The Hames Report

It Started With A Kiss...

So goes the first line of a popular song by the group Hot Chocolate - music dating from the early eighties. Let me assure you that this post has nothing to do with kissing or sex – or even hot chocolate come to that. Its just a teasing title. My saga actually started with a visa! But (like it says in the song) I never thought it would come to this!

I spend a great deal of my time working with governments, trying to navigate around bureaucratic blockages. Public servants cutely refer to the garbage they create as due process. From experience I have become acutely aware of how this management factory can slow things down, especially when bureaucracy is held up to be an art form. But I've also become surprisingly adept at figuring out how to take legitimate shortcuts. Or so I thought...

So it came as no surprise when it took me a little longer than expected to renew my Indian visa. Little did I realize, however, that the process upon which I was about to embark would be so inflexible and frustrating. I had a couple of weeks to go before I needed to be in Chennai for one of my clients. Plenty of time. I easily located the Indian Consulate in Bangkok. It was just down the road from where I live. What could be more convenient?

When I arrived at the security gate I learned they had recently outsourced the visa service to a third party. No problems. The new office was only a short motorbike taxi ride away. But here I encountered my first tiny glitch. As it turned out this was a sign of bigger and better things to come.

Thai nationals, you see, can process their visa within a day. Very efficient. Foreigners, however, need a minimum of five working days. There was no express facility. No under-the-table service. Fine. No stress. Clearly organizing my visa in Bangkok was out of the question. I would need to revise my plans. Again, no worries. I was travelling to Melbourne in three days. I would get it done there where, as an Australian citizen, I would presumably be able to get the visa within the three days I would be in town.

I arrived in Melbourne on Sunday evening late. Early the following morning I went online to locate the Indian Consulate in Melbourne. It was in Coburg. I would need a taxi. I tried calling the designated number to ascertain office hours. After all I didn’t want to make the journey only to discover they were closed. I tried several times but in  vain. The line seemed to be permanently diverted. I would need to take a punt on the office being open.

I was staying with friends. Charles was dropping Veronica in the city and offered to drive me to Coburg. I accepted. I had just three hours to get this task over and done with. I would leave my passport at the Consulate and pick it up again on Wednesday afternoon when I had only one appointment. I was flying out to Singapore that evening.

I took a ticket, grabbed a visa application form and awaited my turn in the queue. My number was 521. The light box flashed 497. I waited. And waited. Number 502 must have been a student of philosophy as he was questioning every clause in agonising detail. 503. 504. 505 - an entire family. 506. 507. By this time I had been waiting about half an hour and was getting slightly tetchy.

Twenty eight minutes later my number was called. I leapt to the counter eager to lodge my application and get to my first appointment of the day.

I am so sorry sir. You have come to the wrong office. We recently outsourced our visa service. You need to go to Docklands. This information was conveyed with the usual Indian charm and much nodding of the head. I smiled through gritted teeth. Okay. If I could hail a taxi on the street I could get to Docklands, which was back in the city, and lodge my application. I might just get to my appointment on time.

As luck would have it a mother with two young children in tow was just alighting from a cab at the entrance to the Consulate. Perfect. I hopped in and gave instructions to the driver. Within a few minutes my new acquaintance, coincidentally one of the many Indian students in Melbourne, had managed to manoeuvre his way into the only traffic jam in the entire city. We weren’t moving. We were well and truly stuck. The minutes ticked by…

Patiently I explained an alternative route to the driver who, judging from the gist of the conversation, had now adopted me as his new best buddy. He was born in Mumbai, had three brothers, studied business at RMIT, had a girlfriend back in India and another one here…. By the time we reached Docklands I had enough information to produce an entire cautionary tale on this young man’s life.

As I bolted from the cab he shouted something after me. But it was pouring with rain. I waved a brusque farewell and escaped to the welcoming warmth of the foyer. Most of this new building was unoccupied so it was quite easy to find the Indian Visa Service. I rummaged around for my passport. Strange. I always keep it in my left jacket pocket when I am travelling. That is the only pocket that buttons up. But it wasn’t there.

