Author: Eldrich Rebello

  • Software subscriptions and piracy

    I cannot comment publicly on whether I am a digital pirate but I can tell you that I condone it. I fully support piracy, especially software piracy.

    To quote Gabe Newell, cofounder of Valve, “…piracy is not a pricing issue. It’s a service issue”. I hate software subscriptions with a passion. When I want to buy software, what service do I get? Subscriptions. Everything is a subscription.

    I hate that the capitalist Americans drove the global software industry to adopt predatory subscriptions but I am certain that investors love their sight on a balance sheet. Microsoft will sell you Microsoft Office, the de facto standard office suite, for 169 Canadian dollarydoos. Alternatively, you can rent MS Office for $ 11.50 per month. Approximately fifteen months into this rental, you have paid the outright cost but own nothing. Cancel your subscription and the Microsoft financial boffins deny you access. Meanwhile, if you bought the software, as I did, you can keep using it as long as you desire. This very blog post was written using the 2016 version of MS Office. I bought this copy for 25 Euros and I see no need to upgrade.

    Microsoft at least allow you to buy MS Office. Adobe, the original thieves behind this practice, no longer allow you to buy Photoshop. You must rent something called “Creative Cloud”. Setting aside the fact that clouds on earth are too dispersed to create anything tangible, this renting means you never own your software. I encourage you to pirate Adobe’s software because they are bad people. MBA-types are likely responsible for this situation but I will save my rant about MBA-types for another time.

    This is why I encourage piracy. MBA-types deny me the option to purchase and own my software. I do not want to pay rent to American rent seekers. Instead of delivering complete and working software, these clowns have “pivoted” to a model where they sell you broken software and are then perpetually “fixing” it.

    I encourage you to pirate music as well. You can buy a CD of Metallica’s album 72 Seasons for approximately $ 25 and own your music. You can also buy the digital version from iTunes for approximately the same price but you are not buying the actual music, you are renting a license from Apple who can take it away at any time. The exact same problem exists with video games which is why I will continue to buy used consoles and used game disks. Gabe Newell’s own company – Valve – also use this exact model of licensing, not ownership. It is very frustrating that I cannot run games with Valve’s launcher software Steam. My own views on Steam are more complex. I buy and own video games where I can but that’s not always possible. My computer has no disk drive and most games are digital only i.e. you cannot buy physical media. Prices on Steam are often close to the price of games on physical media, even including inflation!

    I encourage you to watch sports streams via illegal streaming sites. They are almost always free and can deliver any game to you, live, without the nonsense of wondering whether Fubo or Dazn or ESPN own the rights to the Champions League in Canada. Who cares? Not me, that’s for sure. If you love ice hockey and the NHL, you are likely familiar with this problem via certain teams signing exclusive streaming rights for their games. If your NHL stream comes from an different provider, bad luck. Why worry about that? Simply expend your effort in finding an illegal streaming site.

    Digital ownership is a complicated issue and it does not help that the lawmakers with the power to fix this situation have only a tenuous grasp on the complexities. Worse, the average age of 52 in the Canadian parliament means that most of these folks are not digital natives. TechBros have us convinced that convenience is a sufficient trade-off for their preferred model of renting everything but I disagree. I spoke yesterday to someone selling software to electricity utilities. Rental software. I do not want my electricity company to rent their software.

    There is one more annoying aspect of many modern software – the “cloud”. The cloud just means someone else’s computer. If that entity ceases to exist, the “cloud” ceases to exist. If your software relies on validation via the “cloud”, you’re screwed. If your “smart” thermostat relies on the manufacturer’s servers to work, you are entirely dependent on that manufacturer existing to use your thermostat. Think about how absurd that sounds. That, by the way, is how the Canadian thermostat manufacturer ecboee runs their business. To access your own data, you must obtain it from their servers. Yes, a thermostat in your own home cannot make your own data available locally. Everything must be a subscription.

    This infection has also spread to the automotive world. BMW wants you to rent the ability to use heated seats. Yes, the hardware already in your car requires a rental fee. Tesla, whose CEO is a Nazi, tie their cars’ features to owners meaning that if you sell your Tesla, you sell the car but not the software licenses. This is also why so many modern cars require a constant internet connection. The day is not far when your car will refuse to work without an internet connection, obviously for “safety” reasons.

    I encourage you to jailbreak your cars where possible and your phones as well. Disconnect your car from the internet. You don’t need random weirdos in the USA viewing the camera output from your car. You need a car, not a two-ton computer on wheels. Don’t trade control and privacy for convenience.

    Smash the subscription model. Return TechBros and MBA-types to their rightful place in the dustbin of history.


  • Review – Minichamps Mercedes F1 W11 Car – Lewis Hamilton’s winning car at the 2020 British GP

    During the Christmas period of 2024, I decided to spend some money (something I try to avoid, in a very Marwadi manner) and bought a scale model F1 car.

    Why do I like F1? It is one of the only sports that combines human skill and engineering excellence in equal measure. Pure driving skill will never win a race. Neither will engineering excellence. But combine the two and you have a winner! I’m drawn to the engineering side of the sport. The sound of a V6 revving at fifteen thousand rpm. Yes, FIFTEEN THOUSAND. My paltry road car manages 2,000 rpm but my car is designed for efficiency, not power. The acceleration of a piston to forty meters per second. The aerodynamic efficiency. The science of fluid flow. I love all that. I don’t care as much for the drama that has come to dominate coverage in recent years but the engineering is still there, in the background.

    I also particularly like Lewis Hamilton. The only Black driver on the F1 grid and the only person who did not come from money. I admire his grit, his perseverance, in the face of the sheer odds combined with the racism and the abuse. I also admire his willingness to speak about racial issues, especially discrimination, racism and the persistent trend of police abuse.

    The model I bought is a 1:18 scale model of the 2020 car that Lewis drove to first place at the British Grand Prix. The race was notable because of how it ended. Pirelli – the tire manufacturer – came under criticism for the performance of their tires. Three drivers faced punctures, and Lewis’s front left tire was the last. This was also the last lap of the race and hence there was no time for a pit stop. Instead, Lewis’ 30 second lead over second place Max Verstappen was steadily eroded as Lewis continued on, slowly. He eventually won, only six seconds ahead of Max. Hamilton drove across the finish line with a flat tire.

    The good

    This model is large enough that you can marvel at the details and aerodynamic engineering of the car. The accuracy is on point and all the sponsor logos are there, if you care about that sort of thing. The DRS spoiler does not move and the rear tires are mechanically linked. The front tires are not. This is a display model and is not meant to move. The small details are well done. The helmet is accurate, the driver model is good. The angle of the case is excellent, allowing you to view more of the car from the front.

    The bad

    Some parts are flimsy and poorly cut. The communication antenna on the nose is a flimsily attached piece of plastic. One misplaced touch and it will either bend or break entirely. The display case itself leaves a bit to be desired. The cardboard at the rear feels cheap.

