Knock Offs
You will remember that I got sucked into a knock off scheme that was selling counterfeit Red Green DVDs (see Posting # 58, February 7, 2010).
Since then I have seen many articles on knock offs. One told about two 18 year olds in Florida who were holding Tupperware-type parties at which they were selling knock off designer handbags. Unfortunately for them, two of their customers at a recent party were undercover detectives. The enterprising youngsters were arrested.
Apparently, there is an upsurge in the under-the-table sale of knock offs in the US, and probably in Canada as well.
The International Chamber of Commerce estimates that the knock off trade is worth around $500 billion annually, which is, of course, money that firms like Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Christian Dior and Burberry will never see.
I thought I would share a few stories about my international experiences with knock offs.
000
First in Russia in the mid-1990s.
When I was setting up our Project's office in Moscow, we needed English-language software for our computers---they came with only Russian-language software.
I asked one of the Russian staff to buy word processing, spreadsheet and database programs, and gave him my credit card.
I saw him start when I said the word, 'buy'.
"You don't need to buy the software", he said, "I have a friend who has all that software. He won't charge us anything---maybe just a bottle of vodka."
Now, when I had retired from the Canadian Public Service in 1991, I had been well trained. One didn't, didn't, didn't ever use bootleg software. If the RCMP didn't get you in one of their periodic sweeps of computer systems, the departmental Information Technology people would. The IT people were afraid---quite rightly---of the introduction of viruses via illegal software.
With this background and with ample money in our Moscow budget for software, I explained why we should buy licensed software.
My Russian colleague looked at me, "But everyone does it here. No one would ever complain."
'No, let's buy the software."
"Please, please don't make me do this. All of my friends in the other offices will think we are crazy. Please don't embarrass me like that."
We did buy the software, but I noticed that the boxes the software came in were quickly hidden away so it would look as though we were 'normal' and had installed bootlegged programs.
000
Ten years later, in Azerbaijan, the computers and software for our project were all legal. The European Union that was funding the project had even tougher rules than Canada about using only properly licensed products.
But outside the office---in the streets---it was another matter.
One of the local computer stores was selling disks for $2 that a clerk told me had computer software worth over a thousand dollars, programs that had been stripped of the codes installed by the software companies to prevent piracy.
DVDs of first run movies were available for two or three dollars. The quality wasn't great---I was told that they were copied by someone sitting in a cinema with a video recorder---but the price was certainly right.
Foreign visitors to Baku regularly stocked up on both the software and the movies.
000
Rolex watches have always been a favourite of counterfeiters. I remember years ago seeing people on street corners in the US and Canada selling Rolex knock offs quite openly. Then the authorities cracked down and the Rolexes disappeared.
During a trip to Malaysia in 1991, we discovered where the Rolexes had gone----there were tables of them in the markets of Kuala Lumpur.
We bought a man's and a woman's, for $10 each. They were to be just conversation pieces because Pat and I had discovered earlier on that we couldn't wear knock off watches because they either turned our wrists green or brought on a rash.
Sticking the watches in a suitcase, we forgot about them. When we arrived back in Canada, it was obvious that the suitcase had been tampered with. I worried about a valuable camera and a fancy shortwave radio, but they were safe.
You guessed it. The only items missing were the knock off Rolexes.
000
A final story about knock offs.
I am only going to say that the story happened somewhere in Asia.
Pat and I were riding the hotel shuttle into the downtown area one day. The bus was full of well-dressed women from many countries in North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand. Although they were from different countries, they obviously knew each other.
One of them told us that their husbands were working on an international treaty and had regular meetings around the world, in places like Rome, London, and Tokyo. The wives usually tagged along on these trips and they liked to get together to do some sightseeing and shopping.
(As you can infer, this happened some years ago when treaty negotiations were conducted almost exclusively by men. The situation today would be quite different.)
The woman told us that she and her friends were off that day to a particular part of the city that sold knock offs. The local authorities, she explained, had clamped down on the public display of knock offs but there were still stores that sold them---but you had to go into the back of the store or into a basement and ask to see them.
Her eyes glistened when she talked about the quality and low price of the counterfeit handbags, belts, watches, and jewellery you could get at these shops.
When we asked what kind of treaty the husbands were working on, she looked more than a bit sheepish.
It was a treaty on intellectual property that would require all countries to ban knock offs.
Now, there must be a moral in there somewhere.
Pat and I put our heads together and came up with these morals (you are invited to try your hand at one as well):
"Strike while the iron is hot."
"While the cat's away the mice will play."
"Do as I say, not as I do."
000
POSTSCRIPT
After finishing the above part of the posting, I came across an article in the St. Catharines Standard (Friday, April 23, 2010) about the Canadian classical and jazz guitarist and composer, Jesse Cook.
In an interview, Cook told about one of his songs being bootlegged by an Indian, 'Bollywood', movie. Here is an excerpt from the article that serves, I think, as a perfect ending to this posting:
"A song of mine was ripped off by one of the highest-grossing Bollywood movies of the last few years," he says.
"Their big hit single was a song called Dhoom Dhoom (recorded by Tata Young), which was in fact my song Mario Takes a Walk."
He found out about the alleged copycat song, used in the movie Dhoom, from an Indian fan who wrote him on MySpace.
"It was the weirdest thing. Here was this blatant act of plagiarism and in fact, I loved it. I loved the version that this artist did, I thought it was better than my own," he says with a laugh.
"I just wished they'd called me and said, 'You know, we'd like to use your song.' Because there's no reason to steal when I would be happy to share."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #70 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
POSTING #68
Gestures---Some Rude, Some Not---from Around the World
Watching a recent video clip of Rahm Emanuel---President Obama's Chief of Staff---playfully thumbing his nose at someone reminded me of recess when I was attending the Arthur Public School.