I must have turned an ashen shade because two young women rushed to my side as though I was about to cark it. My passport, I heard myself intoning several times like some disturbed inmate from an asylum. I’ve lost my passport!

Are you sure it isn’t in your other pocket sir?

Now you must appreciate dear reader that a question of that nature, posed at that particular moment, was destined only to inflame the situation. Of course it isn’t in my pocket, I snapped back.

No sir, it is here. My best buddy had entered the room holding my passport triumphantly above his head. You left it in my taxi dear sir. I tried to call you but you did not hear me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor guy the truth. Thanks. Thanks a lot, I croaked. He chuckled quietly to himself and waited. Thankyou, I said. More warmly this time. Will you be needing my services further dear sir? No that’s fine. I’ll manage, I heard myself stutter.

I turned around. There was no queue! I strode past the ticket dispenser right up to the counter. Good morning. I need a visa.

Now if you have been paying attention, dear reader, you will no doubt have guessed what comes next in my fable. The tall Indian gentleman on the other side of the counter started nodding his head from side to side. My heart sank. We need five working days sir…

I didn’t hear the remainder of what he said. I turned and slunk out of the office. Fortunately I had five days at home the following week. Theoretically I would be able to go back to the consulate in Bangkok and get the visa – two days before I left for Chennai. But there was no leeway for any further stuff ups!

Monday morning. Back in Bangkok. I was second in the queue - behind a German who wanted to go to Goa on the way back to Munich. I quickly filled in the application form, had my photograph taken and paid the fee required for a multiple entry visa. I was handed a receipt by a charming young Thai man with impeccable English who told me to return on Friday morning before 10am with my passport.

This I duly did. Then around 4pm I went back to the visa office to collect my passport complete with visa. Painless really. Except that I then did something really foolish. I sat down and worked out how much it had actually cost me, in time and money, to get this visa which I needed for a single day’s visit to Chennai.

The visa itself was 1,200 baht. Service charge 400 baht. All up around $55. Actually getting the visa was far more expensive. My new best buddy charged me $22.60 for one of the most memorable cab rides in history. I gave him a $10 tip from a visibly shaken yet grateful passenger for returning my passport. Petrol in Bangkok going to and from the consulate a total of three times? Minimal. Let’s just write that off.

But my time… I invoice my thinking time and offsite preparation time for clients at around $800 an hour – about half my normal per diem. I clocked up a total of 3 hours and 22 minutes before I had a visa stamped in my passport. A grand total of $2,753.60!

So I would like to thank all the government bureaucracies around the world for making life so complicated. A special thanks from those of us who constantly traverse your increasingly meaningless borders. You make the task of visiting your countries almost unfathomably crazy. Let’s be honest. Visas have absolutely nothing to do with national security or the prevention of terrorism. They are simply an archaic excuse for legalized extortion and should have no place in a globalized world. You know it and we know it.

By the way, does anyone know to whom I should send my invoice? Obviously I wish to claim compliance expenses to the tune of $2,698.60. Should I send it to the Indian Ambassador here do you think? Yes. I am sure that would be it. I’ll mail my invoice tomorrow.

Strange though. I never really thought it would come to this!

FOOTNOTE:
I have just had to deal with the French Consulate in Bangkok in order to get a Schengen Visa for my wife. In their wisdom the French bureaucracy now insists that all interaction with them be via email or their website. No telephone bookings are accepted. Nor do their security personnel speak French (or English come to that). My anguish is a more frustrating story than even my Indian visa saga! But as you probably wouldn't believe it I will leave this story for another time!

Ripped and Torn

Everybody loves rules, right? Especially me. (Okay, okay. I knew I couldn’t get away with that one). But even I acknowledge some rules are necessary. They help to make our society what it is. Right? They create order and ensure that we don’t slide into utter chaos. Rules are fine! But is it not also true that rules were meant to be broken? If African-Americans hadn’t said ‘no’ to segregation, they would still be sitting at the back of the bus. If the Monty Python team hadn't said 'no' to political correctness, 'The Life of Brian' would never have made it onto our screens. And the history of scientific discoveries and technological innovation is littered with broken rules.