    Would I recommend this? Sure. I bought mine from Toronto Motorsports for $ 200 plus taxes and shipping. Full price is closer to $ 300 and I would not pay that price. Lewis moves to Ferrari next season and I wanted to buy a scale model from his time at Mercedes.

    Oh and my Christmas present was a bobble-headed figure of Lewis. Much delight.

    For reference:

    Link to the minichamps website – https://www.miniatures-minichamps.com/gb/f1-2010-2020/915148565-mercedes-f1-w11-eq-performance-44-f1-winner-silverstone-2020-lewis-hamilton-damaged-tyre-minichamps-110200444.html


  • Look up – The Story of how I Lost and Found my Laptop

    Look up – The Story of how I Lost and Found my Laptop
    Geography of Mumbai, as relevant to this story. Note – map not to scale. Some liberties taken with accuracy.

    This story involves geography. Some fantasy books like The Lord of the Rings include maps at the back of the book. Even some Winnie the Pooh books include maps. For that very same reason, I included a map here.

    (Some details are embellished for dramatic effect)

    Stage One – Boarding the train at Vashi

    In the past, I was an engineering student. I lived in the Bombay suburb of Kandivali and commuted daily to the suburb of Vashi. This involved a ninety minute journey including three trains on three different train lines. Bombay’s local trains generally run north-south and Kandivali-Vashi is an east-west journey. Not ideal.

    In my final year of engineering, we were all forced to participate in an industry project. This involved trying to solve real-world problems without the appropriate tools or training, as is the norm in the great nation of Bharat. The end of this process is the “presentation” where you cosplay as a professional, dress formally and speak about your work and achievements. This is usually a shorter day at college and most people leave at around 13:00. A typical day ends at about 16:00.

    These presentations require presentation software and software requires a laptop. Back in the late 2000s, laptops in India were expensive and difficult to find. Through privilege, I had one. A bulky Toshiba model, but still, I had a laptop. That day, I had two bags with me. My backpack and my laptop bag. This will be important later.

    Vashi is not a terminal station but it does have a few trains that start from there. Vashi is on the VT (Victoria Terminus) – Panvel line and is the first station outside the city of Bombay, just across the creek. I refuse to participate in the Sena’s great renaming project and refuse to acknowledge the sex change operation they performed on train station names. I have no sympathy or love for the British or especially the British Raj but the name of the station was just fine. If it was a real problem, that name would have changed sooner. Anyhow, I digress.

    Victoria (F) Terminus, now C Shivaji (M) Terminus

    If you board a train that starts at Vashi, the train is nearly empty. You have your pick of the seats which was the only motivation my three Gujarati friends and I needed to make a mad dash for the train station. Our presentations ended around 13:00 and we knew that the next train was at 13:14 or such so we hailed a rickshaw and made haste. We boarded the train just one minute before it left. The First Class compartment was empty. This being Bombay, the weather was tropically warm and oppressively humid. The solution was to stand near the doors (Mumbai local trains do not have automated doors) as the train sped across the Mankhurd bridge across the creek. This is what we did and when we arrived at the other side, we returned to our seats. Before we stood up, though, I placed my laptop bag on the overhead luggage rack. This is not something I usually do and always have my bags on me or on a seat.

    View from the train, looking south, crossing the Mankhurd bridge to Vashi.
    View from the first class compartment. I held my camera out of the door. I DO NOT RECOMMEND hanging your body outside a moving train!

    The train crossed the creek and we were seated again. The weather and the swaying of the train lulls one into sleep and sleep soon overcame us. Our first change was as Kurla, about thirty minutes after leaving Vashi. Kurla is a busy station as it is on the Central line as well as the Harbour line. Trains from Vashi to VT use the Harbour line. The din of humanity and train horns signalled the arrival of Kurla and all three of us woke up and hurriedly gathered our belongings. We hopped off the train just as it was leaving and I counted the bags we had. Three.

    We boarded the train with four between the three of us and there were now three bags. Which one was missing? Oh crap, it was the bag with my expensive laptop.

    Stage two – Panic at Kurla

    I panicked. My two Gujarati friends also panicked but they did not have skin in the game so their panic levels were lower. This was handy because they hatched a devious Gujarati plan. The plan was that we would board the next Harbour line train to VT and follow our train with my laptop.

    Here is one more piece of important information. The three of us had train passes from Borivali to Vashi. This route had two possible train changes, one via Wadala and the other – the one we used – via Kurla. Our train passes were valid on only that specific route, nowhere else. The journey we were about to embark on was literally illegal.

    The Gujarati duo did not consider legal issues in their mild panic and so off we went on the next train. On this train, we debated our options and made a plan. The first problem to solve was communication. We were three people with two mobile phones. One Gujju bhai’s phone was broken so we needed a solution.

    That solution was for one Gujju bhai to take my phone. We reached this conclusion before working out the plan.

    But we needed a plan second. That plan was for me to alight at the next stop and to watch the trains returning from VT. But how to communicate? Ah, we did not consider that. I got off at Sewri and the two Gujju bhais sped off with both phones.

    Stage Three – Panic at Sewri

    At Sewri, I hoofed it across the bridge to platform one, where trains arriving from VT stopped. I located the First Class markers and waited fo trains to arrive. I hastily boarded the first and looked up at the luggage rack. Nothing.

    I did this twice more and the resident ticket checker – the enforcer of the law – noticed what I was doing. Here was a curious young man hopping on to trains and then hopping off, almost as if he was confused. The TT asked me for my ticket and I showed him my 100% invalid train pass. He noted that I was technically not allowed to board trains at Sewri and so asked me exactly what was transpiring.

    I explained my predicament to him and he – surprisingly – understood. He took me to his office and asked me which train I was looking for. He consulted his charts and told me the exact time when that same train would arrive. It did and I checked the First Class compartment.

    Nothing. As far as I knew, my expensive laptop was gone and I would have to explain this to my parents. They would be livid.

    Stage Four – Gujjus at Masjid

    The title of this stage is a pun. Meanwhile, on the train heading south, the two Gujju bhais were in furious conversation. They were also travelling illegally but this time, the first class compartment was not empty. There was a third Gujju, eavesdropping on this conversation. He realised he could help and help he did. The story was that his buddies worked in the suburbs but lived in the city. There knew about the train starting from Vashi and usually boarded it together, in the first class compartments, and played cards. Or ate snakes, which is what Gujaratis are well known for doing. Anyhow, on this fateful day, he missed the train and his buddies and so was on the next train, in the same compartment as my Gujju buddies. The solution was for him to phone his buddies. He phoned, they looked for my laptop bag, they located it and planned the rendezvous.

