Environment 1 - Where There's Smoke ....

For some time, recently, I have been searching the Internet for some details related to an intended visit to the U.K.  Specifically, renting accommodation.  My search reveals an alarming trend that is spreading throughout Europe, the increasing use of burning carbon creating fuel in private homes.

I grew up in a lower/middle income family and we had a three-bedroom home.  One thing that I remember was the situation of a fireplace in every room (except the smallest room).  And at times, every fireplace was in use, and I can still picture the sound and sight of our black-faced coal-man driving his horse and cart full of our weekly sacks of coal.

Eventually, people became aware of the pollution and, more importantly, the ease of simply switching on an electric fire.  This continued to the present day, and introduced air-conditioning systems capable of using gas, oil, and other forms of heating.  Then, costs rose and double-glazed windows became essential.  In addition, a chimney on the roof became a heat-loss device and fire places were quickly blocked and plastered over (or remodelled as a bookcase).  A few were retained to house simulated fire inserts, but only switched on during weekends ... or when the vicar came to call.

But, now, guess what?  The cost of energy has 'gone-through-the-roof' ... if you'll excuse the pun, and the term 'kilowatts per hour' has become as unclean as coal.  Innovation has taken over.  Now, there are hundreds of fire-place shops opening in every town selling caste iron, wood-burning (or anything) stoves for use in the home.  Real-estate agents highlight the advantages of such devices, and holiday cottage renters are always supplied with a "free" supply of logs.  Once again, it is possible to buy coal but, this time, the coal is a "clean" type ... another oxymoron, I suggest.

Is this the sign of the ingenuity that we can be proud of?


Please open the Blog and comment below.

Quotation - He lived for Peace —

Nelson Mandela

He lived for Peace - May he rest in Peace

Acknowledged to Getty Huffpost

Education 7 - The Job Application Jungle

There are excellent curriculum in secondary schools that ensure, hopefully, that students learn language, mathematics, and science but, then, what happens when they move on into higher education, will they graduate towards wonderful lucrative jobs.  I wonder.

I had cause to travel through the huge, increasingly developing and expanding, campus of the University of Western Ontario, recently.  It seemed to be the moment of the mid-morning break because there was a great army of undergraduates diligently walking between one destination or another.  Besides walking, some were forced to use one of many bus services, others were still braving the cold weather on their bicycles.  I am trying to create a picture of thousands of students moving through a system of academic creation (Almost a manufacturing enterprise) and the ultimate horror of a graduation ceremony, as they ponder their next move into the uncertain jungle of job searching.

Actually, it is not uncertain.  We know that most of them will become unemployed (Not unemployable).  Many will, sensibly, volunteer overseas, others will move back with their parents, and we shall wonder if the government is doing enough ... or if it knows what to do.

And pundits, like myself will try to offer wise platitudes ... if that is not an oxymoron. 

But, related to this, is my experience trying to break through the job application jungle for a friend.  Forgive me if I say that it’s not like it was in the good ol’ days.

Were you aware that the unsolicited submission of one’s resume is obsolescent.  Auto-generated replies of, “We do not accept CV’s” has become commonplace.  Yes, all CV’s (period) not only those unsolicited.  There are many interesting jobs advertised in the Times Higher Education supplement, and they all ask applicants to go to a website to find an online application form ... and only an online form, i.e., do not attach a CV.  Put simply, "if you ignore this request, your application will be deleted".

It could be argued that, thus, the application process becomes an equal playing field.

Do we want an equal playing field for aspiring teachers who are proficient in completing online forms, but cannot demonstrate their ability to write a couple of simple English paragraphs, or prove their distinctive traits above others.  Of course, every employer will tell of the impossible number of applications aimed at any one particular job, but can a computer software writer produce a successful software algorithm capable of selecting the best candidate?  I suggest that the quality of higher education will decrease with this approach.  Computers are excellent at manufacturing robots.

And educated robots will move back in with their parents.

Education 6 - GCSE and the Chinese Language

Foreign language learning is an interesting subject at the best of times, notwithstanding the misunderstanding between a foreign and a second language.  But, I find the examination of foreign language courses quite thought-provoking.

For some time, I have been studying language schools in the U.K.  At least, those progressive schools that include the Chinese language within their curriculum.