Thumbing one's nose---what the Urban Dictionary defines as, " A sign of derision made by putting your thumb on your nose and wiggling your fingers."---was very common on the playground.
At least when the teachers weren't looking.
Thumbing one's nose wasn't an angry gesture, like putting up your dukes, or saying "I'll get you after four."
Yes, it was naughty and a 'put down' but it wasn't at all vicious.
000
Another gesture that was used a lot in Arthur was to point an index finger at a boy and girl who happened to be talking and then rub it with the other index finger, the point being to embarrass them by suggesting that there was something romantic going on.
I wonder about the origin of that gesture and how widespread it was, and whether it is still being used on playgrounds today.
Perhaps one of our younger readers can help me.
000
In Russia there were many gestures, two of which made a major impact on me.
One was the shoulder shrug that signified, "Who knows".
The mid-1990s was a time of considerable chaos in Russia and a shrug was the appropriate answer to questions such as: when will the fax machine be fixed?, when will the computers arrive?, when will the train leave?, when will the cable installer come?, and on and on.
When I came home for leave after a several-month stint in Russia, Pat claims that I responded to her questions with the Russian shrug. She found this very annoying, especially from one who had been a bit of a 'know-it-all.
It would take Pat a week or so to re-Canadianize me.
The other Russian gesture came from the woman who was my liaison with the Russian employment service. She was a remarkable woman, an engineer, intelligent, hard-working, and dedicated. Much of whatever success we had with our project in Russia was due to her.
She was also strong-willed.
From time to time, we would have lively discussions about how the project should be run. The usual point of contention was about how much a team of Canadian consultants could reasonably be expected to accomplish during their 6 week stay in Russia.
After one particularly acrimonious debate, the woman threw up her hands as though I were the most uncooperative person on earth and marched to the door. She paused in the doorway, and turning her head so she could watch my reaction, she scuffed her shoes as though she were scraping something unpleasant off the soles---perhaps dog dirt.
Slamming the door, she took off.
In a day or two, after tempers had cooled, we reached an accommodation.
I thought of her when I read a study a few years ago about the conditions that lead to successful foreign aid projects. One of the key factors identified in the study was the presence of a dedicated, hard working liaison person from the host country.
I was lucky in my consulting career to almost always have a strong liaison person.
My Russian shoe-scuffing friend was one of the best!
000
We are all familiar with another gesture---the middle-finger salute, which indicates, let's say, a strong sense of outrage.
I ran into a similar but even more potent gesture in Amman, Jordan.
Coming back to my hotel from a day at the Jordanian office, in the heavy evening traffic, my driver was cut off by someone. The usually mild-minded driver became upset and as we pulled alongside the other car, he leaned out the window and made a gesture that I hadn't seen before.
The other driver shouted and waved his arms in anger. My driver settled back in his seat, pleased at the reaction he had obtained from the other driver.
I asked him what the gesture meant.
He shook his head, said he couldn't tell me.
I persisted and he finally said, "I am sorry Mr. John, I shouldn't have done that. It was bad."
He turned back to the road, as though the issue were closed.
Ever eager to learn more about the local culture, I insisted he tell me.
At last, he showed me the gesture, a rather intricate arrangement of the fingers of one hand.
After considerable prompting, he finally told me that the gesture meant that the other person had an unusually small manhood (sorry for the circumlocution, but this IS a family blog).
And worse, the gesture suggested that the manhood was limp.
I could see why the other driver was upset.
Now, you may have noticed that I haven't described the gesture.
There is a reason.
A few years later, we were having a discussion with a guest in our Windows-on-the-Lake bed and breakfast in Grimsby when the issue of road rage came up. The guest, a woman from Toronto, was telling about her encounters with rude, aggressive drivers.
I told the story about the Amman gesture. She was very interested, and insisted that I demonstrate the gesture several times. She practised it, asking whether she had got it just right.
She had.
After breakfast, she told us she was going to St. Catharines to do some shopping.
The next morning at breakfast, she had hardly sat down before she started to tell us about an adventure she had had in St. Catharines.
A taxi driver cut her off. Seeing that his complexion suggested that he could be from the Middle East, she gave him THE gesture.
I was horrified. It is one thing to have another man make that gesture, but a woman!
"What did he do?", I asked.
"Oh, it was most satisfactory,", she purred.
Apparently, the taxi driver, stared at her with disbelief, and then started to shout and bang the steering wheel.
She said that it made her feel much better and she intended to use the gesture in Toronto.
I pleaded with her not to use the gesture any more---that a driver might be so outraged he would ram her car.
She just smiled.
I keep waiting to hear that a woman driver in Toronto has been arrested for causing a public disturbance by making an obscene gesture at a taxi driver.
So, you can see why I am not going to describe the gesture.
At a time when President Obama is trying to restrict the distribution of nuclear products, I think I have an obligation to limit the spread of nuclear gestures.
I hope you understand.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #69 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Watching a recent video clip of Rahm Emanuel---President Obama's Chief of Staff---playfully thumbing his nose at someone reminded me of recess when I was attending the Arthur Public School.
Thumbing one's nose---what the Urban Dictionary defines as, " A sign of derision made by putting your thumb on your nose and wiggling your fingers."---was very common on the playground.
At least when the teachers weren't looking.
Thumbing one's nose wasn't an angry gesture, like putting up your dukes, or saying "I'll get you after four."
Yes, it was naughty and a 'put down' but it wasn't at all vicious.