    This was to be at the station of Masjid Bunder, the penultimate stop before VT. The meet happened and five Gujju bhais went off to drink falooda. At the end of this, after much relief, my two Gujju buddies realised that they had my laptop but had no idea where I was. At this point, the realisation hit that they also had no way to contact me. My phone was with them. Two people, travelling together, had the two phones we had between us. They also realised that neither of them remembered which station I got off at. Oh my, what now?

    Stage Five – Panic at VT

    These two debated their course of action and concluded that my course of action was to head to VT. How they reached this conclusion, I do not know. They headed to VT, again, without legal tickets and proceeded to check the station for me. I was not there, of course, I was panicking at Sewri.

    What next? Head to the station master’s office, skip the fact that you don’t have tickets and ask for help. This is what the Gujjus did and the station master sent out an announcement asking for E Rebello to approach the station master’s office. E Rebello was too far away to hear this message. The Gujjus then repeated this at Masjid Bunder and when they received no response, they concluded that I had killed myself due to social shame. They had no way of contacting me and did not know me well enough to think like me.

    Stage Six – Realisation and Communication

    Back at Sewri, I proceeded to panic. The train with the highest chance of containing my laptop departed, there was no laptop and I had no solutions. My solution was to check every train arriving and at this point, the TT dismissed me as crazy and so left me to my devices. I also realised, mid panic, that I had no way of contacting the Gujju duo. I could not remember either of their phone numbers and so a public phone was useless.

    I considered calling home and reporting the day’s events but soon realised that would be counterproductive. My mom would also panic and besides, she did not have the Gujju duo’s numbers either. So I waited in a panic, for about three hours, my mind racing.

    Somewhere in that panic, I had a brainwave, an obvious solution even. CALL MY OWN NUMBER.

    I knew my own number and I knew the people with my phone. I was surprised that this obvious solution to the communication dilemma had eluded me for almost three hours. I found a phone, dropped in a one rupee coin, dialled my own number and POOF! Communications established.

    I learned of the days happenings and that the Gallivanting Gujju Duo were on a train headed north. I waited for them, boarded the First Class compartment, illegally. We all headed home, laptop on my shoulder, disaster having been averted.

    After this event, I resolved to never store my luggage where I could not see it.

    This served me well up until I took a train from the Netherlands to Belgium, where a skilled thief snatched my bag from the luggage compartment and walked off at Mechelen station. Bad luck for him. All he found was a worthless Indian passport and some used clothes.


  • I left India to live abroad. Was it worth it?

    Answer upfront – yes, it was worth it. Had I stayed in India, I would have hated my life, the country, my forced marriage, my bank balance and my neighbours. I would hate my life and be frustrated constantly. Instead, I live a comfortable life, love my wife and would trade none of this in a trice.

    I am Indian. When I was fifteen years old, like most Indian students, I was asked to pick a career. How you can do that at fifteen years old is still beyond me. At the time, I did have access to the internet and I had access to some information about how one does this. What I did not have was wisdom and experience. Neither my own nor borrowed. I did not have extended family members who were doctors, engineers, lawyers, artists or among the myriad careers one can choose at fifteen years old. I did not even know that I was good at maths or science. I am still above average at both. I was asked to make this choice, while sitting in Bahrain, and while knowing that my family was about to move to the great nation of India, a place where humanity and humans go to die.

    Once I moved to India, I had to pick between three choices – science, commerce or arts. I was (and remain) quite bad at the arts and I did not like money so science it was. Eventually, I ended up in engineering college. I hated india when I was ten years old and at fifteen, that did not change. I still dislike India to this day although I have softened my opinion of those less fortunate than me. I despise the Indian state, the Indian way of thinking and the general ethos of life there, the idea that things won’t get better so why even bother? I was determined to make a better life for myself and I knew that moving to the West was the path to that better life. I resolved to live a better life and to be a better person. Unfortunately, once again, I had no source of direct information or experience and so turned to my old friend, the internet for answers. I also did not have enough money in the bank so I went to work, at one organisation named Lhussen and Bhutto (unlikely to be Larsen and Toubro).

    My escape route was the same one use by approximately 1.3 million Indians in 2023 – education. I went abroad to get an education. This meant picking from two options yet again – follow the herd to the anglophone countries or aim for somewhere else. “Somewhere else” spanned Venezuela (yes, that Venezuela), Turkey, The Caribbean, Austria (not Australia), Kyrgystan and my eventual destination of Finland. Finland was so unheard of that my mom called a priest to bless me before I departed and that man had never heard of Finland. Oh well.

    I will skip the details here as that’s not the point. My aim here is to tell you whether it was worth it. When your savings are in the shitcoin called the Indian Rupee, studying abroad is perilous. Your savings are meagre and do not get you far. Information is also difficult to find. Most Indians make a beeline for the USA, the UK, Canada, Australia or New Zealand. English is the reason why, however, all these countries charge international students fees. Astronomical fees, if you are Indian. The fees at a decent US public university were comparable to the total worth of my parent’s real estate portfolio. The solution is to borrow money from an Indian bank and to hope that the stars align for you. In the case of the USA, that means finding a decent university, completing your course, finding a job, and staying legally long enough that you earn enough to pay back your loan. This was too much risk for me so I dropped that option entirely. Canada is a smaller market with similar costs so that was out as well. Same for the UK and Australia.

    At the time (2013), most universities in the Schengen area (continental Europe) did not charge tuition fees. Living expenses were the only cost, but even those were significant when you factored in the exchange rate. Anyhow, I decided what I wanted to study and then trawled various internet forums and university websites. I took notes, estimated expenses and looked at the job market via job sites. Eventually, I found my way into a few universities. TU Eindhoven was one but the Netherlands charged tuition fees. Not astronomical but significant. That was not an option. FH Aachen (not RWTH) also wanted me but I did not want them. Finally, I selected TKK – Teknillinen korkeakoulu – now christened Aalto University, in Espoo, Finland.

    No tuition fees but it was in a corner of Europe, closer to St Petersburg than to Berlin and separated from the mainland by the Baltic Sea. Living expenses in the Nordic countries are also high relative to the rest of Europe. The job prospects were also bleak, especially since the Finnish language is difficult to learn. No matter, I decided to take the risk and to book my tickets on Turkish Airlines. Away we went!

    Two years later, I was pantti hunting (yes, pantti, Finland’s bottle deposit system) and applying for jobs, desperate to extend my study permit by another year. Persistence paid off and I found a job in the Netherlands and started making a life for myself. Things were looking up. At this point, I could have stayed in the Netherlands. I was on the path to learning Dutch, integrating into Dutch society and eating cheese. As life would have it, I found love in a Canadian woman and this compelled me to move to Canada. Once again, I faced the struggle of finding a job, building a network and starting over, in yet another country. It all worked out in the end.