As with many European schools, the emphasis of ‘academia’ and ‘language’ is to resist change for various reasons.  In the U.K., French and German are popular with both teachers and students because of the relationship of their shared origins.  In other words, they are easy.  But, if one raises one’s head to look, globally, it is not difficult to notice the increasing Chinese presence.  Business is beginning to notice this but, unfortunately, many schools have not ... yet.

All schools teach the French language, just as they did 60 years ago when I was at school.  Interestingly, not as a foreign language but, just because ... “we always have”.  The German language may be introduced in sixth grade for the same reason, together with Spanish (For some obscure reason).  But the slow acceptance of introducing Chinese is narrow-minded.

Originally, the Chinese language was not part of the GCSE and, fortunately, that has changed.  But, recently, I have noticed that some schools are teaching the Cantonese dialect instead of Mandarin.  Cantonese was the language of Hong Kong and may be heard in most Chinese restaurants, but even in Hong Kong today the CCP mandates the use of Mandarin.  Therefore, one wonders if some schools feel that their students will rarely visit China preferring, instead, to visit the local Chinese restaurant.

There is something to be said for the influence of the Confucius Institutes.

Quotation - Tell me ....

Zhu Xi

朱熹

  "Tell me and I forget

Teach me and I remember

Involve me and I learn."

 Chinese Confucian philosopher who lived during the Warring States period  
and contributed to one of the Hundred Schools of Thought

Unusually High Work Volume

Yesterday morning at 8:30 AM, I found it necessary to call Bell ... on my Virgin mobile phone, of course.  You see, the whole of the previous day, my phone line had been cut, which also removed my lifeline ... the Internet.

I hadn't called them because others in my building had done that and, from my window, I could see workmen in florescent yellow waistcoats digging up the sidewalk.  Not the same workmen continuously, sometimes it was municipal workers, then Bell telephone technicians, each shift continuing throughout the day.  They were still there when I went to bed.

Thus, the 8:30 AM call the next day.  It is necessary, I feel, to explain my frustration.  It only took a few minutes for a computer to answer in English that if I wanted service in English that I press #1.  It being 8:30 AM, it was not a surprise to hear that "Due to an unusually high volume of calls ...." there was going to be a wait time of approximately 5 minutes.  Of course, this is the moment when one forgets how to switch to speakerphone, but it is reassuring to know that "Your call is very important to us." Then, as the soothing music fails to sooth, a cheerful computer voice interrupts to say "Did you know that Bell Internet is always available to help." Excu-u-use me, but do you know why I'm trying to call you?  and 10 minutes later there is a click and, annoyingly, the music stops ... well, it is so rare to have nice music that sounds like music ... and a human voice (I shall give him the benefit of my doubt) can be heard as if he is using an old amateur radio fitted with a bent coat hanger in a remote Bangladeshi village.  Nevertheless, it was possible to verify my date of birth, favourite colour, and inside leg measurement, and receive a promise to rectify the problem as soon as possible, and be asked to "Have a nice day".

At 11:55 AM, the phone rings again, and the first caller's sister, who obviously has a Canadian residence visa because of the clear line that indicates that there were no workmen in yellow waistcoats digging up the sidewalk outside her call centre (Is there more than one Bell company?) which proves that her brother had not told her anything about my problem, and was quite surprised to hear about the various shifts of workmen outside my window.  Anyway, she seemed quite relieved to know that I liked blue.

At 3:00 PM, the phone rings again, and someone who sounded fairly proficient, tells me that his workers were digging up the cable as we speak and "They will have the task finished before 6:00 PM."  I go to the window and there is nobody in sight.  I decided that they were digging up a cable near to Tim Horton's.

6:00 PM passes, and so does 7:00 PM.  At 7:20 PM, I notice lights outside (The sun sets at 6:15 PM) two workmen had erected a tent over a hole in the ground which glowed in the dark as if they fishing for their supper.

Looking out of the window just before going to bed, I noticed that the light was out.  Checking the landline phone produced the beautiful sound of a dial tone.

Thus, this morning, even though there has been no call from Bell, I have my loving Internet back.  Oh, I almost forgot, my first e-mail was from the Bell call centre asking for feedback ... that will take some time to answer as I have an unusually high volume of work at the moment.

Have a nice day.

