So we formed a crew and went to Pole Land. It was awesome, but I can’t help but get the feeling that some Poles are a bit wishy-washy. Not really the Poles – but definitely the Polish.

We build buildings – and they’re either apartments or not. They are never ‘Apartmenty’

Apartmenty, and a bit further: Pizzy

Giny - something for every taste.

Hah - who'd stop for a Police Prius? Very eco*#&$y.

One-armed, mongy headed girls hang out in these parts holding winged red lollipopsy

]]> http://www.harrykey.com/blogs/signs-in-poland-just-add-y/feed/ 0 http://www.harrykey.com/blogs/india-epic-win/ http://www.harrykey.com/blogs/india-epic-win/#comments Wed, 09 Jun 2010 18:41:58 +0000 Harry http://www.harrykey.com/blogs/?p=400 Tweet

The Mumbai was becoming invasive. It sneaks into every fold of skin, into armpits, it trickles down down back fat into bum cracks under ball sacks it festers, soaking flesh as gaping pores ooze a smelly slick of sweat that sticks the city stench to the skin. Mumbaikars desperately seek out sanctuaries of air-conditioned bliss only to find that as the sweat evaporates, it leaves smudgy black grime and salt crystals that crush, itch and irritate even into the fitful, frustrating, sleepless nights.

I had to get out. The city seemed to want me gone, as if it had risen its temperature to fight me off like an infection, and the bureaucracy had developed a sudden resistance to foreign bodies like mine. Like an immune system, with single-mindedness they are purging foreigners from their midst, but to argue with a government peon is much like having a debate with a white blood cell.

This cheery chap is tasked with making sure his own job is always necessary. This is a real photo of the FRRO.

I went back into the Foreigner’s Regional Registration Office to get my permission to leave the country. I’d been there the day earlier to be excused for overstaying my visa by two days. I had showed them my ticket and passport, and they sent me away, telling me I needed to come back with my proof of address, a letter explaining why I was leaving late, and a letter to verify that I should have been allowed into India in the first place.I’d returned with those documents and was told that they wanted a further four, but time was running out: I had a flight to catch at 5:50, and it was now 3pm – and I still had to get my bike from the police who’d impounded it (again), ride it home, grab my bags and get to the airport.

My brother and housemate faxed the stuff to me, but I had to take a moment outside the ‘Fax, Xerox and Phone’ shop and had one of those thoroughly unsatisfying inward screams, I almost shat my pants and burst a vein from the force of it.

The fax machine had jammed and two of my documents were still inside its memory, waiting to be unsatisfactorily printed. This man runs a shop that does three things – and one of them is send and receive faxes, yet rather than spending the excessive amount he charges for faxes on keeping his fax machine working, he spends it on the creature comforts.

Most of the floor space in his shop is taken by his bed, on which he was sleeping when we arrived; he had bought an air conditioning unit and sat it on a box out in front of his shop, It was pumping expensive cold air in the general direction of his shop, but most of it flows out into the rest of the world. Perhaps he’s trying to combat global warming.

I fixed his machine for him by slapping it and extract the last two pages of the fax, which are barely visible because it’s also out of ink. He insists it isn’t a problem because he can just run it through his photocopier a few times to progressively darken it. Voila. He’s saved money on ink cartridges and fax repairs and recouped costs by charging me for multiple runs at the photocopier, the profits of which he presumably spends on enormous AC bills.

I got back to the FRRO and the woman looked at my stuff and said ‘You’re running too late, you won’t get your flight’ to which I rather coolly pointed out that if she hurried the fuck up I might just get there for check-in, that I was flying domestic to Delhi then to Los Angeles from there. Domestic check-ins only take 30 minutes, so chop bloody chop. She seemed puzzled by something, paused and rechecked my ticket for the fourth time…

“This ticket is domestic to Delhi,” she said.

“I know. That’s why I said that. Otherwise I would have said something else.”

“You must go to the FRRO in Delhi, we don’t have authority to grant an exit here.”

I tried pointing out to them that I’d shown them the same ticket yesterday, and had they mentioned this stupid rule then, I would have been able to do something about it. I’d shown them again when I arrived that morning, and still could have done something about it then, but now, at 4:50pm it was too late to re-book a ticket and get my exit permission because these useful and intelligent peons are pretty punctual when it come to a 5pm closing time, at which point they cease not doing their job (which is to check paperwork) and go home to suck otherwise useful oxygen out of the atmosphere and raising large litters of similarly useful children.