000
Another gesture that was used a lot in Arthur was to point an index finger at a boy and girl who happened to be talking and then rub it with the other index finger, the point being to embarrass them by suggesting that there was something romantic going on.
I wonder about the origin of that gesture and how widespread it was, and whether it is still being used on playgrounds today.
Perhaps one of our younger readers can help me.
000
In Russia there were many gestures, two of which made a major impact on me.
One was the shoulder shrug that signified, "Who knows".
The mid-1990s was a time of considerable chaos in Russia and a shrug was the appropriate answer to questions such as: when will the fax machine be fixed?, when will the computers arrive?, when will the train leave?, when will the cable installer come?, and on and on.
When I came home for leave after a several-month stint in Russia, Pat claims that I responded to her questions with the Russian shrug. She found this very annoying, especially from one who had been a bit of a 'know-it-all.
It would take Pat a week or so to re-Canadianize me.
The other Russian gesture came from the woman who was my liaison with the Russian employment service. She was a remarkable woman, an engineer, intelligent, hard-working, and dedicated. Much of whatever success we had with our project in Russia was due to her.
She was also strong-willed.
From time to time, we would have lively discussions about how the project should be run. The usual point of contention was about how much a team of Canadian consultants could reasonably be expected to accomplish during their 6 week stay in Russia.
After one particularly acrimonious debate, the woman threw up her hands as though I were the most uncooperative person on earth and marched to the door. She paused in the doorway, and turning her head so she could watch my reaction, she scuffed her shoes as though she were scraping something unpleasant off the soles---perhaps dog dirt.
Slamming the door, she took off.
In a day or two, after tempers had cooled, we reached an accommodation.
I thought of her when I read a study a few years ago about the conditions that lead to successful foreign aid projects. One of the key factors identified in the study was the presence of a dedicated, hard working liaison person from the host country.
I was lucky in my consulting career to almost always have a strong liaison person.
My Russian shoe-scuffing friend was one of the best!
000
We are all familiar with another gesture---the middle-finger salute, which indicates, let's say, a strong sense of outrage.
I ran into a similar but even more potent gesture in Amman, Jordan.
Coming back to my hotel from a day at the Jordanian office, in the heavy evening traffic, my driver was cut off by someone. The usually mild-minded driver became upset and as we pulled alongside the other car, he leaned out the window and made a gesture that I hadn't seen before.
The other driver shouted and waved his arms in anger. My driver settled back in his seat, pleased at the reaction he had obtained from the other driver.
I asked him what the gesture meant.
He shook his head, said he couldn't tell me.
I persisted and he finally said, "I am sorry Mr. John, I shouldn't have done that. It was bad."
He turned back to the road, as though the issue were closed.
Ever eager to learn more about the local culture, I insisted he tell me.
At last, he showed me the gesture, a rather intricate arrangement of the fingers of one hand.
After considerable prompting, he finally told me that the gesture meant that the other person had an unusually small manhood (sorry for the circumlocution, but this IS a family blog).
And worse, the gesture suggested that the manhood was limp.
I could see why the other driver was upset.
Now, you may have noticed that I haven't described the gesture.
There is a reason.
A few years later, we were having a discussion with a guest in our Windows-on-the-Lake bed and breakfast in Grimsby when the issue of road rage came up. The guest, a woman from Toronto, was telling about her encounters with rude, aggressive drivers.
I told the story about the Amman gesture. She was very interested, and insisted that I demonstrate the gesture several times. She practised it, asking whether she had got it just right.
She had.
After breakfast, she told us she was going to St. Catharines to do some shopping.
The next morning at breakfast, she had hardly sat down before she started to tell us about an adventure she had had in St. Catharines.
A taxi driver cut her off. Seeing that his complexion suggested that he could be from the Middle East, she gave him THE gesture.
I was horrified. It is one thing to have another man make that gesture, but a woman!
"What did he do?", I asked.
"Oh, it was most satisfactory,", she purred.
Apparently, the taxi driver, stared at her with disbelief, and then started to shout and bang the steering wheel.
She said that it made her feel much better and she intended to use the gesture in Toronto.
I pleaded with her not to use the gesture any more---that a driver might be so outraged he would ram her car.
She just smiled.
I keep waiting to hear that a woman driver in Toronto has been arrested for causing a public disturbance by making an obscene gesture at a taxi driver.
So, you can see why I am not going to describe the gesture.
At a time when President Obama is trying to restrict the distribution of nuclear products, I think I have an obligation to limit the spread of nuclear gestures.
I hope you understand.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #69 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
POSTING #67
Passage to India (and the Taj Mahal)
A few weeks ago, the UK Antiques Road Show featured a person who had brought in a collection of autographed novels written by E. M. Forster, including "Passage to India".
The program brought back my attempts to understand 'Passage' in my first-year English course at Queen's. Growing up in a homogeneous community in rural Western Ontario hadn't really equipped me to understand this complex and subtle novel about the lives of British ex-patriates in India in the 1920s.
Some of the British characters tried to ignore---as much as that was possible---the cultural differences between their homeland and India, treating the Indians much like serfs in medieval England. A few others dipped bravely into the mysteries of the ancient culture. There was often a heavy emotional price to pay for that bravery.
Even though I didn't feel that I fully understood the novel---the professor seemed to agree with that assessment, given his grade on my essay about 'Passage'---it made me want to experience India for myself.
I was happy, therefore, to be asked, in 1969, to be part of a three-person team---Dave, the leader, Phyllis, a Human Resources official, and me---that would go to India to interview Canadian Immigration staff working in New Delhi.
Getting ready for the trip, I told myself that I must be prepared for experiences that were strange and probably unpleasant.