A Bangladesh Sweatshop

I read this article (Actually, it is more than just an article, it is an stunning essay), such that it brought back emotional feelings to me following my own tour to Bangladesh.  I hope that everyone finds time to read it.

I Got Hired at a Bangladesh Sweatshop.

  Meet My 9-year-old Boss

Meem, 9, works 12-hour shifts at a factory in Dhaka, Bangladesh.  She dreams of becoming a sewing operator, buying more hair clips and helping her family.

Toronto Star reporter Raveena Aulakh works undercover in a Bangladesh garment factory for a first hand look at their working conditions.

DHAKA, BANGLADESH—Some days are good for Meem, others she likes to forget as quickly as possible.

  The first time I saw Meem, which was also my first day at work at a sweatshop, she was having a good day despite the wretched heat.  She sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, a tiny, frail figure among piles of collars, cuffs and other parts of unstitched shirts.

  She had a pair of cutters in her hands, much like eyebrow tweezers, and she was trimming threads from a navy collar.  She cleared one collar after another of threads until the big pile, which had been bigger than her, was no more.  It took her all morning and she didn’t look up much, did not join any conversation.  When it was done, she took a few gulps of water from a scrunched bottle, walked around for a bit, her little hands rubbing her back, and went back to trimming threads — this time, from navy cuffs.

  She did that from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., except for an hourlong lunch break.  Later, she said, it had been a good day: the electricity didn’t play hooky (which meant the three ceiling fans worked all day) and so it wasn’t oppressively hot, she had fish curry for lunch, and the floor manager didn’t yell at her for humming too loudly.  It was a very good day, she said again, dancing a little jig.

  Meem is 9 years old and works as a sewing helper in a garment factory.  For a few days this summer, she was also my boss.

  She taught me the tricks of trimming.  She taught me to smile when my back ached.  She taught me some Bengali words.

  Sab bhalo. It is all okay.

Getting the job

  On a sweaty day this August, I arrived at a factory in a neighbourhood near Lalmatia in southwest Dhaka.  The wide streets were lined with old buildings and were clogged with rickshaws, crowded buses and fancy cars.  Clothes were hung out to dry from balconies, restaurants shared common front yards with abattoirs.  At most street corners, there were shoe-shine men, tiny places that served tea and Bengali sweets.

Bangladesh: Survivors of the Rana Plaza collapse

  Morning time was almost always more chaotic as schoolchildren in uniforms scrambled to get to class and grown-ups hurried to work.

  Off a main street and at the end of a laneway was the sweatshop.

  Hamid, formerly a sewing operator with a big garment factory in Narayanganj, is the owner.  About three years ago, he took a loan and started his own business — a small factory that operates without a name — and today employs about 45 people.

  I walked in the first morning just after 8, a bottle of water in hand, and introduced myself to Ali, the floor manager, as Rubina, the new sewing helper.  He is a small, wiry man who, I later discovered, cooks and sleeps at the factory.   He nodded and told me to take a look around.

  Getting the job hadn’t been easy.  Before Rana Plaza collapsed in a Dhaka suburb on April 24 and 1,129 people lost their lives, reporters got into factories and chronicled the appalling safety conditions, child labour and subsistence salaries.  Now big factories have security and careful screening.  Outsiders, especially non-Bengali speakers, are looked at with deep suspicion.  Even though my appearance helped, it didn’t help that I don’t know Bengali and don’t look impoverished.  Initially, I tried to get a job at a big factory with the help of some well-connected friends in Dhaka.  But as a friend said, his factory owner friend simply asked him why he didn’t just give me — the down-on-her-luck relative — money.

  In the end, a cabbie I had hired while on assignment in Dhaka last year came through.  A friend of his friend owned a small factory making garments for local retailers and often taking orders from big factories when they faced deadline pressures.

  The cabbie told Hamid that his wife’s cousin (me) was an Indian woman who had recently moved to Dhaka, knew a few words of Bengali and needed a new start.

  Hamid was in a bind.  Some of his workers hadn’t returned from their villages after Eid and he had a deadline to meet.  So he said yes, he would try me out for a few days.  If I did well, we would talk money, said Hamid.

  The factory wasn’t big: about two dozen sewing machines lined the walls of the windowless room, about half the size of a basketball court.  Two cutting machines sat in a corner.  The sewing machines had little benches for the operators, and almost all had piles of colourful fabric by the side.  Three ceiling fans, covered with layers of dirt, hummed quietly.

