The Longest 15 Minutes

This post is entirely out of order with my other planned Ladakh posts, but it's all the energy I could muster this morning before work....

Leh is situated at an elevation of 11,500 feet, which means that its airport also rests at or near that same height. All flights in and out of Leh are early in the morning to reduce the chance of weather impacting the flight. As an example, our short Jet Airways flight landed in Leh at 7:55am. That was the later of two choices, the first had departed Delhi at 5:30am and arrived before 7.

Outside arrivals at the airport in Leh where I'm not sure photography is allowed

This isn't a story about landing at the high airport (though the flight from Delhi to Leh is magnificent, we had clear views of the Himalayas nearly the entire way and you land between two mountain ranges that seem closer than they need to be). This is a story of our flight back in Delhi. The only "odd" thing about leaving Leh is the strict security at the airport (they encourage you to carry nothing on the plane except valuables). Off course, given the fact you're technically in Kashmir in a city with a heavy military presence, the strict security makes sense.

The flight back to Delhi was uneventful until our approach. As we descended near the airport, we entered a very dark cloud which happened to be a monsoon rain cloud hovering over the airport. Almost immediately, the plane hit heavy turbulence and was violently shaken. Quickly, we felt the plane gain altitude again. My first aborted landing.

A couple minutes later the captain came on the loudspeaker with the following message (and I'm paraphrasing for the most part here as Jet refused my request to listen to the little black box):

"As you could probably tell, there were heavy rain storms situated above the airport in Delhi and we've had to abort our landing. We'll be making a quick circle over the region and then give it another try."

He continued, and this isn't a paraphrase, this is a direct quote:

"We have fifteen minutes of fuel left."

And then there was silence. He didn't say "we have 15 minutes of EXTRA fuel before we need to land at a different airport"; he didn't say something more general like, "there are extreme weather issues in Delhi, we're going to stay in the area for a short time before heading to an alternative and safer location to land." He was specific. The reaction on the plane was a nice mix of bewildered looks between people where they were obviously thinking "did he just say that" and outright nervousness.

Strangely, in the moment I wasn't worried about death (regardless of how remote that chance actually was). I was worried that I had 1300 (in my humble opinion) awesome photos documenting an unbelievable trip that our family and friends might never see.

That thought quickly vanished as we made a run at another landing. The heaviest of the clouds had cleared, and as you can rightly assume since you're reading this post, the plane landed without issue.

Note: Not a good month for the Luth children and planes as my younger sister and her husband were on a flight from Moline to Denver that had to make an emergency landing somewhere in South Dakota, fire trucks and all. I think she wins the "who had the worst flight" award.

As we were taxiing, our friend Judith heard a passenger in the row behind us nervously state, "that was seventeen minutes."

I guess we'll never know how close we were.

The Ease of Indian Air Travel

One underrated aspect of Indian travel is that most airline tickets are refundable. Not entirely refundable, but with a reasonable fee (typically somewhere between Rs. 250 - 1000 per direction), you can get out of a ticket. With the Indian Airlines faction of the Air India pilots striking, this refundable property came in quite handy over the weekend.

I bought tickets for a quick day trip up to Amritsar to hit the two major sites in and around the Punjabi city: the Golden Temple and the Wagah ceremony at the Pakistani border. We were scheduled on JetLite (the discount version of Jet Airways) for the trip there and Air India for the return. Originally, I had decided on the Air India flight because it was just under Rs. 1500 (like $35 per ticket), and it's just fun to say you can buy a one-way ticket for $35 so I jumped at the opportunity. Unfortunately, on Wednesday came the strike.

In light of the strike, which hit random flights, the group I was buying tickets for (which consisted of the wife, my Indian boss, and my American boss, also known as three people I should probably try to keep happy) decided to error on the side of "let's make sure we get back to Delhi on Saturday night". Thankfully, for around $20 per person, we were able to make the switch and get onto a Kingfisher flight back an hour earlier. The most surprising thing was that Kingfisher had done the right thing and elected not to gouge potential customers. Even buying the ticket the day before the flight, the price remained constant (about Rs. 4000) to the one I had ignored ten days previously in favor of Air India.

