org – IRC and other Internet chat programs have one bettered the Usenet, in that they enable people to instantly make a fool of themselves. This site preserves some of the best attempts.
• Darwin Awards – Speaking of people making fools of themselves, how about horribly disfiguring themselves or better yet killing themselves at the same time?
• The Hacker FAQ – I thought this was quite funny when I read it the first time, until I realized that it’s about me.
• The Jargon File – And speaking of hackers, this is worth browsing for little giggles.
• FuckedCompany.com – Get the 411 on your job before they decide to tell you, to your wireless.
• Google Code Search – a search engine for things that have been swept under the carpet.

Here is a kool little utility for agregating all your comics from the net.

Feel free to add yours in the comments, please.

The India Trip ‘99

This was originally written as a letter, but I thought it might be nice to share it with everyone. Especially considering everyone was nagging me for the same information.

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Today is my last day here. I thought my plane leaves this morning, but after checking my tix I actually discovered that the plane leaves at 11:15 at night! That is OK, at least I will finally get a day to relax on this vacation (unless you count the day I spent at the hotel with the shits), lounge around and collect my thoughts. This past week has been quite busy, and as soon as I come back to the States, things will be busy again.

I have finally done it. This morning it took me over an hour to cram all of my crap into my suitcase. I have bought several gifts for everyone, one of them I screwed up and I bought something that is kinda bulky and difficult to pack. And I have managed to generate one more, but small, carry-on. Because of the way everything is packed, it should all survive the journey, the only thing I am worried about it the suitcase itself – hopefully it will be able to hold.

Here are some impressions that I have of India. I will probably forget these by the time I get off the plane back home, so I should write them now. I think all of you know me well enough, that I do not mean any disrespect, these are just one man’s observations. Hopefully it will be unique point of view which is not available in just any travel text. Some of the things are blown out of proportion, but I just want the readers of this to be able to appreciate what I have experienced…..

Yesterday was … well it was. I got to see people living in utter poverty, children so hungry their ribs were showing through their leathery skin, cows wondering the streets and highways with no apparent restraint, I got to see the a birthplace of a God, and I got to see the greatest gift a man has ever given to the one he loves. It was almost overwhelming, and at the same time extremely tiring. By the end of the day, like a whinny little American, I was glad to be back in my cozy, air-conditioned, dust free, and noise filtered hotel.

As the bus took off from New Delhi headed for Agra over 200km away, I did not imagine the experiences that I was to witness that day. Driving conditions in India are very unique to anything I have seen anywhere else, including the movie Mad Max! For a westerner, the familiarity of a crowded street (with pedestrians) very closely resembles how people here drive. As fast as they can, with very little regard for those around them. At a red light, everyone “crowds” in a bunch around the point the first one there gets to determine.

This is a shot of the street from outside of my window. You can’t see much, but I wanted to include it anyway.

Out of common courtesy you would want to permanently lean on your horn. Honking does not show annoyance with the other driver’s capabilities (this is always assumed), it indicates a courteous remainder that there are cars completely all around all other cars everywhere on the road. It almost seems that vehicles which are not equipped with a horn are illegal in India. When I asked my guide about this, he wanted me to clarify the word “illegal”. After a half hour explanation I gave up – India has no notion of the concept of “legal” when it comes to driving. There is always something to look at, when traveling the countryside, so one never gets bored. The beautiful country side kept whizzing by, and the monotony was broken approximately every half hour by a truck or bus (or both) wrecked on the side of the road. This actually stops being amusing when you realize that you are currently seated on an identical looking bus, hurling (approximately) forward at speeds in the neighborhood of 70km/h. At these speeds the driver masterfully avoided other traffic, which in India consists mostly of mopeds, bicycles, pedestrians, push-carts, and every other form of transport including cows – stray cows; no, they are not accompanied by anyone they just wander the streets because it is a convenient way to get from one meal to another. It has been explained to me, that if there is an accident in which a casualty occurs, the people who witness this must act fast. If they do not, the clothes the “body” is wearing could be damaged by the traffic driving over them; also the body might be ground to a non recognizable pulp which would make things difficult for the police when they arrive a day or so later to determine whom should be notified with the costs of cleaning the street. By noon the temperature has reached a nice sunny 40 degrees, and by this time I have determined the assumed meaning of the phrase “air conditioned bus”. The phase refers to a mode of transportation which at one time has been equipped with a cooling unit, but by this time is no longer present. You will be still be charged extra price for the comforting thought though. At noon the bus stopped for for lunch. The engine was immediately hosed down. If it were deprived of this ONLY form of coolant, it would surely mean the end to a wonderful trip which would be shameful, especially considering the establishment where we stopped served beer and the driver was paid in cash in advance… By about 1 o’clock in the afternoon we made our first goal that day.

