The Indian Model of the Complaints System

I am fairly convinced that the infuriating system with in the UK on how to manage and deal with complaints has been directly lifted from the Indians.  The system of absolved responsibility, of another party with whom you should take up issue with, who then use their lack of English/understanding to skilfully evade your wrath.  

So what has prompted this.  My laundry.  The only clothes I have for the next 10 months or so of my life.  My second skin to protect me from the perceived shame of nudity.  Clothes that cost money, a lot of money, when I have a budget of £100 a week to shelter, feed, water myself and travel around.  Which is doable, but doesn’t leave much spare.  Of course the Indians don’t see this, they see white, the colour of money out here.  Pale skinned pounds walking around that are ready and waiting to be milked.  I understand why, I am sat in a bar drinking a beer which costs about a quarter of the daily wage of a waiter here  tapping out my frustration on a netbook that costs almost a month of working 16 hour days.  That I can take a year off to swan around their country taking advantage of the insanely cheap cost of living.  But still, it is very fucking annoying that because of that it is assumed that I am going to be apathetic when things fuck up, it costs me, and they don’t feel they have to make any concessions to said fuck ups when they occur.

So anyway my laundry.  Having run out of clean clothes, I pass pretty much my entire backpack of clothes to be washed to the guys running the guest house I am staying in.  Finally, on the fourth day, I receive them back, pleased that I can now change out of the rather smelly clothes that I have been sweating to for the length of time my other clothes have been absent.  I get passed them, neatly folded, not exactly smelling fresh, wrapped in newspaper.  Unfolding them to put on a new top, I discover that instead of being washed they look like they have been worn to Holi festival.  Holi festival, also known as the festival of colours, is a celebration where participants throw coloured paint at each other.  There is red everywhere.  On all my tops.  Only my black trousers appear unscathed, presumably because they are black, not because they are immune to splattered red dye.  In a wonderful twist, the only red item I have appears not to be sprayed in red dye, but instead has a nice long black smear spreading down my cleavage.  My red top is part of a salwar which I bought to hide my modesty and play down my rather obvious breasts, which now, is perversely cleavage proud with the black smear that runs through the space between.  How freaking annoying.

After making my colourful discovery, I am seeing red.  I take my clothes and try and find the elusive staff, who always seem to be absent when needed.  When finding them, I display my clothes to them, at which, and this is an infuriatingly common reaction to things going wrong, a couple of them laugh.  Oh ha-bloody-ha, all my clothes are ruined.  Even when you suggest that laughing isn’t the best approach when dealing with irked people, it doesn’t seem to abate.  In fact they usually laugh a little more.  I have included a plot to show the laughing to irritation trend.

  

My scowl intensity rapidly increased with the laughing man, also aided by the man who tells me to talk to the laundry people.  Who are in Varkala town.  Who don’t speak English.  They might be along this evening, I can discuss this with them then.  I explain that I don’t know the laundry people, that I gave my washing to them, that as far as I am concerned they are my contact, and they have some element of responsibility in passing my laundry onto them to be washed.  But no, I need to talk to the washing people.  So call them for me and tell them I am upset, and stop laughing.  No mam, the laundry people will be here this evening, talk to them then.  I could of course hand back my laundry and they could try again.  No, that is plain stupid, call the laundry people, and if you don’t stop laughing I am going to get even angrier.  I have to travel for a year in these clothes, I want you to do something.  Please mam, be quiet we are doing Ayevedic treatments and I don’t want to disturb them.  But I am disturbed, what about my disruption, my clothes are ruined! (There is no more laughing)  I want you to recognise that my clothes are fucked and you are partially responsible.  Really mam, there are people in treatments.  I don’t care, I care about my clothes, and I want you to care too.  I look at him in the eye, and ask, are you actually going to do anything?  Are you going to find anyway to compensate me?  Are you going to call the laundry?  Mam, they will be here this evening you can talk to them then.  Do they speak English?  No.  So I can’t speak to them then.  You will have to talk to them this evening.  Oh.  My.  Life. 

And that is it, they turn around sit back down again, and ignore you, now they have stopped smiling.  I am impotent.  Completely fucking impotent.  There is nothing I can do, stuck between excuses and language barriers.  Anger offers only paltry rewards,  if I kick up another stink, they might not charge me for the red dye they have smothered my clothes in, but they certainly aren’t going to give me the forty quid it will cost to replace them.  It is exhausting having to fight for insulting victories, like not paying for washing that isn’t really washed.  

Looks like I am going to be wearing mostly red this year…..