The airport seemed busier than usual. The non-Air India counters were full so it took more time than usual, but it was faster than it could have been since my Indian boss somehow talked his way to a shorter line and we jumped over after were quickly checked in and through security. Our JetLite flight was ultimately delayed about 90 minutes, which was annoying but wasn't the end of the world. The dude I ultimately sat next to on the plane was headed back home to Amritsar for the first time in two years after working as a laborer in Australia. He had arrived in Delhi from Australia last night, had his Air India flight canceled, and was still in good spirits after spending the night in the airport and a fresh delay from a new airline.

Even with all these challenges, I've got to admit, the entire air travel process in India is easier and more customer friendly than that of the United States; that is, as long as you're fine with getting frisked, an act which is performed on 100% of air travelers in India.

Pat Downs All Around

I live in a country where I've heard of people using their work identification card to get through security at an airport and onto a domestic plane. Not some sort of government provided work identification card, but their privately-owned, company-provided card that they swipe for access into a building. My initial reaction was outrage. After all, what kind of place would allow me to use my work badge to get onto a plane? However, after thinking this one through a little more, I asked the question, "Who's the bigger threat - someone who is who their government provided ID says they are or someone potentially carrying hazardous materials?"

While my answer, to the average traveler, may make me sound risk-loving and somewhat careless, it's the obvious answer. I'd much rather someone be physically screened before they provide some sort of official identification. Granted, both are good, but let's be honest, if someone wants to do something bad on a plane and has the resources to do so, they're not likely to get tripped up with something as basic as an identification card.

Part of what makes me comfortable with my careless decision is that I also live in a country where every airline passenger gets patted down. There's no random selection; everyone gets patted down. Men pass through segregated metal detectors and stand on a platform for the wand and pat down; women pass through their segregated metal detector and into a partitioned area for the same.

Maybe I've been in India too long (after all, I got patted down on my way into brunch on Sunday), but I struggle with people's reaction to the TSA's new security procedure to pat passengers down. Granted, I haven't seen any footage of the pat downs so I have no idea whether it's as invasive a measure as some passengers cite. I tried to watch an NBC News feature online to get some idea; however, MSNBC would only show me the 30 second Tide laundry detergent commercial before telling me the segment was restricted for international IP addresses.

Maybe it's careless, but I guess what I'm saying is that if there is a security measure being taken which increases the chance that I walk off a plane, I'm good with that.

Back on American Soil (Sort of)

While Lindsay is touring the Midwest this week, I did the next best thing; attend the American Community Support Association's (ACSA) fourth of July celebration on the grounds of the American embassy. As a patriotic American, I felt it my duty to attend. I went with Kristin, the other expat from work, but was unable to extend the offer to my German friend Ben. While he lives in Cincinnati and is married to an American (which was one of the conditions listed for attendance), she is currently in Germany ("foreigners" could only attend if with their American citizen direct family member). He wondered if his Ohio driver's license would work; I told him probably not.

Upon arrival at the gate, my first thought was, "you know, there's a bunch of people who are obviously Americans waiting outside a gate at the American embassy on the fourth of July, this has the unfortunate potential to show up on CNN as a 'breaking news' headline." We were obviously Americans as we were forming a proper line to wait for our passports to be checked. The women in front of me heard the comment, turned around and said, "yeeeeeah" while slowly nodding her head. Obviously, I was not alone in my thoughts.

Safely inside and past security checks that seemed slightly more serious than the half-ass metal detectors I walk through on a daily basis to go into malls, hotels, or the office, you could have just as easily been at any celebration back in the states. There was an inordinate number of people that made the decision to wear shorts, kids running around with reckless abandon, and any number of staple cookout items (yes, including actual burgers made of beef). They even had watermelon and pie eating contests. I abstained, though I'm pretty sure I could have gone for the double and won both.

There was a free raffle with three or four winners for round-trip tickets to the states on Continental, which seemed generous. You had to be present to win (a couple people were not so they kept drawing names). Lindsay called right before so I had stepped into the indoor section so that I could hear. I thought about calling her back afterward and telling her my name had been called but I wasn't "present" and that her call had cost us a free ticket. But that would be mean.