Once, through the main entrance of the Fort.

The first stop of the trip was the Agra fort. This is a fort where the old Indian empire (if there was such a thing) essentially held the equivalent of their entire government – leaders, courts, prisons, everything. The fort itself was kinda nice, but much like everything else in India, unfortunately, it is kept in very poor condition. Apparently part of the fort still houses, as it used to since it was built, the local militia. The next stop was at the local Handicrafts Shop (that is the actual name of it) in Agra. This is where descendants of the original master craftsmen today keep the crafts alive. They polish and carve beautiful designs into the the same white marble that was used to build all of the Taj Mahal, and then cut and grind semiprecious stones to fill in the carvings. The results are wonderful works of art. The quality of this work, as far as I know, does not compare with anything that is handmade in North America. This is one of the surprising contrasts that kinda struck me. The quality of all handmade art here is so infinitely superior to anything that anyone in North America has ever produced, and probably ever will. On the other hand, even under the best of conditions, the quality of life here is so much poorer compared to even moderate living conditions in North America, let alone anything that is actually upscale back home. Little rivulets of raw sewage running through the streets where children play and livestock feeds. People work their crafts from houses which to a westerner look like they were slated for demolition. Life here goes on in conditions which just yesterday I have seen on TV in a report from CNN about Kosovo. That last sentence is a huge contrast all by itself if you think about it.

This is where the court was held. People stood outside in the searing sun, while the judges sat in the shade.

The next stop was the Taj Mahal itself.

Click the image to see a much larger one. Use your Back button to get back here!

There are definite indications around this monument of an attempt at preservation. As you make your way through the sea of street peddlers all trying to pawn off the exact same thing on you all for the same price, you arrive at the front gate. The main door is only halfway open, held so by a chain. This apparently is to prevent the street peddlers from swarming through the gates and gaining access at the unsuspecting tourists who are in at least temporary sanctuary inside (well I just made that up, it sound plausible, I can’t think of another reason why they would simply not open the DAMN DOORS). Past the gate is a long walk down a row of what used to be small shops. Now all of the doors are chained shut. In some places the doors have started to deteriorate, and if you peek through you will notice that he chains on the doors are holding behind: the mysterious nothing! They chain these doors shut, actually expend the energy and costs to create the chain and lock, to lock up an empty dusty room. I figure this is done so that they would not have to upkeep that part of the monument, as it is probably more cost efficient to simply put a lock on the door. From there you finally arrive at the front gate behind which there is the actual Taj. The big main front door is actually an exit. I am still pondering the intelligence responsible for this confusion. Paying customers are herded through a small side door, which has been cut into the historical monument using modern techniques. There ONE guard searches each and every person for unspecified electronics and smokes! Meanwhile, the main “exit” – as it has now become – is wide open and people are casually strolling through it in small numbers at a very leisurely pace. When you finally make it through the door, before you lays a large, once luscious and beautiful garden. There are small copses of trees being pissed on by men who have no problem with being captured by thousands of tourist cameras; those with decency and manners go piss up against the garden walls. I never saw a woman take a leak, except in the park outside my hotel window.

The park, from the vantage of my 7th story window.