  In one corner was Hamid’s office.  It had glass windows and a glass door.  Most fabric was kept there before it was cut.  A phone sat on the desk with an old computer that was almost never used.

  There were no fire extinguishers, no exit other than the main door (I later counted another 21 sewing machines on the second floor of the same building.  A rickety staircase was the only way up.  Workers on the main and second floor didn’t socialize much).

  The sole washroom was right at the end of the laneway, opposite the sweatshop.  It was dimly lit, with puddles of dirty water, and the toilet was little more than a hole in the ground.  It was used by every business on the floor; even for showering by those who live there, including Ali, whose clothes hung on a clothesline in the narrow hallway.  Rats frequently visited.

  At the factory, the sewing helpers, seven of us, always sat in the middle of the floor, trimming threads, ironing, folding and later packaging.

  That first day, in the centre of the floor, sat Meem.

  Her father, who worked at another garment factory, had an early shift and so he had dropped Meem off.  Even though work didn’t start until 9, she was already trimming threads.  Ali gestured for me to sit on the floor and in rapid Bengali told Meem to give me work.

  As soon as his back turned, Meem, who was nibbling on a samosa, told me to take it easy.

  “It is your first day . . . just watch for a couple of hours,” she said shyly.  She was easy to love.

  No one at the factory, including Meem, knew I was a reporter.  Except for a few questions about her family, I never interviewed her: everything in the story is what I saw, what I heard.

  I watched her and I watched Ali and began to understand how the factory worked.

  Ali preferred to cut fabric into shirt pieces himself and did so every morning before the workers arrived.  He then distributed the pieces, along with matching thread, to sewing operators.  Some stitched shirt arms, others collars, cuffs and pockets.

  The week I was there, the sweatshop had an order for men’s linen shirts.  No one knew how many exactly or where the shirts were heading.  The way each shirt was sewn, at least in that factory, was astounding for the number of steps each takes, the details and the tasks, the repetition and the relentlessness.  Like most people, I had never thought of it before.

  The fabric for the shirt body was cut into three panels — the back, left side front and right side front.  The sleeves, cuffs, pockets, pocket flaps and collars were cut separately.  One woman would feed fabric into a machine and hundreds of collars would come out strung together by thread.  A helper would then separate them and trim any dangling threads.

  One sewing operator focused on finishing cuffs; another stitched together collars; another sewed cuffs or collars to the shirt panels.  Pocket flaps and pockets were sewn separately and then attached.

  That is how every part of the shirt was made — sewn on its own and then stitched together.  Every part of the shirt went separately through the helpers who trimmed the threads. Once assembled, the shirt returned to the floor so any threads could be trimmed before it was ironed and packaged.

I thought trimming sounded easy and it was, except I hadn’t counted on the hours spent sitting on the concrete floor without a backrest and the cutter digging into my thumb and forefinger.

  It was back-breaking, it was finger-numbing.  It was particularly rage-inducing.  Not because it was painfully hard work but because children like Meem hunched over hour after hour, squinted at the threads, cleaned one collar after another, one cuff after another, one arm piece after another until the piles were depleted.

  Then other piles arrived — some larger than the previous ones but almost always larger than Meem.

  Nipping a hole while trimming was a terrible sin.  It happened a couple of times a day.

  Ali, who stood by the entrance watching, eventually noticed it and screamed at everyone until whoever was responsible owned up and then a sewing operator would try to salvage the piece, grumbling loudly.

  There was a lot of yelling, mostly by Ali.  It wasn’t clear how many shirts workers were expected to sew in an hour or a day but it was expected that they stay hunched over their sewing machines every minute they were at the factory.  Snack breaks had to be quick, bathroom breaks even quicker.

  Meem, the youngest, was often yelled at because she chatted too much and twice because she was humming a Bengali song too loudly.

  Meem and the sewing helpers were paid the least, earning about $26 Canadian a month if they worked from 9 to 5 every day or about $32 if they worked overtime and stayed until 9 p.m.  Most did.  There were no weekends, except for a half-day every Friday, no sick leave, no holidays.  If a worker took a day off, it came off the paycheque.

  Still, in a country where so many live in grinding poverty, Meem’s was a prized job, even though the minimum wage at this factory was between $30 and $38 a month.