Shortly after the fireworks display, it started to sprinkle, which was actually a nice respite from the humidity. A few minutes later, the sprinkle turned into the torrential downpour more closely associated with the monsoon season. We made it inside before the worst hit, waited out until it let up a bit, and decided to call the driver for a pick-up before too many other people made the same decision.

All in all and even with the visit from the monsoon, it was about as American a fourth of July as one can expect when half way around the world.

If you're an American living in Delhi or the NCR, the ACSA is basically a social club for government employees but they also have membership types for non-government U.S. citizens.

The "Issue" of Expat Pilots

It certainly didn't take long for someone to try and draw some conclusion between the nationality of the pilot in Saturday's tragic plane crash in Mangalore and the growing "issue" of expat pilots in India.

http://blogs.wsj.com/indiarealtime/2010/05/25/do-expat-pilots-deserve-scrutiny-after-mangalore-crash/

Prior to my assignment, I wasn't even aware of this phenomenon but have had the good fortune of meeting two of the pilots that the post below suggests might need more scrutiny. I don't agree. Personally, it seems a little soon and extremely inappropriate to draw any sort of conclusion that might insinuate that nationality had anything to do with causing a crash.

In my opinion, the cultural issues described below have little, if any, merit. Not to sound like the uni-lingual English-speaking yank that I am, but I was under the impression that all commercial air traffic control was conducted in English, whether you're in the US, India, Tanzania, or Argentina. Of course, my research is scant so I could be wrong.

Professionally, pilots are a little like surgeons; you want them to learn as long as you're not the customer. So the training issue is an interesting one. Obviously, there are other ways for pilots to get hours; however, it will be interesting to see what happens when we get to July 31, 2011 (which is the date by which expat pilots should be phased out). If there's not "a good plan in place to promote Indian pilots" by that time (and I'm defining "good plan" as one that leads to qualified pilots), I might need to rethink domestic travel plans.

The Kingfisher Experience (aka, Goa, Part I)

Five years ago while in India, we chose not to visit Goa and instead headed to Kerala, primarily basing that decision on Goa being known as one big beach resort and Kerala having more culture and history. This time around and having not left the National Capital Region (NCR) for nearly two months, we decided the beach resort was exactly what we needed.

I had only flown domestically from Delhi one time in the past and had two vivid memories; nearly having an iPod docking station confiscated at security because I had packed the cord in the checked baggage and couldn’t make the strange new machine “work” and having to visually identify our checked luggage once we went through security prior to it being loaded on the plane.  Since that experience, Delhi had opened a sparkling new domestic terminal from which our Kingfisher Airlines flight departed.

The check-in experience was surprisingly pleasant. As soon as we hopped out of the car a Kingfisher porter approached and helped get us into the terminal and didn’t even make it seem like a tip was required, which of course encouraged me to tip; maybe I am a sucker. No line to check-in and would have been the same at security; that is, if I had obeyed the signs and removed all electronics from my carry-on, not just the laptop. So it came as no surprise that my bag, which still containing two digital cameras, a bag of cords and adaptors, a Kindle, and an iPod dock (the same dock that caused such confusion years before), was pulled aside and forced to go through the x-ray a second time. Once inside security, we were met with a modern, clean facility with shops, food options, and laptop stations that put any of O’Hare’s terminals to shame (though I suppose that’s not saying too much).

The “gates” were really just holding pens on the ground level that resembled a bus terminal (I’m not saying that in a bad way). When a flight was ready to board, they called the flight number and passengers loaded a bus and were taxied out to the waiting plane. I had always found the “bus” approach somewhat inefficient and amateurish, but for some reason it seemed to work here.

The “Kingfisher Experience”, which passengers are reminded to enjoy on the welcome video from the company’s chairman, who portrays himself to be the Indian Richard Branson (for those unfamiliar with India, Kingfisher Airlines is a subsidiary of a conglomerate that also brews India’s most popular beer under the same name and logo) was truly that. It’s pretty much what I imagine flying in the ‘70’s to have been like, minus the smoking and drinking; hot meals are served for free, the plane is plastered with Scotch ads (which is somewhat ironic since alcohol is banned on flights within India but a good advertising opportunity for Indian Branson), and the stewards were all female and dressed from head to toe in red. Absolutely no complaints with Kingfisher; with the check-in experience, the flight, and what I found to be their practice of holding back exit row seats, I’d willingly pay a small premium to fly them again.