While this particular oxygen thief was filling out the forms the next day (because was forced to reroute my flight), I said: “It’s very difficult to get visas now, all my friends are being rejected.”

She said “Yes, the consul has changed all the procedures”

“You mean, made them harder” I suggested helpfully.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I asked… She didn’t reply. “Is it to keep foreigners out?”

“Yes.”

Marvelous. Great – well India, you win. If you want to keep me out then I don’t want to be there. Your people are wonderfully open, welcoming, intelligent, friendly, helpful and accommodating, but your bureaucracy is the exact opposite.

So you win, I’m out.

Technorati Tags: bureaucracy, frustration, immigration, India, passport, visa

I wrote this (well most of it) recently for a Times of India special on Rajasthan

Holy Cow and a B’wood Gora.

Enjoy it!

Neither smiles nor turbans come any bigger

Rajasthan was exactly what I’d expected of India, the postcard image that had been romanticised for so long: Long rolling deserts, blistering heat, tenacious religious fervour and broad, welcoming smiles. I rode to Udaipur at around dusk on my Enfield, and revelled in winding up through the steep streets (my bike loves an incline) gazing at the ancient buildings. I was so captured by the sight, craning my neck upwards, that I almost ran right up an elephant’s rear.

Pushkar was amazing – the heat was oppressive such that almost everyone that ventured into the sunlight was rendered unconscious by its harsh glare. The streets were deserted, and only the most legitimate holy babas remained – all of the scamsters had left with the tourists, in search of temperate climate. I even saw a five-legged cow, that was far holier than those from my farm in Australia. I have developed a strange relationship with cows after being in North India, where the Brahmin bulls stand taller than me – and I’m 6 foot 3! I’d grown on a cattle farm in Australia where the black cows we knew were terrified of us from birth, it was amazing to be able to touch and feed these holy beasts as they nonchalantly stood in the middle of the chaotic roads. They really are more intelligent than I’d guessed. The cows in Australia know that they are food, and yet here they are Gods – and again they know it.

5th legs: Particularly useful for cows suffering from vertigo or alcoholism

I’d bought my bike from Kodaikanal in Tamil Nadu, and have ridden almost the entire length of India before coming to live in Mumbai. It was a fantastic way to become acquainted this place, and my visit to Rajasthan, to see the religious centre of India was probably a significant factor in my decision to stay here. Although I am an atheist, it is fun to appreciate the origin of such intriguing customs, such exciting festivals and such strange stories as are offered by Hinduism. I hold faith that when we learn to accept one another’s beliefs as unique and valid, we will pick and choose many parts of Hinduism to design our new morality.

The North Indian dal, mutton and paranthas (when we could get it from sleeping restaurateurs) were spicy and deliciously flavoursome, and has caused me to become an addict of Indian masala. Now, I add spoonful after spoonful of spice to my old favourite continental dishes – because now, compared to India, the rest of the world seems rather bland. The food hardened my stomach and opened my mind; it caused me to laugh and tear out my hair; it confused me, amazed me, and will always stay with me. No wonder people always come back – because India is the motherland. It’s such a fitting metaphor that it is the birthplace of speech and it invented the zero.”

I was also quite amazed with the extravagant jewellery that women wear. During the shoot of the flick, The Flag, I thought the women folk would only do a bit of makeup. But was quite amazed with the jewellery they had to wear. It isn’t just about those big bangles but also about the nose ring, huge earrings and heavy fake gold jewellery. I was so impressed with it that I couldn’t stop from buying necklaces and earrings for a friend in Australia. She was so happy with the collection that she kept the whole of it.

As told to Divya Pal

I’m busy as hell now, helping out with AR Rahman’s ‘The Journey Home World Tour 2010′ getting ready to go on tour with a superstar. I am so excited, but don’t really have time to tell you how busy and excited I am, so read regurgitated stuff until I’ve got a moment to scratch myself and I’ll tell you all about it.

I was feeling disconnected from the world because my fancy new phone was out of credit. I went to a Nokia dealer in a spanky new shiny mall and asked him if he sold Vodafone credit.

“Do you want to do it the easy way or the hard way?” He asked.

Bewildered, I gave the predictable response: “The easy way.”

“Not possible” he replied.

“Okay, the hard way then.” I acquiesced, feeling sure we were already doing it the hard way.

“Where is your phone from” he asked.

“Mumbai” I said.

“Not possible.”