  “When I become a sewing operator, I will make very good shirts,” Meem promised.  “No one will yell at me.”

 That’s how big she dreamed: to graduate to a sewing operator one day.

School’s out

  How Meem left school and started working at the factory is a fairly common story among poor Bangladeshi families: too many mouths to feed, too few bringing in money.

  A few months ago, Meem’s mother, who worked as a domestic helper in Dhanmondi, an affluent Dhaka neighbourhood, found out she was pregnant and unable to work.  Around the same time, Meem’s brother, a 15-year-old construction worker, argued with his parents about how much money he should contribute to the household. He left to live on his own.

  With Meem, her three little sisters and a baby on the way, Meem’s father took her to Hamid and asked if she could work there.  Hamid said yes and just like that, school was out, 12-hour work shifts were in.

  It is not as if Meem’s parents don’t care for her — they simply had no choice.  Meem said her father did not want her to work at just any factory but chose Hamid’s because her aunt works as a sewing operator and would keep an eye out for her.

  Meem’s wages go directly to her father.  She is allowed to buy hair clips — she loves glitter — once a month, and an occasional ice cream.  “I have 11 hair clips,” she said one day, holding up both her hands and spreading her fingers. “So many.”

  Meem’s friend at the sweatshop was Taaniya, a 13-year-old with long, dark hair and a shy smile.  The older girl, always wearing the traditional salwar kameez, a long shirt with pants and a long scarf, taught Meem little tricks: for instance, how to hold the cutter close to the edge to get the best results but not nip the cloth.  Or how to fold a shirt and then iron it, saving time.

  Taaniya, who has been working for a few years, also told Meem which sewing operators complain the most and should be avoided.

  Lootfah, 15, a pretty, fair-skinned operator, was their favourite.  She was kind, happy and didn’t tell Ali if threads still dangled.  She would quietly trim them.  Moni, in her late 20s, was a mother of three, often late for work and one of the first to leave.  She would complain to Ali if the girls chatted too much or too loudly.  Meem and Taaniya stayed away from her.  If Moni asked for thread, they would go to the storage closet and give it to her in silence.  They got along with other sewing helpers, even Sheema and Sheekha, two girls in their early teens who had joined a few weeks before I had and were too terrified to ever talk.

  “We try to be nice to everyone,” said Meem.

  She was more than that.

  If Meem noticed someone was trimming slowly, she would quickly do her share and then help out.  When she returned from lunch, she would always bring back something for Taaniya, even if it was a bruised apple.  When Sheekha admired her hair clips,  Meem took them from her hair and pressed them into her hands.

  Once she saw Lootfah burst into tears while talking on her cellphone and she slipped out and bought a shiny hair clip for her.

  Meem was particularly good to me.

  She told me to give her everything I trimmed and not put it in the done pile.  I didn’t understand until it dawned on me that I wasn’t any good at my job.  I was clumsy and I nipped at least twice.  She “checked” so that I didn’t get into any trouble with Ali.  She knew I was on trial at the sweatshop and if I didn’t trim the threads well, I would not last long.

  I wasn’t as good to her.  On my third day at work, I was sitting next to her during lunch, watching her quietly when she pulled my hair back from one side, pointed to my little gold hoop earrings and said they were pretty.  I didn’t know what to do, I wish I had just given them to her.

  Meem never complained but you could tell when all wasn’t well in Meem’s world: she would still smile — always — but not chat too much and sometimes, she would rub her back or massage the tips of her little fingers.

‘The kids don’t know better’

 Factory managers prefer younger sewing helpers.  Their eyesight is better, their little fingers nimbly trim threads and they don’t fuss about backaches and neck pain.

  “It works for everyone,” says Smitha Zaheed, who volunteers with the Dhaka-based Independent Garment Workers’ Union Federation.  “Factory owners get workers who are not demanding . . . while the parents get to keep what the kids earn because the kids don’t know any better,” she says.

  But even at 9 years old, Meem knows money helps buy things and improve the quality of life. She knows it’s a tough world. Is she tough enough?

“I want to work in a bigger factory one day … there is more money,” she said one morning.  But she is also intimidated by the idea.  “But what if I get lost there?  I have heard there are hundreds of operators.  And I will never be able to know their names.  Maybe I should stay here always.  This is so close to home.”