    Was this worth it? Absolutely. I would not have it any other way. Yes, there was tremendous risk here. Moving to a fragmented continent where I did not know the local language, and where I had neither contacts nor familiarity with the region are all risks, huge risks even. Living in the cold for a man who grew up in the desert, another risk and challenge. The worst case was returning to Bharat (the transition started in 2014) with a degree from a university that no one recognised and convincing employers that I was employable. I was not in financial ruin so that was a plus. I have friends who could not find jobs in the US after spending lavishly on degrees. That is arguably worse – paying off US fees in rupees.

    There was the risk of not finding a job after my master’s degree. I could have continued on to a PhD but i viewed the opportunity cost as too great. In fact, today, I earn as much as my colleagues with PhDs but I have the advantage of more work experience and more money in the bank. I did have a few offers to start a PhD but I declined them all. That was my option of last resort, the one I would take if I chose to stay in Europe and wanted to earn a small amount of money. Then was the frugal Indian mentality and living with the knowledge that my bank balance was only going down. This led to some questionable decisions like skipping meals and buying almost stale vegetables. I vividly remember calling the HR person at the Netherlands-based company where I eventually worked and noticing that it was an international call, hence it was expensive. In hindsight, that was the best two Euros I spent because it got me a job. None of the other candidates called, only I did.

    On top of all this was the racism, the risk that my ethnicity carried a level of stigma and assumptions, many justified, some not. The pressure to apply for jobs across Europe, not wanting to limit myself to one country or region. The political uncertainty that came with Brexit and the Syrian refugee crisis of 2015.  The hate against immigrants (I was never an expat, that’s a white people thing), the costs and challenges of true integration.

    I could go on.

    Was it a lot? Yes. Was it all risky? Yes. Was it scary? Yes.

    Was it worth it? Absolutely.


  • Lhussen a Bhutto – A tale I must tell

    I worked at an Indian engineering organisation by the name of Lhussen and Bhutto. Hypothetically. This might or might not have any resemblance to a real private limited company. I now live in an actually free country, with real freedom of expression, despite vocal disagreement from members of a certain convoy. Do with that information what you will.

    I am documenting this for posterity, for a very specific audience. That audience is Indian engineering students, usually aged between nineteen and twenty-one years old. This is around the time in your engineering studies when Lhussen and Bhutto trawl the various engineering colleges, looking for fresh blood to feed their meat grinder. I want you to know what sort of organization this is, to know what you are getting into. Ultimately, I want to arm you with the facts and to make a decision being fully aware. I was not.

    Here is my story.

    Caveat Emptor

    I must add a few disclaimers. Lhussen and Bhutto is a large organisation with many thousands of employees. Most are Indian, some are not. Much of the information below is my direct experience so be careful with generalising it. Many generalisations are valid, some are not. I heard several anecdotes that track my experiences but I cannot conclusively tell you what life is like for every one of the thousands of employees there.

    The Start

    I am an average engineering student. Above average in certain aspects, below in others. I am Indian, hence I was ordained from birth to be above average at taking tests. I studied Electrical Engineering and employment opportunities in the actual Indian engineering sector are generally bleak with only a few bright spots. L&B (reminder, Lhussen and Bhutto) were touted as one of those bright spots, although “bright” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. Most mid-tier engineering colleges in India have several rounds of campus placements. In essence, organisations dispatch hiring teams to college campuses and conduct interviews and administer tests. Yes, Indians administer tests to other Indians, almost like the ghost of the British Empire still runs Bharat.

    Now, L&B are among the first organisations to arrive on most campuses, riding high on their supposed “good” reputation, and aiming to scoop up the best talent before other organisations. Several Indian engineering colleges also limit the number of times each person can attend these interviews, with only the very first round being open to everyone. As employment offers come in, the pool of available candidates dwindles, until the least employable are left.

    L&B do not pay well. When you start, you make around ₹ 3,50,000 a year. This number has gone up slightly but it has not kept pace with inflation. Importantly, depending on where in Bharat you live, this could be borderline unliveable.

    As luck would have it, I made it through the rounds of interviews and L&B offered me a job after I completed my degree. This was right as the 2008 financial crisis was kicking off. This was a full eighteen months before I was scheduled to complete my degree. Again, as luck would have it, L&B ran into hard times (supposedly) and decided to send my comrades and I a communiqué, saying that our job offers were cancelled. Tough luck for us but they wished us well so that fixes everything.

    I hustled for a bit and found two jobs within weeks of graduating. One at a gas company called Mahanagar Gas and the other at a German company named Ziemens. I took the Ziemens offer but they had me managing the office infrastructure. I was printing labels for desks, asking people about printers and other such drivel that I considered beneath my skills as a person with four years of engineering studies behind him. Yes, I was quite arrogant although I have become humbler with time. Alas, I did not appreciate the work at Ziemens and when I heard through the grapevine that L&B were now recruiting fresh engineers again, yes, those very folks whose job offers were rescinded, I was elated. The call arrived and I told Ziemens to go manage their building without me.

    I joined L&B a full three months after I completed my engineering degree. I was happy but this delay was just a taste of what was to come in the years ahead.

    Gujariot

    I was dispatched to work at L&B’s offices in Gujarat, an Indian state that was once the home of Gandhi but one that is now an alcohol free, xenophobic wasteland. I use none of those words lightly and many Gujaratis I met were (and likely remain) horrible people. In general, they hate Muslims, the state administration was involved in a pogrom against Muslims in 2002 and they are irrationally proud to eat meat-free food that is low in protein but high in fat and carbs. Let’s just say that not a single moment I spent in Gujarat was happy.

    While we are bashing Gujarat, I will add one illustrative anecdote. The offices I worked at were called No Ledge City and this name could not be further from the truth. True knowledge would tell you that people are born equal, that discrimination is bad and that hating people solely because of their religion makes you a bad person. “No Ledge” City had no shortage of bad people. Upper caste Hindus dominated the office and Diwali was one popular festival. People would dress well and distribute sweets. The floor I worked on had three people who were not Hindus. One was Sikh, one was me and the third was named Arif. The Sikh was an honorary Hindu so that left two people – Arif and me. I was in the office for Diwali, Holi and one Gujarati festival involving sticks. All three times, the gaggle of smiling men distributing sweets skipped my desk. The first time, I assumed it was an oversight. The second time, I was suspicious, the third time I realised that only one other desk was passed by – Arif’s.

    “Engineering”

    L&B’s supposed engineering work consists largely of purchasing technology and equipment from foreign manufacturers and installing it in India. They are – fundamentally – glorified contractors that add very little engineering value. Several of their own manufactured products are poor imitations, which would be fine if this eventually led to incremental improvement and growing skills, a la the Japanese or Koreans. This being India, it rarely did. L&B’s primary competitive advantage is the low cost of Indian labour, which is how they are profitable. As you likely know, if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.