000
A member of the Canadian High Commission met us when we got off the plane, and seeing that we were tired from the flight tried to hustle us through Indian Customs. As the Customs officer searched through our bags, the official said,
"These people are guests of the Canadian High Commissioner and I am sure that he would appreciate anything you can do to expedite their clearance."
The Customs officer straightened up, "I am sure that the High Commissioner would appreciate that. I am also certain that he would expect me to do my duty."
And he went back to searching through our belongings.
The message was clear: 'India is a proud and independent nation. Don't mess with us.'
000
The next morning, after a good sleep in a fine hotel, we were driven to the Immigration Office. Outside the office were perhaps a hundred people sitting or lying on the ground, people who, we were told, were being sponsored for immigration and had been called in for an interview and medical examination.
Travelling from all over India, they often arrived days early so they wouldn't miss their interviews. Not having money for a hotel, they 'camped' outside the office until their turn came for an interview.
I thought of those immigrants last fall when our latest grandchild was born in the extraordinarily attractive and well-equipped Credit Valley Hospital in Mississauga. The generosity of the Indo-Canadian community was evident everywhere. A wing bore the name of an Indian family and many of the rooms in the maternity section had plaques referring to the contributions made by different Indian families.
I wondered whether some of those immigrants waiting for an interview in New Delhi---or possibly their descendents---were among those who had helped finance the hospital.
000
Having a free day after the interviews were finished, the Officer-in-Charge asked whether we would like to visit the Taj Mahal.
Dave had some paper work to do and declined but Phyllis and I agreed. We were told that the distance to Agra, the town in which the Taj is located, was about 250 kilometres but we were warned that it could be a slow journey, depending on the traffic.
We set off after breakfast the next morning in one of the High Commission's cars, a North American mini-van with welcome air conditioning---although it was spring the temperature was like a hot August day in Ottawa.
The driver was a locally-engaged Indian in a dark cotton outfit that was a cross between a suit and a uniform. His bearing and presence suggested a military past---perhaps as a sergeant major.
Until we got well out of New Delhi, the roads were clogged with every kind of motorized vehicle---from two wheels to eighteen---and ox-drawn carts. Every vehicle that had a horn used it almost constantly.
Once out in the country, I was astonished to see large green fields. We had been hearing a great deal about India's dreams for a 'green revolution' that would allow the country to feed its people without importing food. Using plant breeding, irrigation and chemical fertilizers---the dreams went---India would turn its dry dusty lands into green productive fields.
From what I had read---much of it from British media while we lived in England, which were often biased against anything Indian, perhaps because of the bitter fight for independence---it sounded like this was a pipe dream. The climate and land were too harsh and 'the Indian people simply weren't up to it'.
And yet, here were fields of very healthy looking wheat.
The green revolution was, of course, a great success.
I suppose I should add that there are now reports of some environmental problems because of the over-use of irrigation and fertilization.
Some more challenges for the Indian nation, but when you have more than a billion people with over 200 languages, challenges aren't something new.
000
Around noon, the driver said that the wife of the Officer-in-charge had packed a lunch in a cooler. He asked if we would like to pull over and have lunch in a shady spot.
We agreed and he turned off the main road into a village, looking for a suitable spot for a picnic lunch.
He suddenly put on the brakes and jumped out of the car. He marched toward a large tree with an enormous, umbrella-shaped crown that provided a wide circle of shade.
The only problem was that there were about 50 men sitting under the tree, some leaning back against the broad trunk.
Phyllis and I looked at each other. Were we to have our picnic in the midst of all these men?
Just then the driver started shouting and waving his arms at the men. We couldn't understand the words but the gestures were obvious---they were to clear off.
The men resisted, arguing with the driver, but they eventually picked themselves up and walked slowly into the sun.
Proud of what he had accomplished, the driver came back and gestured to the now vacant area.
"Good shade", he said.
We protested that we couldn't take the shade away from these men. It wasn't right.
"No, it's the way we do things. Come."
Getting the cooler and a blanket from the back of the van, he strode over to the tree and set up our picnic.
We sat down and opened the cooler. It was full of sandwiches, salads, fruit and ice-cold beer---a welcome sight for two hungry and thirsty people.
We looked up from the cooler and saw that the men who had been driven from under the tree were now assembled in a circle just outside the shade of the tree---sitting in the full sun---staring at us.
Meanwhile, the driver had gone back to the minivan, turned on the engine to run the air conditioner, and settled down for a snooze.
Phyllis and I took a bite of a sandwich, as dozens of dark eyes watched us.
We looked at each other and decided that we couldn't do it.
We tried to explain to the driver why we couldn't picnic under the tree. He just shook his head as much as to say, 'If you were recruits in my platoon you would be doing a hundred push-ups!'
Back in the car, and on our way to Agra, we ate the excellent lunch and drank the refreshing beer.
000
In Agra, the driver found us an English-speaking guide, a wiry old man with very few teeth and those that he did have were stained bright red from---we later learned---chewing betel nuts. He waved for us to follow him, and set off through crowded, narrow streets.
H e said he would tell us about the history of the Taj as we walked to it. His English was passable but his descriptions were delivered in a sing-song, 'pre-recorded' spiel that was hard to follow and almost impossible to interrupt.
According to the guide, the Taj was built in the 1600s by Shah Jahan, a king of India, in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Just before her death, Mumtaz asked that a beautiful tomb be built so that she would not be forgotten.
As we walked, we were approached by beggars---young children with dirty, skimpy clothing and mothers clutching babies.