  Meem and Taaniya don’t think it is wrong that they are not in school.  Everyone they know works in the garment factory industry or as domestic help.  The two girls would share what they had learned over lunch of curries or lentil soup and rice.  Taaniya, ever the wise older girl, spoke of things her family could now afford: a new bed, a new goat and many more salwar kameezes.  Taaniya told Meem that if she earned enough, she wouldn’t have to get married and move away to live with some strange man who might like her, or might not.  She could also buy a colour TV set one day, Taaniya said.

  Taaniya is the third of four siblings and she regularly buys gifts for her oldest sister’s daughter.

  Cheap fashion has fuelled a social revolution in Bangladesh.  It has given women more economic freedom, and to an extent, the power to make some decisions.  By all accounts, working women are changing their lives, their families’ lives.  There is more food in homes, and cleaner clothes.  There is electricity, even if it’s one bulb, and there are toilets.

  But it has come at a price.

  Meem liked playing in the rain.  She liked sleeping in on Sundays and holidays.  She liked playing with her three baby sisters.  The factory has become her life, the life she will likely know for a long time, maybe all her days.

Quiet acceptance

  At the end of my first day of work, I returned to my Dhaka hotel a little after 6 because I didn’t stay back for overtime.  My back hurt, I had a nosebleed from sitting in the wicked heat, and my head ached.  I was hungry but couldn’t eat.  I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and watched the minutes tick by until 9 o’clock and I knew Meem would have finally left for home.

  My backache was worse the second day. So was the despair.

  The third day, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to see Meem. I didn’t want to see her ever again.

  It was mostly because Meem did not look unhappy.  She was okay with working 12 hours every day, she didn’t see anything wrong with sitting on the floor, she quietly accepted the backache.

  I could only think of another 9-year-old girl: Arshiya.

  Arshiya, like Meem, is bony with short cropped hair, an elfin smile.  They are both smart and clever.  They are witty and fun to be around.  They are partial to hugs.

  Arshiya is my best friend’s daughter, lives in an affluent neighbourhood in South Delhi, attends a private school, is fluent in two languages and learning German, is good at tae kwondo and plays piano.  Last year, she wanted to be a jumbo aircraft pilot; this year a NASA scientist.

  I remember nuzzling her head under my chin and teasing her: “As long as you don’t flunk math.”

  A week later, I met Meem.

  The little girl who did not attend school anymore, never had any time to play and dreamed of being a sewing operator one day.

  As Meem would say: Sab bhalo, it is all okay.

  It isn’t.

By: Raveena Aulakh Environment, Published on Fri Oct 11 2013

Aerospace 6 - It's Innovation!

It’s a plane!  It’s the CSeries!  It’s innovation!  Yes, it’s another example of Bombardier creativity.  Today, the first CSeries aircraft took off, like a whisper, from Mirabel Airport in Quebec.  It was a few months behind the original schedule but this compares quite favourably with the years of delay for Boeing’s B-787 ‘Dreamliner’, which continues to reveal problems.

The flight lasted for a few hours, and the test pilots enthusiastically reported a perfect flight.

Illustration by Bombardier Inc.

What happens next?  Well, in my opinion, many airlines who have been placing meaningless Letters of Intent with Airbus, Boeing, et al., will be reassessing their biased agendas and sending representatives to Montreal (If they are not already there).  After all, you are reminded of the old technology inherent in the Airbus and Boeing aircraft that will not become available until 2017 ... compared to the 20% more efficient CSeries becoming available next year (2014).

Look out, also, for news from Porter Airlines, who have already announced their conditional order of 12 CSeries aircraft (Conditional on a runway extension at the Billy Bishop airport) and, then, imagine the impact of WestJet trying to bring their new Q400’s into Billy Bishop.  It's going to be interesting.

Stay tuned (As they say).

Aerospace 5 - WestJet Moves

Last month, WestJet Airlines Ltd. placed a letter of intent to purchase 65 B-737 aircraft from the Boeing Company, and delivery of the first aircraft will be in September 2017.  As a result, I was empowered to research this segment of the market concerning the future of both WestJet and Bombardier Aerospace.  What follows is a pocketbook guide to my (admittedly biassed) thoughts.