Here is his loveable helpful self

This is not an unusual occurrence in India, and it usually frustrates me enough to write a rant blog. Luckily for Nokia dude, I’m trying on something new. Rather than rants, I’m committing myself to writing blogs that are positive and life-affirming rather than critical and cynical.

India is obsessed with relationships and interaction, and that takes precedence over efficiency and accuracy. As a westerner I am befuddled by the rather pervasive Indian habit of offering multiple options to somebody for whom those options aren’t available. It seems inefficient and absurd.

Indians love to have a variety of choices available to them, and expensive restaurants will cater to this by having menus that number over 200 options of food. It is unlike the west where the fancier you go, the less options there are.

This obsession with choices permeates every area of life, and in large part explains the prevalence of corruption. If told there is only one way to get building permission, the Indian mind will always look for another option, following its other great love: Building relationships.

To Nokia dude, talking me into circles is not wasting time; it’s having an interaction that he values. I get the impression that the quality or tone of the interaction doesn’t really matter, either. One only need see how Indian men become when screamed at by western women to be certain that they’re aroused the intensity, and barely concerned by the content.

Similarly, if you’re sitting by yourself reading or typing or just musing, Indian people will take pity on you and come over for a chat about your country of origin, marital status and sexual proclivities. It’s their way of showing you that they care. It comes from a wonderful and caring place.

There is an avenue for further frustration: Nokia man can give me credit. I know he can, but I’m upstairs blogging about it instead of downstairs buying it. There is a further element to Indian culture: Inaction is always preferred over action.

Westerners usually come from ‘one shot’ religions, which offer only one lifetime in which to get your stuff done. These religions favour action in order to have been as good as possible before being dead and incapable of doing anything ever again.

Eastern religions have a ‘keep going till you get it right,’ Groundhog Day kind of mentality. To live a good life is to live a blameless life, which often amounts to doing less bad stuff. Doing nothing is preferable to doing something wrong, which is why there is a heavy preference for inaction (particularly if you have an eternity to get it right). Meditation is the art of spending as long as possible doing and thinking absolutely nothing at all.

As a result, downstairs Nokia dude is unsure about whether selling me credit is the right thing to do, so he is not going to do it than to risk it. As a result, he’s one sale poorer and I’m disconnected from the world. So be it.

The positive to all of these cultural quirks is that Indians are very ecological, in the environmental and the ethical sense. They are not prolific consumers, they are selfless and inclusive, humble and kind.

It still drives me nuts, but I just wrote a blog about how lovely it is, in keeping with my commitment to focus on positives. Hell knows how I’m going to upload it without an internet connection (via my awesome HTC HD2 phone which can become a WiFi hotspot, when it has credit).

Technorati Tags: India

Through the pulsing haze of smoke, a stunning Thai girl was dancing seductively and whipping her hair at me.

“She’s gotta be a hooker” I told my mate Hale.

“Nah, she just thinks you’re hot.” he retorted.

“I know how hot I am mate, and I’ve never been that hot, particularly not in the eyes of someone like her”

Hale’s been one of my best mates since school days. He’s fully Australian to Vietnamese and Korean parents, so he looks Asian and sounds Aussie. He’d moved to Vietnam and found himself a gorgeous Vietnamese girlfriend, and he was certain that the best way for me to get over a certain Aussie girl was to find myself a nice Asian one. I wasn’t too averse to the idea, because some Thai girls are bloody gorgeous, and funny, but the idea of paying for one can go to buggery (Buggery is not a real place).

Sure enough, after some prolonged eye-contact and a little bit of a dance, the sexy Thai girl said “I think you think don’t pay me” – which I relayed to Hale. Hale seemed to think that meant she didn’t want my money, I was fairly sure it meant she did want money, but was uncertain whether I was going to give it.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with prostitution, it’s just not for me because it removes the most important element of coupling: The chase, the uncertainty, the conquest. For me the physical act is hardly enjoyable without that wonderful knowledge that this gorgeous girl has chosen me – and that is valuable for exactly the same reason that the sex trade is huge business: Because women are crazy and unpredictable.

My explanation for the lunacy of womankind is as follows: Girls always go for the wrong guy, so if you’re the right guy you’ve gotta pretend that you’re wrong to get her. The right guy sees his girl and the rest of the world goes out of focus, the music starts, and he gets all doe-eyed. He showers her with attention, compliments and completely forsakes all other women, hell, a really enamoured right guy doesn’t even look at other girls. But despite the bullshit that stupid rom-coms try to feed us, the reality is quite ugly. Girls hate nice guys.