The flight departed fifteen or twenty minutes late; however, the arrival at Vasco de Gama airport in Goa was still on time. The checked bags (absolutely no liquids are allowed on flights within India, so if you’re traveling overnight, you’re basically checking a bag regardless of size) appeared quickly and we found the hotel placard with our name. The only travel hiccup of the day was a minor brainfart on my part and something I would mercilessly remind Lindsay of if she had done the same. As we were walking to the car, I allowed the hotel representative to take Lindsay’s bag and a somewhat similarly dressed man took my bag as well.  Lindsay immediately asked, “Is that guy with the hotel?”  I mumbled, “yeah probably” as I was relieved of the labor intensive responsibility of wheeling a 22 inch roller no more than the length of a pool, thought for a few seconds, and finally asked the hotel guy (whom I would have thought as my thin defense would have proactively said something) who said, “Nope”. The guy with my bag was just a local looking for a tip that preys on unsuspecting tourists that I actively steer clear of in Delhi; at any rate, I not so politely got my bag back, felt like an idiot, and soon enough we were at the car.

The ride to the hotel was uneventful by Indian standards, which is to say our lives were at risk no more than one time every two minutes. We quickly left the main highway, which was actually a divided four lane road and drove through a few small villages. Goa has a Portuguese influence and brightly painted buildings of pink, purple, and orange seem to explode from the jungle. At that point though, we were ready to relax, and approximately eleven near death experiences later, we finally approached the gates of our destination, the Alila Diwa Goa.

More to come on the actual trip….fish markets, a concierge named Ranger, Russian tourists, screaming children, tawdry beach massages, and yet a beautiful and relaxing hotel.

Domestic Decisions

After much deliberation and probably too much conversation, we finalized our first weekend trip destination and are headed to Goa over the extended holiday weekend (Holi) at the end of February. While we'll miss the celebration of colors in the north, we're hoping to get a little color ourselves at or around the beach (I feel like my skin looks the same ashen shade as Kramer's when he took up smoking on that one "Seinfeld" episode).

I booked the trip online at the Indian Orbitz, MakeMyTrip.com; while it wasn't quite as simple as its unrelated American cousin, I was pleased with the overall experience.  I really have no knowledge of domestic Indian airline carriers other than Kingfisher and Jet Airways are well regarded and typically more expensive while budget carriers Go India, Indigo, and Spicejet are typically cheaper, as budget airlines tend to be.  The best non-stops were on Indigo and Kingfisher, so I decided to ask a colleague at work for his take.  Here's a transcript of that (quick) conversation:

Me:  "So, what do you think about flying domestically on Indigo?"
Colleague:  "If the weather is good, they're not bad."

I just hope Kingfisher's airline is as good as its beer....actually, I'm openly hoping it's much better.

Flight 292....I Mean, Flight 9222

Travel from Chicago in January tends to be very weather dependent, so it came as no surprise when four days prior to departure we learned of a large winter system approaching that was set to dump six to twelve inches on our date of departure.  On the plus side, we were on a large international flight, so I was confident we’d get out of Chicago at some point that night.  When the first delay was announced, I was pleasantly surprised.  Selfishly, I now knew I had at least a chance of catching part of the BCS National Championship.

Unfortunately, there were no additional announced delays, so as Mack Brown bravely lead his team onto the field, I was making my way to the gate.  After a short ground delay and the typical deicing routine, we were finally on our way, allegedly to begin the adventure of a lifetime.

About an hour into the flight, the dreaded “is there a medical doctor on board?” announcement came over the PA system.  I didn’t think too much of it, and went about my way enjoying “I Love You, Man” (a good movie the first time and much better the second).  Then, somewhere slightly south of Hudson Bay, the captain came back on the system and announced the situation had not improved and that we were headed to the nearest large airport, Boston’s Logan International.