The large green garden in front of Taj Mahal also has large water fountains, which by now serve as conventional depositories of garbage for tourists. There are no obvious trash cans anywhere in sight, and I suppose you do not want to waste all the convenient space which the ancients have thoughtfully enclosed with many hours of slave labor, which by now contains no water as that is a precious commodity. You make your way down the ancient stone pathway. Many years ago, kings and rulers of entire empires have walked down the exact same path, and you feel awed almost humbled, even thought there is a guy standing within an arm’s length from you, relieving himself on the nearby tree. As you near the the monument, you can clearly make out the ancient text along the sides of the building, made from black onyx, and the intricate flower pattern made of many other semiprecious stones, ground down by bare hands many years ago to the exact fit into each of the carved grooves made by the long dead master craftsmen. Closer still will reveal a chaotic crowd of people gathered around ONE man who is charged with sorting and keeping track of all of the visitors’ smelly, moist, fungus-infected footwear. That is nice, the people of India are at least conscious enough of preserving their ancient monuments, to convince tourists to walk around barefoot. Actually, they probably don’t feel like cleaning up after the tourists, the tourists will do it themselves with their socks, but the first sounds much more decent. So you remove your footwear, and make your way up the final flight of stairs to the foot of the building itself. Your excitement of where you find yourself greatly outweighs the unbearable stench coming from people’s feet in the moist 40 degree searing sun. And there you are, it is there right in front of you! A long time ago, one man blinded and mad by his love for one woman, built this to shelter her fragile body, and presented it to her as a gift and an attempt to show just how great his love for her is. Only one who has been in love himself (the self – trying to keep all the nazi feminists happy), can possibly understand such a drive to try and quantify such a love. And in the end, all of it is futile, because nothing in this world can possibly measure up to the love a man can have for the right woman.

Detail on the outside walls.

The outside walls of the Taj have small delicate flowers both carved from the same white marble, as well as created like a life sized puzzle from pieces of semiprecious stones. Most of the carvings are large pieces which are completely symmetrical about the origin (just to remind you that the author of this is an engineer after all). Each one would be way too large to carry for one man, and each is surrounded by a frame of small flowers of the inlaid pieces of the colorful semiprecious stones. The inside of the Taj Mahal comprises of only one room of several hundred square feet in area. You just barely squeeze by the huddle of bums who have gathered conveniently enough in the doorway of the monument. One of them accompanies you, similarly to a leech sharing a swim through a scum pond. Without provocation or restraint the man starts telling you everything he knows about the Taj. At this point you are grateful for the astounding skills of the ancient architects, who have built the Taj Mahal in such a way so to create a permanent soothing breeze through the middle of the building. Also, it is actually kinda nice to have a free guide through unknown territory. Every single square inch from floor to the ceiling is made out of white marble. There are no paintings, all art is carved into the stone and filled with semiprecious stones. There are carvings of all sorts of flowers, anything from tulips, roses, to lilies and lotus flowers. In the center of the main chamber is a large fence, also made out of the same white marble, also containing various carving and flower arrangements. The meshing in this fence is actually a carving from a solid slab of marble. Inside of the fenced off area one can clearly see two sarcophagus. Again, same white marble, more flowers everywhere. One is smaller and perfectly centered. The guide you “voluntarily” picked up at the door is still crooning in your ear, that this is where the body of princes Mumtaz, for whom all of this was built, is buried. Her body is perfectly centered in the room, and perfectly lined up with the front entrance of both the Taj as well as the main gate at the far end of the garden. They believed this was the way to heaven; in case you are getting disoriented, this is where the masses of street peddlers are today. The line extends the other way towards the Agra fort, which is where the architects were imprisoned after completing the work. The guide beckons you to stand on this imaginary cosmic line, helps you get positioned, and generously offers to take your picture. Next to Mumtaz lies the body of her lover, Shash Jahan, the creator of all of this – well he at least ordered the slaves to be beat, and I imagine he showed up at least once or twice on the construction site.

This is where the kids are now. Check out the intricate patterns everywhere.