WestJet B-737 NG, Early Morning Approach into London, Ontario,

Boeing introduced the first B-737 in 1967 and it became the best-selling commercial jet in aviation history.  Over this period, many modifications were made to the aircraft to increase seating and range.  In 1997, when it became clear that the Airbus A-320 was a serious threat, Boeing introduced the Next Generation (NG) aircraft, the main differences could be seen in a new wing with blended winglets, a quieter engine, and modern avionics.  One interesting problem that happened with the B-737 NG was due to the larger engine which, if placed in its original position, was too close to the ground.  This problem was solved by positioning the engine further forward on the wing.  In 2010, Airbus announced the new engine option for the A-320 NEO, thus, increasing the competition with the B-737 NG.  In 2011, Boeing announced the B-737 MAX.  This version has another new engine and, because of closeness of the engine to the ground, has a greatly extended nose wheel  length.  

Delivery of the first aircraft is due to begin in 2017.  Meanwhile, Bombardier has been working quietly in the background on the design of a new 100-seater CSeries aircraft, to add to its solid fleet of new technology aircraft such as the Challenger, CRJ, Learjet, and Q400 aircraft.The idea for the CSeries aircraft started in 2004 using some of the high technology used on the company’s other designs, but totally designing a new aircraft from nose to tail, using a great deal of carbon fibre, and incorporating a newly designed, highly efficient engine.  The aircraft uses 46% composite materials, 24% aluminium-lithium which allows a 15% lower seat-mile cost, a significant reduction in maintenance costs ... and a 20% less fuel per trip than any of the Boeing, Airbus, and Embraer competitors.  Not to mention that, as I write, Transport Canada has issued the permit to fly for the first aircraft, which should happen within days of writing this, and a proposed entry into service for next year (2014).

Therefore, to Greg Saretsky, the CEO of WestJet, I am bound to ask this obvious question;  Why, when you now have introduced Q400’s into your fleet, have you decided to order an old, patched-up design, B-737 MAX for 2017, when the 20% better Canadian CSeries will become available next year?

eMail

At one time there was only Canada Post.  Then, we discovered the Internet.  As a result, we joined the eMail revolution.  Firstly, for a short while, I had an AOL account, then, I organized myself with a Hotmail account for general use, a Yahoo! account for personal use, and Google for backup (although Google gains more importance as this Blog and our future Website are published).  I believe that there are other addresses in my files somewhere, e.g., Bell.net.  Other addresses lurk in the background files of Apple and, I am sure, many others.

Recently (I mean during the past year or so), as a result of registering for various media sites, I am plagued, daily (Yes, daily), by unsolicited eMail from organizations such as LinkedIn and Facebook (I'm so sorry.  I promise never to mention those two names again), and when I receive messages saying, “You have 4 new friends waiting to hear from you.”  or, for example, “Do you know John Intram?” I look for the Delete button, actually, I don’t look ... I know where it is ... blindfolded.

By the way, I am sure that both of the organizations named above have my eMail address set within many associated files because I have forgotten how many times I’ve attempted to ’Unsubscribe’.

Dear people, I think that I know who my friends are, and I suspect that they do not really want me to be their 3,333rd friend (Please agree with me).  Therefore, I want you to know that I am not, intentionally, sending anything other than this wonderful Blog.

The Bicycle Ride

Two or three times each week, I try to go out on my bicycle for a recreational ride around my favourite part of London, Ontario (Actually, to be truthful, it rarely amounts to three times).

Firstly, we look eastwards and ride along Oxford Street ....

Passing my prospective car dealer ....

The London Muslim Mosque .... 

At the Bradford Bridge over the Thames River (No, not the River Thames -  Originally built in 1882 in wood, and rebuilt in 1954), we turn turn southwards ....

Continuing south, alongside the river ....

... until reaching Harris Park and the Queens Avenue and Riverside Drive bridges ....

Thus, arriving at 'The Forks' of the Thames River ....

... where we cross over the river, again, near Ivey Park....

... past the 'Battle of the Atlantic' Memorial to those who gave their lives at sea in World War II .... 

... and turn westwards on the beautiful bike trail .... 

... under the railway ....

... joining the trail dedicated to Terry Fox, and passing the Greenway Park Naturalization Project (Designed to replace rare species of hardwood trees, etc., that disappeared with human occupation hundreds of years ago).