The babies were heart-breaking---tiny things, many of them with yellow-crusted eyes. Flies buzzed around the babies, some landing on the crusted eyes.
Shouting and waving his arms at the beggars, the guide told us, "Don't give them anything---it will just bring on more of them."
The noise of the crowded streets, the heat and dust, and the beggars began to get to us as we wound down yet another alley. I wondered if this had been a good idea.
Just then, we rounded a corner and started toward a stone arch. As we walked on, we had our first view of the Taj---perfectly framed by the arched doorway.
As we went through the arch, the beggars fell behind, and the dust and heat were forgotten.
We walked along the paths leading to the Taj, paths that had once been covered with oriental rugs.
I won't attempt to describe the Taj, except to say that I haven't seen anything so beautiful---to me, it is Beethoven's Ninth in marble.
After we had drunk our fill of the Taj, the guide took us back to the car.
As we went, he told us we must come back some December during full moon to see the Taj at night. He said that the Taj is even more beautiful at night with the silvery light of a full moon glistening off the marble.
I told myself that it would be wonderful to visit the Taj with Pat some December.
It hasn't happened yet but I'm still working on it.
Who knows......
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #68 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
A few weeks ago, the UK Antiques Road Show featured a person who had brought in a collection of autographed novels written by E. M. Forster, including "Passage to India".
The program brought back my attempts to understand 'Passage' in my first-year English course at Queen's. Growing up in a homogeneous community in rural Western Ontario hadn't really equipped me to understand this complex and subtle novel about the lives of British ex-patriates in India in the 1920s.
Some of the British characters tried to ignore---as much as that was possible---the cultural differences between their homeland and India, treating the Indians much like serfs in medieval England. A few others dipped bravely into the mysteries of the ancient culture. There was often a heavy emotional price to pay for that bravery.
Even though I didn't feel that I fully understood the novel---the professor seemed to agree with that assessment, given his grade on my essay about 'Passage'---it made me want to experience India for myself.
I was happy, therefore, to be asked, in 1969, to be part of a three-person team---Dave, the leader, Phyllis, a Human Resources official, and me---that would go to India to interview Canadian Immigration staff working in New Delhi.
Getting ready for the trip, I told myself that I must be prepared for experiences that were strange and probably unpleasant.
000
A member of the Canadian High Commission met us when we got off the plane, and seeing that we were tired from the flight tried to hustle us through Indian Customs. As the Customs officer searched through our bags, the official said,
"These people are guests of the Canadian High Commissioner and I am sure that he would appreciate anything you can do to expedite their clearance."
The Customs officer straightened up, "I am sure that the High Commissioner would appreciate that. I am also certain that he would expect me to do my duty."
And he went back to searching through our belongings.
The message was clear: 'India is a proud and independent nation. Don't mess with us.'
000
The next morning, after a good sleep in a fine hotel, we were driven to the Immigration Office. Outside the office were perhaps a hundred people sitting or lying on the ground, people who, we were told, were being sponsored for immigration and had been called in for an interview and medical examination.
Travelling from all over India, they often arrived days early so they wouldn't miss their interviews. Not having money for a hotel, they 'camped' outside the office until their turn came for an interview.
I thought of those immigrants last fall when our latest grandchild was born in the extraordinarily attractive and well-equipped Credit Valley Hospital in Mississauga. The generosity of the Indo-Canadian community was evident everywhere. A wing bore the name of an Indian family and many of the rooms in the maternity section had plaques referring to the contributions made by different Indian families.
I wondered whether some of those immigrants waiting for an interview in New Delhi---or possibly their descendents---were among those who had helped finance the hospital.
000
Having a free day after the interviews were finished, the Officer-in-Charge asked whether we would like to visit the Taj Mahal.
Dave had some paper work to do and declined but Phyllis and I agreed. We were told that the distance to Agra, the town in which the Taj is located, was about 250 kilometres but we were warned that it could be a slow journey, depending on the traffic.
We set off after breakfast the next morning in one of the High Commission's cars, a North American mini-van with welcome air conditioning---although it was spring the temperature was like a hot August day in Ottawa.
The driver was a locally-engaged Indian in a dark cotton outfit that was a cross between a suit and a uniform. His bearing and presence suggested a military past---perhaps as a sergeant major.
Until we got well out of New Delhi, the roads were clogged with every kind of motorized vehicle---from two wheels to eighteen---and ox-drawn carts. Every vehicle that had a horn used it almost constantly.
Once out in the country, I was astonished to see large green fields. We had been hearing a great deal about India's dreams for a 'green revolution' that would allow the country to feed its people without importing food. Using plant breeding, irrigation and chemical fertilizers---the dreams went---India would turn its dry dusty lands into green productive fields.
From what I had read---much of it from British media while we lived in England, which were often biased against anything Indian, perhaps because of the bitter fight for independence---it sounded like this was a pipe dream. The climate and land were too harsh and 'the Indian people simply weren't up to it'.
And yet, here were fields of very healthy looking wheat.
The green revolution was, of course, a great success.
I suppose I should add that there are now reports of some environmental problems because of the over-use of irrigation and fertilization.
Some more challenges for the Indian nation, but when you have more than a billion people with over 200 languages, challenges aren't something new.
000
Around noon, the driver said that the wife of the Officer-in-charge had packed a lunch in a cooler. He asked if we would like to pull over and have lunch in a shady spot.
We agreed and he turned off the main road into a village, looking for a suitable spot for a picnic lunch.
He suddenly put on the brakes and jumped out of the car. He marched toward a large tree with an enormous, umbrella-shaped crown that provided a wide circle of shade.
The only problem was that there were about 50 men sitting under the tree, some leaning back against the broad trunk.