    This is entirely consistent with Indian engineering standards that are generally low and which produce poor-quality results. L&B also suffers from the typical Indian infections of the caste system, spinelessness and blind deference to authority. My colleagues were mostly decent engineers but as soon as someone more senior walked by, they all lowered their voices. Whatever the boss said, was the literal truth, the sacred gospel that no one could question. It did not help that most bosses were rude, power-tripping maniacs with loud voices but few redeeming qualities.

    Toxicity

    One member of management, my boss two levels up, was this Bengali fellow, short and stout with a pot belly and glasses. He looked like Hanuman so that’s what everyone called him. He compensated for his diminutive stature by shouting. He had a loud voice, no doubt trained by years of yelling to get his way. The man literally yelled at people when they made mistakes. Now, everyone makes mistakes but no one deserves humiliation for an honest mistake. Hanuman disagreed and regularly yelled at his subordinates. People fell in line out of fear, not respect. This Bengali Hanuman certainly did nothing to deserve respect.

    My job was mostly low-level work that no one else wanted to do, light on actual skill and impact. No one showed me how things worked but that is understandable. I learned through trial and error. One of my tasks was “expediting”. This is one of the most pointless tasks that anyone can have. It consists of looking over the shoulder of someone doing actual work, while adding no value to that work. It is essentially harassing people to do things. Now, why such a role exists at every Indian workplace is a conundrum I will leave to you to solve. The conclusion should tell you a lot about the general work culture of India and Indians.

    Site

    After about one year of “expediting”, I was told to relocate to one of the project sites in Andhra Pradesh, a gas power plant. This was an active construction site in the middle of nowhere with no large cities nearby. The closest city was Hyderabad, separated by an eight-hour train journey. I had no say in this decision and was told “this is what will happen, do it”. You should know that the gas “reserves” fuelling this power plant were entirely bogus and the plant sits idle in 2024. This location was where things got worse, fast.

    My contract said that I must work eight hours a day, not counting a thirty-minute lunch break at noon. At L&B’s project sites, you are given a “site” allowance of around ₹ 1,500. My monthly salary at the time was around ₹ 27,000 in 2010 rupees. Here is the problem – at L&B’s project sites, you are expected to work from 08:00 – 19:00 – eleven hours, often in hazardous conditions with biological threats like mosquitoes. That transaction of ₹ 1,500 made you the company’s bitch. Indian labour laws are poorly enforced so there is no room for negotiation or for involving the authorities. Employees back in Gujarat got alternate Saturdays off. We had no such luck because – like I said – we were the company’s bitches. The shit cherry on top of this was the fact that many people willingly worked on Sundays. I played the religion card every Sunday and most Indians are too meek to question it. The insane part was that almost all of my colleagues saw this as normal – working seven days a week, without extra compensation. They literally devalued their already devalued work and worked additional hours for free. All for an organization that did not care about their well-being or health. This is why slave-drivers in the Middle East love Indians. We are – as a group – spineless and willing to bend over backwards for anyone with money. Some of this is born out of a culture steeped in poverty but the caste system also has a significant role.

    Oh and, I must add, we had zero recreation facilities at our accommodations. Zilch. In fairness, my meals and accommodation were paid for but the standards were terrible. Meals were cooked by people who had no concept of hygiene. They cooked food on an unclean floor, in the open, left raw food exposed to flies and rarely washed utensils well. I was sick several times and no, despite what Indians tell you, no one develops “immunity” to faecal matter and filth. The accommodations were two people to a room, without air conditioning in the sweltering South Indian summer. Eventually, ACs were installed but only after much hand-wringing. Clearly, L&B really did believe that labour was cheap, plentiful and hence worthless. This justified mistreatment.

    Racism

    The gas turbines at this power plant were designed and made by Western firms who sent technicians to supervise the installation. Now, safe to say, very few people from the West genuinely enjoy the oppressive climate of India, especially when working with Indians in the middle of nowhere, in places with questionable hygiene and sanitation standards. The worst part in this was the clear and blatant racism. No, this was not a case of double standards. We, the Indian scum, did not deserve clean toilets. Our “office” was a hastily constructed, single storey building with a tin roof. Yes, it had air conditioning but for some reason, it was set to 18 Celsius. Eighteen degrees Celsius when the outside temperature was north of 35. Anyhow, the toilets had urinals but the commodes were unusable. The flushes did not work, there were no lights in the stalls and the darkness meant that mosquitos loved the stalls. Oh, there were no toilets for women because the entire staff on site were men. So much for equality and feminism when the patriarchy deems women “too sensitive” to endure the harsh environments on a construction site.

    Yes, terrible toilets are what Indians deserve and here you see yet one more aspect of the caste system. No upper caste person would clean the toilets the Indians used. None. Not a single one of them. A group of lower caste folks arrived twice a month to clean the toilets. Otherwise, those toilets remained in a perpetually disgusting state.

    Here’s the kicker – the white technicians received their own offices. Spotless, with locking doors and unrestricted internet access (we no access to the public internet), and clean toilets. Yes, the white man in India had his toilets cleaned daily by the upper caste folks. The very same folks who refused to clean the toilets used by the Indians. The Indians did not deserve clean food, clean toilets or privacy.

    Eventually, I discovered that when our white masters were not at the project site, their offices were unlocked. No one dared enter but when you need to void your bowels, you will find a way. I was not prepared to do my business while mosquitoes drank my blood so I used the white man’s toilets. Proudly, I must add.

    Chetan

    At this particular L&B construction site, one of the employees was a sad, miserable, middle-aged man named Chetan. Everyone called him Chhota Chetan because he was a short Gujarati man. He was not directly involved in my work but on a few occasions, he depended on me to get his work going. One example was the electrical systems in the water treatment part of the power plant’s water supply system. The man regularly raised his voice and believed that he who was loudest was rightest. I disagreed and regularly told him to go speak to my boss instead of approaching me directly. He hated my guts and the fact that I treated him like a regular person, not royalty. I did not respect him, I did not stand every time he called my name and I replied in English when he spoke Hindi. I looked him in the eye when he spoke to me. Everyone else stared at their feet, likely in fear. He soon realised that he had no power over me. There are many Chetans at L&B. I wish them painful deaths and poorly attended funerals.

    Safety?

    Aside from the racism and the Indian cultural problems was the lackadaisical attitude to safety. L&B take great pride in their “safety culture”, splashing it on several adverts. What it actually is, is a culture of hiding problems until someone dies or is hurt, at which point, they pretend that the problem was a lack of training.

    I was put in charge of the power plant’s battery system that used valve-regulated lead acid batteries, batteries with sulphuric acid as the electrolyte. Time “pressures” meant that the first battery charging cycle was done with an incomplete set of safety equipment. The technicians (Indians, of course) were given two pairs of gloves and were told to share. Two pairs among four people. The gloves eventually dissolved in the sulphuric acid. Making matters worse, filling the acid electrolyte involved lifting the 40 litre buckets about one meter off the floor and pouring the acid into a funnel. Of course, some spilled and the two technicians had only one apron between them. Electrolyte landed on their clothes and skin. Clearly, safety was only an illusion.