The point is that rules should not be rigidly set in stone. Many are temporary mechanisms that can and should change with the times. They can also occasionally be downright wrong! Right? So, let me just tell you about one rule I encountered recently. I’ll let you decide whether it should be broken or not.

During a recent trip to Singapore, my wife and I decided to have dinner at one of the city’s more in-vogue establishments. This was Suna’s first visit to Singapore and I thought we’d splash out a bit; do something different, something memorable. I bought her a new posh frock, yellow with white lace trimmings, and I wore my new Guess spectacles (metallic red with white embossed branding) for the occasion, together with a smart brown check jacket that had been tailored for me in Paris. We looked the part, if you know what I mean! Even the Beckhams would have been impressed! But we had no contingency plans for what happened next.

Having made a reservation from our hotel we turned up at the duly appointed time - only to be refused entry! I know, can you believe it, me Richard Hames, best-selling author, mentor to the stars and all-round nice guy, was refused entry. To a restaurant! This wasn’t London's Dorchester mind you. It wasn't Jamie Oliver's joint, or even Keith Floyd's new eatery in Phuket; just an upmarket spot in downtown Singapore.

Shocking isn’t it? And the reason for this unprecedented refusal of entry? I was wearing ripped jeans. I kid you not! And I don’t just mean old, really worn out, faded and tattered jeans. Oh dear me no. I was wearing expensive, fashionably ripped, Von Dutch jeans. (Okay, sometimes I am just too fashionable for my own good!)

Upon entering this swanky hotspot, we were greeted by a congenial waitress who, eyeing us up and down and keeping strictly to the rules she’d obviously learned by heart, politely informed me that I would not be allowed to enter the establishment dressed 'like that'. My wife was perfectly at liberty to dine there – but it would be without me! The waitress showed absolutely no interest whatsoever in confiscating my iPod, mind you. My immaculately messed up hair didn't rate a second glance. Even my slightly scuffed shoes escaped her attention. No. Her gaze was fixed on my torn, dark blue, perfectly fitted, designer jeans...

‘But these are not just any old ripped jeans’ I fumed, trying to contain my irritation. ‘They are designer ripped jeans. It costs a small fortune to get them looking like this!’ ‘Yes sir, I know. But rules are rules’ the humanoid sentinel replied, smiling.

Not to be outdone I looked around for a comparison. ‘Look at that guy over there’, I protested. ‘He’s wearing a dirty old tee shirt and daggy tracksuit pants’. She still wasn’t swayed. ‘And that young girl in the really short skirt and spaghetti strap top. She is showing more flesh than the sliver of skin you can barely see through my ripped jeans!’ The guardian of the restaurant’s honour remained unfazed. The smile had congealed to a waxen gaze. ‘Other customers may be offended by your attire’, she insisted. ‘But its darker in here than the other side of the moon, no one will notice’. She gave me a ‘listen mate, these are the rules, face it, you’re not coming in’ kind of stare and I reluctantly accepted defeat. Further confrontation would merely have upset my wife who, being a polite Thai woman, tries to avoid such confrontations at any cost.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do not expect special treatment (although I really should get it for being so amazingly awesome). However, having a rule stating that people wearing ripped designer jeans should be barred from entry but if you’re wearing luminous orange sweat pants and a purple dinner jacket you’re good to go, is a bit silly. Actually it’s the height of stupidity. Obviously for a place as exclusive as this one should expect some sort of dress code. But in the end it should surely be left to common sense and discretion.

As far as I know ripped jeans do not offend anyone other than fundamentalist shi’ite terrorists and a few bigoted mothers-in-law over the age of 100 (please do write and tell me if you are one of only a handful of out-of-touch, prudish, ignorant retards offended by ripped designer jeans) and as such I think its about time that someone changed the rules down there.