Phyllis and I looked at each other. Were we to have our picnic in the midst of all these men?
Just then the driver started shouting and waving his arms at the men. We couldn't understand the words but the gestures were obvious---they were to clear off.
The men resisted, arguing with the driver, but they eventually picked themselves up and walked slowly into the sun.
Proud of what he had accomplished, the driver came back and gestured to the now vacant area.
"Good shade", he said.
We protested that we couldn't take the shade away from these men. It wasn't right.
"No, it's the way we do things. Come."
Getting the cooler and a blanket from the back of the van, he strode over to the tree and set up our picnic.
We sat down and opened the cooler. It was full of sandwiches, salads, fruit and ice-cold beer---a welcome sight for two hungry and thirsty people.
We looked up from the cooler and saw that the men who had been driven from under the tree were now assembled in a circle just outside the shade of the tree---sitting in the full sun---staring at us.
Meanwhile, the driver had gone back to the minivan, turned on the engine to run the air conditioner, and settled down for a snooze.
Phyllis and I took a bite of a sandwich, as dozens of dark eyes watched us.
We looked at each other and decided that we couldn't do it.
We tried to explain to the driver why we couldn't picnic under the tree. He just shook his head as much as to say, 'If you were recruits in my platoon you would be doing a hundred push-ups!'
Back in the car, and on our way to Agra, we ate the excellent lunch and drank the refreshing beer.
000
In Agra, the driver found us an English-speaking guide, a wiry old man with very few teeth and those that he did have were stained bright red from---we later learned---chewing betel nuts. He waved for us to follow him, and set off through crowded, narrow streets.
H e said he would tell us about the history of the Taj as we walked to it. His English was passable but his descriptions were delivered in a sing-song, 'pre-recorded' spiel that was hard to follow and almost impossible to interrupt.
According to the guide, the Taj was built in the 1600s by Shah Jahan, a king of India, in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Just before her death, Mumtaz asked that a beautiful tomb be built so that she would not be forgotten.
As we walked, we were approached by beggars---young children with dirty, skimpy clothing and mothers clutching babies.
The babies were heart-breaking---tiny things, many of them with yellow-crusted eyes. Flies buzzed around the babies, some landing on the crusted eyes.
Shouting and waving his arms at the beggars, the guide told us, "Don't give them anything---it will just bring on more of them."
The noise of the crowded streets, the heat and dust, and the beggars began to get to us as we wound down yet another alley. I wondered if this had been a good idea.
Just then, we rounded a corner and started toward a stone arch. As we walked on, we had our first view of the Taj---perfectly framed by the arched doorway.
As we went through the arch, the beggars fell behind, and the dust and heat were forgotten.
We walked along the paths leading to the Taj, paths that had once been covered with oriental rugs.
I won't attempt to describe the Taj, except to say that I haven't seen anything so beautiful---to me, it is Beethoven's Ninth in marble.
After we had drunk our fill of the Taj, the guide took us back to the car.
As we went, he told us we must come back some December during full moon to see the Taj at night. He said that the Taj is even more beautiful at night with the silvery light of a full moon glistening off the marble.
I told myself that it would be wonderful to visit the Taj with Pat some December.
It hasn't happened yet but I'm still working on it.
Who knows......
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #68 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
POSTING #66
"Watch Old Joe"
It was the fall of 1963 and I was getting ready to conduct my first Canadian Immigration film show in London--- having just been reassigned from Leeds to London-- when an office colleague tapped me on the shoulder.
"See that guy coming in? We call him Old Joe (not his real name), he's a Canadian who lives here and asks really tough questions."
Joe looked to be in his 60s, tallish, slight, mainly bald with some long wisps of brown hair that could have been used for a 'combed over' look but had been blown askew. He had on a brown trench coat that looked as though it had seen many years and not many dry-cleaners. Under the coat was a rumpled suit and a tired tie.
Tucked under his arm was a folded-up copy of the pink Financial Times.
My colleague added, "Watch old Joe."
The show was being held in Caxton Hall, a much larger auditorium than I had been used to in the north of England, with room for 300 or so people on the main floor and a balcony on three sides.
As I stood on the stage ready to start the show I saw Joe in the balcony, near the stage, just on my right.
I showed two films about Canada, gave my talk and then invited questions.
Joe stood up and boomed out, "Could you comment on the latest gross provincial product figures for Alberta?"
Whew!!
I studied political science at university, not economics, and didn't have a really good handle on the concept of 'gross provincial product'.
And I hadn't seen any recent figures on Alberta.
I thanked Joe for the question and---deciding that honesty was the best policy---said that I hadn't seen the latest figures on Alberta.
But, I went on, it was clear that Alberta had an excellent future. I told about taking a train trip from Edmonton to Calgary and seeing on one side of the train a field with cattle grazing amid machines that were pumping oil from underground wells, while on the other side was an enormous field of ripening wheat.
I mentioned the tar sands in Northern Alberta that reportedly had as much petroleum as Saudi Arabia, but were waiting for a technology to be developed to extract the oil.
Then I took another question.
After the show, Joe came up to me.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you with my question."
"No, it was fine."
"It's just that Alberta is going to boom and these people could do so much better in Canada."
We chatted for a few moments and then I had to excuse myself to talk to a member of the audience who wanted some information on his prospects in Canada.
I met Joe at other film shows. He always asked a tough question that he thought would help us make the point that Canada was a great place to live.
And we always had a chat.
I learned that he spent his days studying the London Metal Market, focusing primarily on the sale and purchase of scrap metal. He explained that virtually everything that happened around the world could affect scrap metal prices---weather, political crises, economic problems, fashions etc. He had to understand what was going on---he said that the ever-present Financial Times was his window on the World.