    During the first battery charging cycle, lead acid batteries are usually charged for an extended period, around eight or twelve hours. This is also the point where the electrolyte reacts with the electrodes for the first time, creating a voltage and hydrogen sulphide gas, among other gases. When you have over one hundred cells in a room, all gassing simultaneously, that gas fills the room. It did not help that this room had four walls, and no windows. It was in the inside of the plant building – remember, this was an active construction site. The room’s ventilation fans were not yet installed and we used dinky domestic fans as a stop-gap. This is equivalent to using a ceiling fan instead of an aviation propeller. The hydrogen sulphide filled the room. We were required to regularly measure the specific gravity of the electrolyte during this time, while the batteries were charging. Our lung protection equipment? A rag wrapped around our nostrils. The “Safety officer” did not have the budget to purchase actual safety equipment, and worse, the man had no idea what equipment we needed in the first place.

    I spent most of my time outside the H2S-filled room, but the technicians? Their lungs were worth less than mine.

    Safety at L&B is a cruel joke, one that would be funny if it were not innocent, ignorant and poor people in harm’s way. The safety person on site was there solely to claim compliance with some standard. I saw welding happening with zero safety equipment in reach. Worse, I also saw welding happening in closed rooms with poor or zero ventilation and people climbing tens of meters vertically with frayed safety harnesses.

    As far as general engineering work went, things were bad. Once again, because of time “pressures”, sensitive equipment was delivered to the construction site quickly and then stored outside, uncovered and exposed to the elements. Instead of proper planning, everything had to be delivered quickly and haphazardly, without thought or consideration. Worse was that the person involved in procurement had no idea how long something took to manufacture or what the storage requirements were. That was someone else’s problem to consider and yet another person’s to fix.

    The quality of engineering work was also suspect. I regularly saw instances of designs proceeding with mostly incomplete information. Yes, some degree of assumptions are part of all engineering design but you simply cannot manufacture equipment without knowing what connects to it or what it connects to. This is less of an issue when labour is cheap as the cost to fix design problems is lower but that doesn’t solve the original problem itself – poor planning leading to poor engineering design.

    People power

    Regionalism was another problem. A Bengali boss had a favourite employee who just happened to be Bengali. Same with the Gujaratis. This was out in the open and people just accepted it. We are like that only, as they say in Bharat.

    Finally, HR, or human resources. I always found this name problematic because humans are complex, multi-dimensional creatures who contain multitudes. We are not resources like steel or copper. Anyhow, HR at L&B was largely powerless. The man at the construction site had no power to do anything to improve our conditions and hated me in particular. At the time, I did not have age or wisdom on my side so I regularly asked the man to just do his job. In true Indian fashion, he kept trying to deflect and when I pointed out that certain things were literally his job, he scowled.

    General training is an important part of anyone’s working life. An entire system existed for this but no one used it. Speculation, but this likely was because management viewed soft skills as unimportant, compared to engineering knowledge. This was likely why almost everyone in management was toxic. This was made worse through the use of “bonds”. Every time the company invested more than one rupee in you, they expected unquestioned loyalty for a certain period. You should know that bonds are legal in India, and employers use this as a threat combined with a bargaining chip. Note that no employer can seize your property in exchange for a bond. They cannot hold on to your education certificates and cannot enforce the full bond amount right from the start. L&B rely on you not knowing your rights, plus the knowledge that the Indian legal system is a hot mess to coerce you into hanging around in a toxic work environment. The key piece of information you should know is that the worst that a company like L&B can do is not give you a certificate of employment when you leave. They don’t do anything innovative anyway so there is very little to lose. In any case, you have power, despite what they tell you.

    At the end here, what should you know? L&B is a bad place to work. Period. If you have some dignity and the privilege to not fall into poverty, don’t join. If you do, work on your exit plan from day one. As one data point, seventeen people joined at the same time as I did. I was number fourteen to leave and this was in just over two years. Think about that – in around 25 months, eighty percent of people who started with me quit. We even had a running joke about wickets falling. Consider this also – other engineering companies in India are worse. If you work in IT or are generally in an office, consider yourself lucky.

    When I left, I was asked during a group meeting whether I intended to return. I said no and everyone around me was visibly stunned.


  • Is the algorithm me?

    Of course not, I am human. But the techbros at YouTube would have you believe that the “algorithm” can predict what I will watch next. The Algorithm™ has access to my video watching history based on over ten years of data. Ten years of evidence showing which aspects of current affairs I click on. What news programs I watch, which science videos I rewatch and which channels I binge. The boffins at Amazon built an Algorithm™ that takes my increasingly dwindling purchase history from Amazon and suggest items I may want to purchase next. The Algorithm™ exists for me, my personal Jeeves, as I sail on the ocean of information.

    The Algorithm™ knows all, sees all, processes all and can tell me all. It automates away the process of discovery, that joy of just stumbling upon something while casually strolling through the aisles of a bookshop, glancing and then skimming it, eventually liking it. The Algorithm™ knows me and can predict my thoughts and facilitate my anticipated actions.

    Alas, the algorithm is not me and cannot substitute me. There is some information that another human could glean about my life and preferences via information that the Algorithm™ gathered, but that is surface level at best.

    This leads to an interesting thought experiment. If I died tomorrow, could someone live vicariously as me through the Algorithm™? Would that person know me through my algorithmic recommendations?

    I think not.

    The Algorithm™ knows only what I tell it, what I am unafraid of disclosing. The Algorithm™ does not know my story, my past or my hopes and dreams. It cannot know that I hope to retire and study astronomy, only that I like astronomy now. It cannot know that I dislike techbros, as my copious use of their creations suggests otherwise.

    I realise that the next techbro upgrade to the Algorithm™ is AI. An AI crawler will read this post, and this entire blog. It may successfully predict the next word in a list of preferences of E Rebello. But even AI, can it truly know me the way another human can?

    No.

    Not yet, at least.


  • Schrödinger’s immigrant

    Yes, I am an immigrant. I moved to Canada by choice, i.e. I exercised my own free will to move here. No one threatened me, no one coerced me and no one offered me any incentives. The province of PEI actually did offer incentives (tax rebates) but I forgot to apply before I moved there. Bad luck, I suppose.

    Anyhow, immigration is a hot topic in 2024. In 2022, Canada’s population grew by a record 1.05 million people, and 96% of that figure was due to international immigration. About 18% of these people are from India [1]. Out of the five largest source countries in this statistic, only one has citizens who are mostly not “brown” – China. This recent influx of brown people caused much hand-wringing, pearl clutching and general consternation in the population of existing Canadians, many of whom are themselves from immigrant families, many with some questionable traditions. But alas, immigrants are only a cause for concern when they are brown or black. This is the standard, fear-mongering, right wing trope these days. The concern-du-jour, if you will.