Upon landing, the paramedics greeted the plane and headed to the back to help the ailing man.  A few minutes later the ailing man and his wife shuffled down the aisle.  To be honest, I was expecting the worst, something like a heart attack or a stroke or at least to see someone on a stretcher.  The true culprit?  Urinary blockage.   Apparently the doctor felt it important enough to turn around a plane when an aging passenger can’t urinate for 15 hours; and to be honest, who am I to question that?

We sat on the ground for about an hour while American figured out how to handle the situation.  The captain kept us informed of what the possible options were, including (1) returning to Chicago and trying again the next day (bad option since the weather in Chicago still sucked), (2) canceling the flight and letting everyone fend for themselves from Boston (bad option for obviously reasons), or (3) continuing the flight after giving the crew time to rest (good option).   When the final decision was made, we learned option three was selected but that we wouldn’t leave until 6:30pm that night (it was around 5:00am ET at this point), effectively pushing back our arrival in Delhi by one full day.

At this point, I went to stand in line to rebook and Lindsay went to the bathroom, which turned out to be her best call of the day.  She ended up walking past the Admiral’s Club which had no line and found a faster way to get our new plans finalized.  A nice gentleman, Hector, saved our day.  Not only did he get us set up with a room at the Hyatt, he held the duty free purchases we had made onboard (through all of this, a primary problem to solve was determining how we’d get our duty free purchases (i.e., 2 liters of liquid) back onto the plane).

After a six hour nap and a quick meal, we were back at the airport waiting for the flight.  All things considered, it was a fairly comfortable way to spend what could have been a very inconvenient situation, though I’m certain if I had been going for a specific meeting or vacation, I would have had a very different attitude.

American handled the situation quite well.  If nothing else, it would make a great case interview question, “Three hours into the flight, a plane from Chicago to Delhi gets diverted to Boston.  How much money does this cost the airline?”  I shudder to think the expense and don’t have the mental capacity to work through the problem right now, but suffice to say there really are no winners in diverted flight situations (perhaps other than hotel chains).

The actual flight to Delhi was uneventful.  Lindsay befriended the stewardess, Marty, which helped for two reasons; (1) she held back a nice bottle of wine for us and (2) Lindsay was able to get the scoop on the passenger in front of us, who turned out to be a bit of a handful, was flying on some sort of pass (or as Marty called him, “non-rev”), and had requested that Marty remove all the white nuts from the mixed nut bowl.  She declined.

Upon arrival, customs was no issue; for some reason I was concerned the amount of electronics we had on our person (2 work computers, 2 personal computers, 2 cameras, 2 Kindles, and lots of power cords) but decided a “don’t ask, don’t tell” strategy would work best.  As we walked into the arrivals hall we easily found the hotel placard with our name.  They seemed surprised at the amount of luggage we had as they hadn’t brought a large vehicle like we had requested.  They then claimed they didn’t expect us to be coming as the flights from Chicago had been canceled the past two days.  I decided against reminding them that they held a placard with our name.  After all our delays, an extra fifteen minutes wasn’t going to hurt anything.  If nothing else, it provided me the opportunity to see some dude (that worked at the airport) wearing potentially the greatest sweater vest in human history; that is, a white vest with Jim Morrison’s face covering the entire front.  I briefly considered offering to purchase it.  If you’ve seen better, I’d love to hear about it.

We arrived and checked into the hotel, where we’ll be living for a few days as our apartment gets finalized.  Today’s schedule includes a whole lot of nothing; a stop at the gym promises to be the most productive part of the day; that is, unless you count “testing” the Slingbox.  As I type, I’m in the club lounge, alternating between listening to Lindsay read the Sunday matrimonials from the Hindustan Times and listening to two hotel employees perform a delightful sing-along to an elevator music version of Celine Dion’s blockbuster hit, “My Heart Will Go On”.

On deck for the coming week; getting settled at the office, registering at the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO), hopefully getting into our apartment, potentially joining the country club, and the arrival of the first familiar faces from work next weekend on a short business trip.  Not surprisingly, a lot of "hopefully" and "potentially" mixed in there.

Welcome to India.