As for my wife and I, we had some spicy North Indian food in a small family restaurant just off Orchard Road. Let me know if you’d like the address – we would recommended it warmly to anyone looking for a relaxed evening out with great service and great food.

Of course you won’t find any smiling waitresses enforcing a silly dress code there. But then, like us, you’re probably not too fussed about that…

Get Me To A Hospital. Now!

It is generally accepted that medical practitioners, especially psychiatrists and dentists if the statistics are accurate, (and of course weirdos and eggheads) make for the worst patients. I fall into the latter category. Not the weirdo variety but the egghead type!

I hate getting ill. But when I succumb to the odd infirmity I know what is wrong with me. I do not need anyone else giving me morbid advice on how much longer I will need to suffer or the intricate details of possibly horrendous consequences. After all I will have spent hours researching every aspect of my condition on the Internet. I know my own body better than any busy physician. Come to think of it when would they find the time to keep up with all the new knowledge in their discipline? No, no, no. These days it is far better to rely on one’s own instincts and research (I invariably manage to convince myself).

As you might expect I rarely volunteer to see a doctor. Even the sight of a tongue spatula can freak me out. I much prefer to suffer in silence. I am not alone. Many people share that attitude. A recent Newspoll commissioned by the National Heart Foundation of Australia found that of the people surveyed in New South Wales, 56 per cent would not call an ambulance if they were suffering the warning signs of a heart attack. Presumably these people believe it is better not to know if they are just about to cark it! If one pretends it isn’t happening then perhaps, just perhaps, the pain will go away….  I know. That’s my logic too.

And if I’m coerced into hospital by a pitiless relative I quickly make it known that I need to approve every detail of my treatment before it happens, including what the young, pimply and obviously inexperienced doctor thinks is wrong with me, why that fearsome-looking instrument is being pointed in my direction, what the masked assistant intends doing with it, and what alternatives there are for my symptoms.

I am a doctor’s nightmare. If I am told to open my mouth I gag instantly. If I am told to swallow a pill I turn this simple task into a long drawn out epic. I leave nothing to chance. Armed with reams of information, much of which I will have committed to memory, I will obligingly counsel the attending physician about my symptomatology, suggesting quite forcefully the medication he should prescribe - and expecting nothing less than precise compliance with my wishes. I know what is wrong with me damn it!

At least, that was my view until recently. Out of nowhere I developed an ear infection and, much against my better judgment, was reluctantly persuaded to go to my local hospital for some antibiotics. Remember I live in a third world country and so this brave decision took on an element of recklessness that surprised even me. What I had failed to understand was that hospitals in Bangkok lead the world in patient care and service. Sounds like the beginning of an advertisement doesn’t it?  But I am serious. After this experience I knew, perhaps for the first time in my life, what is really meant by that overused phrase - excellent patient care.

When I entered the hospital, which was buzzing with activity, there was no queue to join and only one simple form to complete. More importantly I was made to feel like a guest, being greeted with broad smiles and a respectful ‘wai’ by everyone I encountered. Within minutes I had been personally escorted to the relevant department where my vital signs were recorded. I saw a specialist physician (a young woman) within eight minutes. Can you imagine!?

After some preliminary chat about Melbourne (my doctor had been trained at the Monash Medical Centre and was ‘homesick’ for a fair dinkum meat pie at game of footy!) I explained my symptoms and she keyed my details into her PC. After gently examining my ears she agreed with my diagnosis and wrote a prescription. This was conveyed to the pharmacy by a nurse on roller blades (I kid you not) who made it back to the lounge with my medication within four minutes.

I walked out of the hospital 30 minutes later with a course of antibiotics and expanding foam ear plugs which had been inserted to assist the spread of some additional ear drops. I also had a new plastic smartcard with my personal details embedded in it. More importantly I had felt no fear.

Bumrungrad International Hospital is what all hospitals should be like, I mused, as two nurses wished me a pleasant day, smiling and waving as I hopped into the waiting taxi. It was by far the best medical experience I have ever had. I can’t wait to get sick again! And I doubt that I will bother to research my symptoms ever again...