His sarcophagus is larger, but it still contains the same make and motif. On the ceiling blooms a huge sunflower, which spans over 20 feet in diameter. From the center is suspended the only object which is not made of marble. It is a lamp, made of gold, silver, (and spice and everything nice … sorry I could not resist) and brass, and weighs several hundred pounds. This lamp, according to the broken english of the guide, was presented by one of the British royalty as a gift to the Indian rulers. Leave it to the Brits to fuck up perfection! Completing the “once around the room”, you find yourself back at the entrance. Considering your direction of travel, you notice that it also serves as a convenient exit. The guide thanks you with broken english and teeth, and reminds you that in your infinite generosity you might want to consider making a small donation to his pack-a-day nicotine habit or he will report you to the police for taking pictures inside the Taj Mahal. As you leave the monument, you walk over to the side of the plaza on which it stands and take in the beauty of the magnificent view. You try to imagine how it once must have been, without the car fumes, and the obnoxious smells coming from the large masses of rotting garbage floating down river, which stretches infinitely in front of you in two directions. You turn and start to walk away, and yet you must see the magnificent Taj Mahal once again, if only for a brief moment. The last thought that goes through your mind, as the hot marble tiles burn your feet is: “Shit, I still gotta get my damn shoes!”

On a relative scale, the Taj Mahal easily compares to the beauty of the St. Basilica in Vatican City. On a global scale, it is unfortunate that such a magnificent work of art has been allowed to fall into such a state.

Back through the masses, and on to the safety of the bus. Safety from the peddlers that is. At this time of the day, the bus acts as a solar house, all the windows must remain closed, for to open one is equivalent to inviting the street peddlers with the phrase: “I am loaded and gullible!” The driver reminds you that the bus will leave within ten minutes. Approximately an hour later, the driver got behind the wheel, and we took off for the next destination. By nine in the evening we made Matura. I have been told when we arrived that this city is not “as advanced as the cities we have seen so far”. At least it was dark so it was hard to tell, but the smells coming from the street peddlers here confirmed this. The city of Matura boasts a temple which is said to be the birth place to Hari Krsna (that is not a spelling mistake). Goodie I thought! At the main entrance, I was reassured by a guard searching people. I asked the person accompanying me if they are looking for cameras, as we were given explicit instructions that there are is no picture taking allowed. He replied that they are looking for extremists from other religions carrying bombs. Maybe I’ll go quick and I will be out of my misery I thought. The temple is actually composed of several buildings. So off with the shoes again, and off to explore. Hari was one of seven siblings, and everyone had a place to stay. Hari’s just happen to be (according to legend) a prison! When I made it into the main temple, I looked around at all the beautiful art (no precious stones here, just paint) and saw all the people gathered there, I thought “They are more crazy here than in America”. Here they not only shave their heads and wear orange, they also make as much noise as possible. There were large bells everywhere. Paintings depicting various important moments in this religion were all over the walls. Various alcoves were scattered throughout, each for a different aspect of the “one God”. In different alcoves there were priests yelling out prayers, and in several splashing people with water. I was in the presence of true greatness, trying to ignore the thoughts of how many different diseases could possibly be in one single splash of water.

By this time of the day I was utterly exhausted, and losing patience with the beggars. The only thing that kept up my spirits was to see how many of the beggars that had swarmed me I could guide into the oncoming scooters with no lights. The temptation to stay awake and enjoy the sites on the trip back was overwhelmed by my hunger for some sleep. The driver woke me up in front of the hotel. I got off the bus and waved good bye to my companion. Even as tired as I was I looked first left and then right before crossing the street; I was immediatelly reminded by a car horn to look first right and then left, and crossed the street with a silent curse at the entire English empire.

As a closing thought I want to say that I very much enjoyed the stay that I had here. I can finally say that I have visited a third-world country. I am glad I came, but I have no desire to repeat this again in the future. Perhaps one day I will change my mind…..

New Delhi, India. April 10, 1999.