His knowledge was encyclopedic---I had never met anyone who was so well-informed about what was going on in the world.
As we became better acquainted, he told me that he had an English partner, a wealthy man who used Joe's recommendations about which metals to buy and sell. He implied that the investments had done well, but it was obvious that if they had, he chose not to spend his returns on clothes.
At one point, Pat and I were having a representational dinner for journalists, travel company officials and other people I worked with.
I invited Joe to join us.
He seemed pleased, and I got the impression that he didn't receive many invitations to dinner.
When he arrived at our home, he was dressed just the same as at a film show---sort of 'unkempt genteel'.
At first he was a bit quiet but as the evening progressed he joined in the discussions, and seemed to enjoy himself.
Some time later, he invited us to Orpheus in the Underworld at the Royal Opera Hall in Covent Garden. He said he had invited his business partner and his wife as well, and suggested we have dinner before the performance at 'his club'.
The partner and his wife---in their early 50s---were well polished, 'old-money' people probably from a wealthy community outside of London.
At one point during the dinner, Joe and his partner went off to the washroom. They were an odd looking couple---one immaculately dressed and self-confident, the other a little scruffy and ill at ease. But they seemed to have a good relationship and it was clear that the partner respected Joe's expertise in the metal market.
After they had gone, the partner's wife leaned over to us.
"I suppose Joe has told you that he and my husband are partners. I just wanted to tell you that they are NOT partners. My husband has an investment business and Joe simply provides him with tips from time to time."
It was clear that she didn't have much time for Joe---that he wasn't one of them.
The club was more modest than the famous London clubs like Garrick's but the ambiance and dinner were excellent.
As was the Orpheus.
The seats couldn't have been better, just a few rows from the stage and right in the middle.
Joe obviously enjoyed the music, the singing and the acting. While other members of the audience were applauding with gentle enthusiasm, he expressed his pleasure and appreciation for fine performances by bellowing 'Bravo, Bravo'.
I could see the partner's wife cringing.
We enjoyed the evening but it left us with more questions about Joe.
What was the story on him?
Joe was not very forthcoming about his past but over time I began to piece together some parts of his story.
His family had migrated from Poland to western Canada before World War I. In time, his dad became a successful cattle farmer.
In the late 1930s his father saw an opportunity to export some breeding-stock cattle to Poland. Joe and his dad arrived in Poland in September 1939 with a shipment of cattle, just as Germany was invading the country---and, of course, setting off the Second World War.
Unable to leave Poland, they went to live on a farm with some relatives, hoping that the war would soon be over.
Somehow, British Intelligence agents found out about them and recruited them to spy for Britain.
Unfortunately, they were caught by the Germans and jailed.
I once asked Joe what the jail was like, was it like a prisoner of war camp?
Joe blew up.
"No, no, no! Prisoner of war camps were tough but the jails were unbelievable. There were no Red Cross inspections, no parcels from home.
"No one had any rights. The guards could do anything they wanted to us---and they did."
He wouldn't talk about the brutality of the guards except to say at one time,
"I have looked up the a--hole of humanity".
He added that although he accepted that humanity could be brutal he preferred to focus on the better side of humanity.
For him, he said, that was friendship.
And the friendship he was talking about, he told me, was summed up in this saying: "Friendship never demands, it just gives".
After the war, he settled in London, perhaps with the help of British Intelligence. (I never learned what happened to his father.)
When, in 1966, it came time for us to return to Canada, I gave Joe the news at a film show.
We had a good chat and agreed to stay in touch. He said I could send him letters care of the Canadian High Commission on Trafalgar Square.
I was puzzled why he didn't give me the address of the place where he lived. Was he embarrassed about where he lived? Or was the ex-spy simply being careful, protecting his privacy?
In the end, I didn't write to him.
And I feel guilty.
And frustrated---frustrated that I don't know, and can't tell you, 'The rest of the story' about Joe.
There are so many unanswered questions.
What kind of spying was he doing in Poland? How was he caught by the Germans? Why did he stay in England after the war when his love for Canada was so clear? Had he married? Did he have a family? Where did he live? How could he afford a club and tickets to the opera? What happened to him after 1966 when I left England?
On and on.
Perhaps a reader somewhere will recognize Joe from my descriptions and will be able to tell me (and through me, you) more about this complex man who passionately loved Canada and whose life was so terribly scarred by the war.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #67 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
It was the fall of 1963 and I was getting ready to conduct my first Canadian Immigration film show in London--- having just been reassigned from Leeds to London-- when an office colleague tapped me on the shoulder.
"See that guy coming in? We call him Old Joe (not his real name), he's a Canadian who lives here and asks really tough questions."
Joe looked to be in his 60s, tallish, slight, mainly bald with some long wisps of brown hair that could have been used for a 'combed over' look but had been blown askew. He had on a brown trench coat that looked as though it had seen many years and not many dry-cleaners. Under the coat was a rumpled suit and a tired tie.
Tucked under his arm was a folded-up copy of the pink Financial Times.
My colleague added, "Watch old Joe."
The show was being held in Caxton Hall, a much larger auditorium than I had been used to in the north of England, with room for 300 or so people on the main floor and a balcony on three sides.
As I stood on the stage ready to start the show I saw Joe in the balcony, near the stage, just on my right.
I showed two films about Canada, gave my talk and then invited questions.
Joe stood up and boomed out, "Could you comment on the latest gross provincial product figures for Alberta?"
Whew!!
I studied political science at university, not economics, and didn't have a really good handle on the concept of 'gross provincial product'.