It is the age of the alpha

Girls go for guys that don’t need them – because girls go for alpha males. Alpha males enjoy the attention of many women (that’s what makes them an alpha), and can’t afford to invest themselves with just one. For that reason, he values them all that little bit less – he’s less attentive, less complimentary, and generally less attainable. When girls say they love confidence, that’s what they’re really talking about.

And it drives us nuts. It’s bloody nightmarish and annoying even if you can gain that toehold on supremacy and ascend to become the alpha. That alone is hard, you’ve got to be permanently on your game, responsive, perceptive, funny, loud and confident – but once you’re there, and you have the choice and you can get the girl, you’re still bound by the same ridiculous rules that got you there.

If you start showing her too much attention, you immediately relinquish your position of power and tumble back down into the bickering and snarling ranks of the betas, to be stuck there until you change social group because your descent is always more memorable than the climb: “What did she do to him? He’s an empty husk of the man he used to be.”

But the legitimately nice guys that girls always whinge about not existing are out there, frustrated and invisible. They are the shoulders you girls cry on when another asshole alpha brushes you aside for one of the other girls in his bevvy. Through that act he reinforces his value as an alpha – and that smashes your heart to pieces, because his betrayal only served to make you want him more.

At that stage, quite often the girl will turn to her beta best friend and give him a go. After all, she needs a confidence booster – and he’s always reliable when it comes to telling her she looks great, and he always calls when he’s meant to, and maybe that’ll be fun for a change. At this point, sometimes, there comes love – real love, if there’s time.

But it’d better be quick, because the asshole that just dumped her learns of this relationship and suddenly fears losing one of his harem and lowering his value, he quickly starts charming her again, sending her messages filled with flattering platitudes. Shocked by his sudden change of behaviour she thinks “He never did this before, he must’ve changed” and goes back to him. Then follows a horrible, ego destroying hell-ride which he, she and the beta finish only to find that they’ve lost all their friends and they not only hate themselves, but also each other.

Boys have grown up through school with the girls their age all dating older guys, losing their virginity and then blubbing endlessly about how all men are assholes – and then we see it: It’s not a coincidence that the nice guys are all single, girls don’t just coincidentally happen to find themselves dating prick after prick, they look for them.

It’s why ‘The Game’ is such huge business, the pick up artists, the social seduction gurus, the dodgy NLP dating guides, they all make a fortune teaching these pseudo-alpha skills to beta males. The trick is to learn how to behave like an alpha to get the girl, and then be happy becoming a beta when you get her. The problem is that the regression isn’t nearly as fun as the ascension, and turning back isn’t always desirable.

Plus there is the fear that after a long emotional history of being rejected, the trained up beta won’t be able to avoid the sneaking suspicion that there must be something wrong with her, that old Oscar Wilde feeling of “I would not belong to a club that want me as a member”

There is a third choice. Nerdy, pudgy, old and socially inept men from all over the world come to Bangkok to experience the only exception to the mind boggling absurdity that is the female brain. Here, those thoughtful, kind, considerate pathetic betas can find a gorgeous, funny, young Thai girl – and no matter how nice he is to her, she still likes him. Even if he buys her a nice piece of jewelery, takes her for a romantic meal and lines her pockets with cash, she’ll still love him. Finally, he can treat a girl the way he wants to, and she’ll appreciate it.

Sure, it does seem a bit weird to me that they take their hooker our to dinner, where they hold hands and gaze longingly into one another’s eyes, but on another level I totally get it, and it’s all your fault, women. Be less crazy.

Reduce craziness by half.

Sure, there are exceptions. There always are, two of my closest friends are a remarkable exception – but they aren’t nearly as enjoyable to write about. The fact of the matter is that guys as quick at it as me are biologically capable of creating babies at a rate of one every few minutes. Even at full speed, girls can only manage one every 9 months and then she’s shackled to a fleshy, defenseless screaming little predator magnet. She still needs to be provided for and protected.

That’s why women frequently get knocked up by alphas, but marry the betas – because they get alpha genes in a stable beta household, I am the progeny of exactly such a union. That’s why alphas often die lonely and sad, and betas grow old, happy and fulfilled, wittingly or unwittingly raising someone else’s children.

Guys are biologically hard-wired to search for a new mate after they ejaculate (guys, you know what I’m talking about, you will all at one time or another have experienced that surprising and uncomfortable ‘Get me out of here’ feeling when you’re meant to be reveling in post-coital snuggles). No, girls, it doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does happen it’s a pretty horrible feeling. We don’t mind pretending to be assholes, but when it’s written into our genes we feel irksome.