    The aspect that I find most interesting is the general discourse around the quality of immigrants that Canada brings in. Yes, there is a generally declining trend in the quality of college admitees, especially colleges that find themselves in a precarious financial situation. Let us ignore the fact that provinces control funding to colleges and, after years of not funding them well, cry foul when said colleges get creative with “alternative” sources of funding. No, must be those greedy immigrants.

    Start with expensive housing. The CBC, no less, runs several articles [2] about how immigrants are responsible for making housing more expensive. Ok, but that assumes that immigrants have money and the means to afford the insane housing prices in Canada, be that renting or buying.

    But hold on a minute. Employers are regularly on the record complaining that they cannot fill positions. Esteemed establishments like the Brazilian “coffee” chain, Tim Hortons, cannot find people to run their stores! Oh, the horror! Even RBC claims [3] that immigrant wages lag those of people born in Canada (even as much as 20% [4]) but there is a labour shortage? Alas, the corporate deities are unable to raise wages! That would displease shareholders. We all know that shareholders must not be displeased!

    So, are immigrants too poor or too wealthy? Are mainland Chinese people siphoning money illegally from the PRC to Columbie-Britannique? Maybe they work three minimum wage jobs at the same time, live 30 people to a room and save like squirrels? Is that how immigrants can afford houses in Canada’s most expensive real estate market? Certainly, it cannot be wasteful land use, car-centric and tax-inefficient suburbs or rampant NIMBY-ism that artificially constrains housing supply. It must be those bloody, brown immigrants. But wait, are Chinese people brown? Guess not. It’s those damn Punjabis from Andhra Pradesh!

    And what of the recent spate of hate crimes directed at Canada’s Jewish community? As of March 2024, 56% of reported hate crimes in Toronto were anti-Semitic [5]. Must be those immigrants again, with their backwards mentalities and hate from the motherlands. Never mind the fact that most recent immigrants are not from Muslim-majority countries and most of them are unlikely to have time to engage in hate crimes when they are barely able to afford bread. No, it cannot be that. When Sikhs and Hindus from Punjab arrive in Canada, they see the Jewish cabal and are filled with so much hate that they must destroy synagogues. After all, we know that every time you strike a synagogue with a butter knife, money just falls out!

    And inflation? Definitely those brown immigrants bringing in their Rupees from India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Nepal and Mauritius. Keep those inflationary rupees back in your homes! Don’t bring them here! Surely, it cannot be corporate greed! Galen W can barely afford fuel for his yacht!

    GDP growth too slow? Wages not keeping up with inflation? Immigrants are definitely the problem!

    In summary then, the Canadian immigrant is responsible for housing being too expensive, for taking all the minimum wage jobs, for global inflation, for anti-Semitism, for stalling GDP growth, for the lack of houses, for the slow pace of house construction, for the deteriorating quality of produce, for taking all the high-wage jobs and for exacerbating homelessness.

    I am proud of these achievements, for I have, somehow, achieved all of them with no conscious effort. They just happen! Poof!

    This is why I am delighted to identify as Schrödinger’s immigrant. I exist in a quantum superposition where I work a high-wage job that pays poverty wages that somehow allow me to both distort the housing market and take away jobs from poor Canadian teenagers. I am simultaneously too poor and too wealthy. Too unskilled, and far too skilled. Too passive, but also too aggressive. Too ignorant, but also too cunning.

    Fear me!


    Truly a charmed existence!

    [1] https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/daily-quotidien/221026/dq221026a-eng.htm

    [2] https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/ircc-immigration-housing-canada-1.7080376

    [3] https://thoughtleadership.rbc.com/proof-point-immigrants-participation-in-the-labour-force-surpasses-those-born-in-canada/

    [4] https://www.conferenceboard.ca/hcp/immigrant-gap-aspx/

    [5] https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/hate-crimes-toronto-demkiw-update-1.7147113


  • Celestial events in Spring 2024

    Celestial events in Spring 2024
    Yours truly, not realising that I stood directly in front of the camera while it was capturing a long exposure shot of the May 2024 Aurora.
    One the of most clear aurora shots I have. Edited for clarity. The actual aurora looks nothing like this when seen with the naked eye.
    The March 2024 total solar eclipse, captured from Brantford, Ontario.

    Spring 2024 was an amazing time for celestial events in eastern Canada. First was the total solar eclipse, which tore a path right across the continent. Starting in Mexico, earth’s satellite cast its shadow north, across the land of the Free, escaped deadly violence and then entered Canada. Once there, it slunk across the country along the Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence river, before exiting via the Maritime provinces.

    My own home was outside the path of totality with the difference being just under 1%. That 1% though, makes all the difference. The sun is so bright that just 1% illuminance makes it bright enough to damage human eyesight. Bunny and I decided to drive to Brantford, about one hour south, placing ourselves firmly in the Moon’s shadow.

    We would each head to the rendezvous point from different starting locations, hence needed two cars. Yes, emissions, I know. The ensuing confusion meant we were unable to actually meet and were separated by approximately 500 metres when I finally stopped driving. We were worried about cloud cover because the morning had un ciel nuageux, cloudy. As luck would have it, the clouds cleared well in time for the eclipse. We hit the roads.

    Bunny arrived first and discovered, much to her annoyance, that the park she chose was also the chosen viewing spot of a gaggle of other people. This being Amérique du Nord, everyone drives and that meant a full parking lot. I wouldn’t make it before the time of totality, hence the last-minute decision for me to abandon the road and to look up.

    And I am eternally grateful that look up I did because the celestial sphere put on a real show. Once the moon totally obscured the sun – a coincidence of identical relative sizes, by the way, not divine intervention – I saw the sun’s corona for only the second time in my life. The first was in Bahrain, in the early 2000s. Wow indeed.

    I tried to take a few photos but soon gave up and just took it in. I stared in awe at the magnificence of a rare sight. The atmosphere of a star, hotter than its surface, for reasons that physics is yet to determine.

    About two months later, the sun decided to belch up plasma in the direction of the earth. Solar plasma interacting with the earth’s magnetic field and atmosphere excites atoms and makes them emit radiation as visible light. The aurora borealis for me, because I live in the norther hemisphere.

    Once again, this is a sight I have seen earlier. In this case, from Finland. That time, though, I lived in Helsinki, a city with lots of light pollution and so wasn’t able to see more than a few faint wisps of green.

    This time, the solar storm was much stronger. Southern Ontario has relatively lower levels of light pollution outside the main cities and I live far enough away from Toronto that light pollution isn’t a difficult problem to solve. Southern Ontario, though, has a different problem – cloudy skies. This time, luck was on our side and the clouds – once again – cleared.