And I hadn't seen any recent figures on Alberta.
I thanked Joe for the question and---deciding that honesty was the best policy---said that I hadn't seen the latest figures on Alberta.
But, I went on, it was clear that Alberta had an excellent future. I told about taking a train trip from Edmonton to Calgary and seeing on one side of the train a field with cattle grazing amid machines that were pumping oil from underground wells, while on the other side was an enormous field of ripening wheat.
I mentioned the tar sands in Northern Alberta that reportedly had as much petroleum as Saudi Arabia, but were waiting for a technology to be developed to extract the oil.
Then I took another question.
After the show, Joe came up to me.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you with my question."
"No, it was fine."
"It's just that Alberta is going to boom and these people could do so much better in Canada."
We chatted for a few moments and then I had to excuse myself to talk to a member of the audience who wanted some information on his prospects in Canada.
I met Joe at other film shows. He always asked a tough question that he thought would help us make the point that Canada was a great place to live.
And we always had a chat.
I learned that he spent his days studying the London Metal Market, focusing primarily on the sale and purchase of scrap metal. He explained that virtually everything that happened around the world could affect scrap metal prices---weather, political crises, economic problems, fashions etc. He had to understand what was going on---he said that the ever-present Financial Times was his window on the World.
His knowledge was encyclopedic---I had never met anyone who was so well-informed about what was going on in the world.
As we became better acquainted, he told me that he had an English partner, a wealthy man who used Joe's recommendations about which metals to buy and sell. He implied that the investments had done well, but it was obvious that if they had, he chose not to spend his returns on clothes.
At one point, Pat and I were having a representational dinner for journalists, travel company officials and other people I worked with.
I invited Joe to join us.
He seemed pleased, and I got the impression that he didn't receive many invitations to dinner.
When he arrived at our home, he was dressed just the same as at a film show---sort of 'unkempt genteel'.
At first he was a bit quiet but as the evening progressed he joined in the discussions, and seemed to enjoy himself.
Some time later, he invited us to Orpheus in the Underworld at the Royal Opera Hall in Covent Garden. He said he had invited his business partner and his wife as well, and suggested we have dinner before the performance at 'his club'.
The partner and his wife---in their early 50s---were well polished, 'old-money' people probably from a wealthy community outside of London.
At one point during the dinner, Joe and his partner went off to the washroom. They were an odd looking couple---one immaculately dressed and self-confident, the other a little scruffy and ill at ease. But they seemed to have a good relationship and it was clear that the partner respected Joe's expertise in the metal market.
After they had gone, the partner's wife leaned over to us.
"I suppose Joe has told you that he and my husband are partners. I just wanted to tell you that they are NOT partners. My husband has an investment business and Joe simply provides him with tips from time to time."
It was clear that she didn't have much time for Joe---that he wasn't one of them.
The club was more modest than the famous London clubs like Garrick's but the ambiance and dinner were excellent.
As was the Orpheus.
The seats couldn't have been better, just a few rows from the stage and right in the middle.
Joe obviously enjoyed the music, the singing and the acting. While other members of the audience were applauding with gentle enthusiasm, he expressed his pleasure and appreciation for fine performances by bellowing 'Bravo, Bravo'.
I could see the partner's wife cringing.
We enjoyed the evening but it left us with more questions about Joe.
What was the story on him?
Joe was not very forthcoming about his past but over time I began to piece together some parts of his story.
His family had migrated from Poland to western Canada before World War I. In time, his dad became a successful cattle farmer.
In the late 1930s his father saw an opportunity to export some breeding-stock cattle to Poland. Joe and his dad arrived in Poland in September 1939 with a shipment of cattle, just as Germany was invading the country---and, of course, setting off the Second World War.
Unable to leave Poland, they went to live on a farm with some relatives, hoping that the war would soon be over.
Somehow, British Intelligence agents found out about them and recruited them to spy for Britain.
Unfortunately, they were caught by the Germans and jailed.
I once asked Joe what the jail was like, was it like a prisoner of war camp?
Joe blew up.
"No, no, no! Prisoner of war camps were tough but the jails were unbelievable. There were no Red Cross inspections, no parcels from home.
"No one had any rights. The guards could do anything they wanted to us---and they did."
He wouldn't talk about the brutality of the guards except to say at one time,
"I have looked up the a--hole of humanity".
He added that although he accepted that humanity could be brutal he preferred to focus on the better side of humanity.
For him, he said, that was friendship.
And the friendship he was talking about, he told me, was summed up in this saying: "Friendship never demands, it just gives".
After the war, he settled in London, perhaps with the help of British Intelligence. (I never learned what happened to his father.)
When, in 1966, it came time for us to return to Canada, I gave Joe the news at a film show.
We had a good chat and agreed to stay in touch. He said I could send him letters care of the Canadian High Commission on Trafalgar Square.
I was puzzled why he didn't give me the address of the place where he lived. Was he embarrassed about where he lived? Or was the ex-spy simply being careful, protecting his privacy?
In the end, I didn't write to him.
And I feel guilty.
And frustrated---frustrated that I don't know, and can't tell you, 'The rest of the story' about Joe.
There are so many unanswered questions.
What kind of spying was he doing in Poland? How was he caught by the Germans? Why did he stay in England after the war when his love for Canada was so clear? Had he married? Did he have a family? Where did he live? How could he afford a club and tickets to the opera? What happened to him after 1966 when I left England?
On and on.
Perhaps a reader somewhere will recognize Joe from my descriptions and will be able to tell me (and through me, you) more about this complex man who passionately loved Canada and whose life was so terribly scarred by the war.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #67 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
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