Women are programmed to discard ineffective inseminators monthly (hence the PMS crankyness) and to change out effective inseminators every 7 years – presumably because at that stage the semen-spawn is relatively capable of surviving and contributing and doesn’t need daddy anymore.

Yet we invented religion (ugh, don’t get me started on that horrible cancer of humanity) and religion invented marriage, and now for social acceptability we’re all expected to contradict our evolutionary urges and couple for life or suffer eternal burnties and pointy poking and embarrassing perpetual pant-forgetting dreams and all manner of other horribility in hell.

So what can be done? Nothing, really. The women reading this disagree with almost every word of it, asserting that this is only young women, a certain kind of woman, or an inaccurate stereotype. They could accept it as slightly overstated, but reasonably accurate, and through that they might observe or alter these unconscious processes for a better future. The alphas reading this are bored and thinking: ‘Yeah, so what?’ The betas are amused and possibly inspired – but probably won’t do anything about it.

The worst class of guy is the one who thinks he’s an alpha but he’s really not. I met one just the other night, and it frustrated me muchly. He’s stuck in a cave-man mentality that you have to fight for your position in an aggressive and open way. For that annoying class of person I do have some actionable advice: Don’t compete.

When you’re standing in a group with an alpha running the conversation, don’t try to hijack the discussion, don’t try to isolate a girl in your own private little moment, and definitely don’t do obviously demeaning things like close ranks around him in an attempt to cut him out. All of those things are transparent demonstrations of your own lack of worth, and any girl you do single out will reluctantly sit listening to your boring tripe only until she has a socially acceptable ‘out’ – which is usually some secret girl-language sign for ‘Let’s go to the toilet and talk about how boring this guy is’

If you want to build your value in the group, join in on whatever line of conversation is running, and say something interesting about it. If the topic is beyond your areas of knowledge, steer it to familiar turf, or ask insightful questions about it. People who ask questions invariably appear more intelligent than people that try to sound intelligent.

Set someone else up for jokes, and dunk other people’s lay-ups. Be receptive to the vibe of the group, and keep it on high-energy topics. That way you both look funny, cooperative, perceptive and smart, but more importantly, you look confident. Truly confident guys aren’t threatened by other confident guys, they’re inspired by them. This all creates the powerful impression that you’re more interested in having a fun conversation than you are about chasing a girl. Bam! You’re now an alpha.

But, if you’re really desperately unhappy with who you are as a person, and you suffer from various negative self-perception delusions, you probably lack the requisite determination to make that metamorphosis. Just go to Thailand.

Some random guy from guide2nightlife.com - probably the kind of guy I'm talking about (Is the one on the left a lady boy?)

In Thailand, Western girls are ignored like men are in the West. It’s a shocking and rather amusing transition. The other night I was out with a group of legitimately gorgeous American and Canadian girls, each more stunning than the last. When they go out back home, they get to jump the queue and walk into clubs for free, and once inside they have drinks bought for them and they’re showered with compliments.

In Thailand, they’ve got to compete with the local Thai girls, who are treating the western men to all the attention they can handle. Bangkok is a fantastic confidence boost for a guy, particularly if you’re not morally opposed to paying for companionship. For these poor betas, the Western girls suddenly appear less attractive, because for the first time we see them for all their crazy self-defeating habits, bizarre expectations and over-inflated egos.

When the Western hotties go to clubs they’re forced to stand in line, and pay for their entry themselves. Then the must suffer the indignity of buying their own drinks and dancing with one another in a group, which strongly reminds them of how their gyrating gaggle always used to get mobbed by men, and how it isn’t now. The men are all off dancing with nice Thai girls, who compliment them and giggle with them and flirt with them openly. Some girls are just looking for a wealthy Western boyfriend, some looking for a more formal cash for time arrangement.

The hot Western girls hate it, and we love that. It’s about time they learned what it’s like for us blokes. Because even if you’re a reasonably attractive, funny, intelligent guy with a good job, a fast car and an extremely auspicious star-sign, you still rarely ever have girls hit on you in the west. Here, they’ve got to. Here, even the Western girls are forced to walk right up to you and try it on.

So reward them for their audacity, they deserve it. You remember how terrifying that is!

Check out Kaila’s blog (she’s the hot Canadian): http://www.blondetraveler.com/blog/311-white-diamonds-in-the-rough.html

Technorati Tags: alpha males, bangkok, dating, prostitution, sex, thailand, Travel, women