    And what a sight it was, seeing the aurora dancing overheard. I must remind you that Southern Ontario, the region around the Great Lakes, is at roughly the same latitude as Andorra, Monaco or the south of France. Pretty far south, although the winters would have you believe we live close to the Arctic. The aurora overhead at these latitudes is rare.

    I saw green and violet and I saw the aurora shifting with time, often every second. Truly a remarkable sight. My phone captured a vivid green glow. My DSLR camera did the same, however, being largely clueless as to how to operate that camera well, the photos I captured were not great. I forgot to set the aperture correctly. Anyhow, a lesson for another time.

    Bunny did not attend this event but I fully recommend it to anyone reading. If you have the chance to see the aurora in person, take it. You will not regret it. Oh, and use you eyes. Leave the cameras be. Do it for the memories, not the Snaptokgram.


  • Dora the Exorcist

    In the 1973 film The Exorcist, a certain scene rose to prominence. The possessed girl lays prone on her bed and the demon, in a show of strength, makes her body levitate. The camera angle is from above, looking down, as the poor girl resembles Christ on the cross, arms spread helplessly to her sides. The priests, Karras and Merrin then chant, several times, “The power of Christ compels you”, while gesturing in a chopping motion, as if wielding a divine sword. Eventually, the chants work and the girl succumbs to the force of gravity.

    I was raised Catholic and was taught – for some reason – several prayers in Latin. Yes, I, a brown Indian man was convinced by a Sicilian priest, that God, in his divine omniscience, somehow valued a European language over others, that language being Latin. Several Catholics believe this to be true, all while telling themselves that this belief is divine in nature, and in no way connected to the racist tendencies of us mere mortals. Anyhow, at one point in my life, I memorized the Roman Ritual of Exorcism, in Latin. In Latin, this is Exorcismus in Satanam et Angelos Apostaticos. I cannot remember the phrase “The power of Christ compels you” existing anywhere in that ritual. The closest phrase that I can recall is this – in nómine et virtúte Dómini nóstri Jésu. Roughly translated as “in the name and power of our Jesus”. [1]

    Where is this going, you might wonder?

    Ah, like several Boomers, I too, worry about “The Children”. I too, consider their safety and the messages that modern society sends to their impressionable minds. This is why I watch infernal cartoons such as Peppa Pig, Paw Patrol and Dora the Explorer. I view Paw Patrol as a sinister Canadian platform to convince Americans that the State is singularly evil and that Capitalism solves all problems, divine and corporeal. Guns are needed as are private ambulances. That is a story for another day. Today, we focus on Dora the Explorer.

    Dora Marquez is a Latina who embarks on a series of quests while interacting with various talking animals. This is a kid’s show so let’s gloss over the fact that the animals can talk and focus, rather, on the subtext.

    Dora’s companion is a monkey with red boots. This is a visual metaphor for the archangel Uriel, often depicted via the colour red [2] and who is the angel of wisdom. Boots, in the world of Dora, often helps the Latina girl on her way and drops pearls of wisdom.

    The nemesis of the duo is Swiper, an orange talking fox. The colour is significant. What colour are the fires of hell? Orange. Dora and Boots (the angel Uriel, remember) have a chant that makes Swiper disappear. That chant is “Swiper no swiping” and is repeated three times. You may have made the connection already, but let me spell it out for you. That chant is the children’s equivalent of “The Power of Christ compels you”. In the exorcism chant, the power of Christ compels the demon to release the possessed. Here, “Swiper no swiping” compels the demonic fox to cease his diabolical deeds.

    Ha.

    Do you see it now? Dora is actually an Exorcist. The show’s title is Dora the Explorer. Explorer and Exorcist both start with the letter E. Boots is the Angel Uriel, sent to assist Dora on her earthly adventures. Swiper is an inner-circle demon of the Earth element and Dora exorcises him through her chants.

    Do you see it now? Those crafty Americans are sending subtle messages around the world to impressionable children that they should join the Holy Army of the Catholic Church and should do battle against the legions of Hell.

    How did we miss it?

    [1] http://ecclesiamilitans.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/LEO-XIIIs-EXORCISM-Latin-English.pdf

    [2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uriel


  • I hate driving

    I hate driving. I hate the act of driving, I hate the thought of driving, I hate everything around driving a motor vehicle on the road for any length of time.

    What annoys me is other road users, other human beings, also engaged in the act of guiding a few metric tonnes of metal, plastic and rubber along clearly demarcated routes. The behavior of these other humans annoys me, especially in a place like South West Ontario where there is often no viable alternative to driving if you desire to displace yourself and your belongings from one location in spacetime to another. The lack of options is what annoys me. I view commuting as a chore, albeit a necessary one. I don’t mind driving short distances to a shop, a few times a month. If, on the other hand, I am forced to drive for forty minutes on Ontario’s fearsome Highway 401 (shamefully, home to the busiest stretch of highway in North America), I dread it. I dread the other drivers because you never know who is tired, high, drunk, distracted, clueless, confused, incompetent or some combination of these. That uncertainty is what scares me and is why I find myself concentrating fully on the vehicles around me, watching what they are doing and anticipating what they will do. That’s tiring and all I want to do is to read a book, play video games or just stare out the window at the sky or the world whizzing by.

    I recently drove to Ottawa and back and the journey was harrowing. On the way there, I sat in Toronto traffic for two hours. I saw numerous bad drivers and dangerous maneuvers. I do not want my personal insurance profile to change hence I give others a wide berth, often wide enough that a north American lorry can fill the gap. A journey of four and a half hours turned into seven hours. Add to this, the variety and unpredictability of weather around the great lakes and you often have to wonder, who around you is driving on summer tires in the winter and whose tires are almost bald, like Formula 1 tires but out of laziness or poverty, not design.

    A car is some amount of freedom, but it comes at a cost. Insurance, tires, maintenance, petrol, the mental load of driving. That’s not freedom.

    This is why I love public transit. That is freedom. Everyone in an urban area deserves good, reliable transit. You can go where you want, when you want, subject to schedules, of course. It bothers me that we don’t view public transit as an investment, an investment in freedom that deserves to be protected. On the train, tram, bus or metro, you can see other people. You can not see other people. You can do your own thing, you can watch someone else doing theirs. A train between Toronto and Ottawa does exist, but it isn’t cheap. Prices are comparable to a flight. When your family has four members, driving is cheaper on your pocket but driving has others costs that people don’t account for – the pubic money spent maintaining road infrastructure. Ontario spends around 13 Billion Canadian dollars to maintain road infrastructure. That’s roughly $ 900 per person, per year on just roads or about three dollars a day. People don’t really care about that money because we assume that roads will continue to be available, maintained and useable. Why can’t we assume the train will be there? A reliable bus service?