Past the memorial of the 'SS Victoria' boat disaster of 1881.  One of Canada's worst marine disasters;  the small, double-decked, stern-wheeler was on an excursion trip, dangerously overcrowded with more than 600 passengers, and keeled over due to passengers shifting from one side to the other, and sank immediately.  182 people lost their lives.

Continuing slowly to capture memorable pictures.

Under the busy Wonderland Road ....

... towards the Woodland Garden.

Catching glimpses of the river through heavy tree growth.

Passing the Springbank Pumphouse that supplied water to the city between 1878 and 1967
 (When water from the Great Lakes was brought on line).

Continuing westwards towards the children's Storybook Gardens at Springbank Park .... 

Carefully, discuss with the resident Canada Geese how they should protect their young.

... where we wait for the local train on the 'Circle Line'.

Then, finally, the end of the trail appears ahead ....

... inviting us in for a Tim's French Vanilla Latte and Boston Cream donut in Byron Village (Well, don't you just feel like that right now?).

Management 1 - Entitlement?

I hope that I may use the example in Nancy's previous post, her comment that the enlightened Henry Ford paid his employees above the cost of living to ensure a dedicated workforce.

But, today, the emphasis seems to focus on a worker's entitlement.  It raises many questions, for example, should bonuses be an entitlement?  Are incentives necessary?

This may be my shortest post, as I hope to become part of useful discussion.

Politics 9 - Percentage Formula

I had cause to read the Cyprus Mail this morning, and was driven to write a comment to an article about the trade union of bank employees reorganizing the downsizing of the Bank of Cyprus.  I know, I should improve my prioritizing, i.e., Blog first, then, the media.

The EU has applied draconian measures to the Cypriot economy where some banks have ‘gone under’.  Unfortunately, Cyprus politics has been tied to Greece, and still is.  Hence, the application of strict rules for a much-needed ‘bailout’ by the EU.

The financial story is quite complicated, and would require more space than this Blog allows.  But, with regard to the Bank of Cyprus, the EU Troika forced the bank to freeze 47% of the accounts, and depositors having more than € 100,000 had the excess turned into long term bonds, not to mention a maximum daily withdrawal amount of € 300.

Naturally, many employees were ‘invited’ to accept retirement, and the remainder will experience severe pay cuts.

“The union proposed the percentage of pay-cuts that should be imposed by the banks, as if this were its responsibility. It decreed that cuts for salaries between €2,000 and €4,000 would be 10 per cent, between €6,000 and €8,000 at 20 per cent and over €10,000 at 30 per cent.  The unions dictated that the higher the salary, the higher the percentage cut, which on the surface seemed fair but it is not, because it reduces wage differentials”.

“Why should a senior bank executive, who works long hours, has many more responsibilities and much more pressure suffer a bigger pay cut than someone in middle management with a much easier job? Only unions, the great levellers and enemies of excellence, would think this is good arrangement. In effect, the unions are imposing an income tax policy, which they have no legal or moral authority to do, in the name of workers’ rights and nobody is prepared to challenge them.”

Thus, I felt that a comment should be made, because this has always been one of my favourite subjects.

What is the purpose of a salary increase (All things being equal)?  There are two simple reasons, 1. To reward excellent work, and 2. To adjust for inflation.

Of course, we all know that annual salary increases are regarded as an automatic event, regardless of employee excellence or the cost of living, and that is the first incorrect model.  Furthermore, management tries to use a formula of percentages for salary adjustments which is also unfortunate for employees at the bottom of the scale.

If there is an increase in inflation of 1%, and a related increase to the cost of living, does the CEO’s family annual grocery bill increase by € 2,000 and that of the cleaner only increases by € 200 (Assumes salaries of € 200,000 for the CEO and € 20,000 for the cleaner).  Of course not.  The cost of grocery essentials increases equally for both families.

Therefore, the unions, in this example, are right to apply a varying scale, and those at senior levels should stop complaining.  There are good times and bad times ... this is not a good time.

It is time for using the 3-star hotel.

Please comment via the Blog page (See below).

Politics 8 - Refugees

When one feels like discussing something interesting, it often becomes a debate. Then, we are told never to introduce those two dangerous subjects, Politics and Religion. But, try to discuss immigration and avoid an insulting argument, because immigration combines both politics and religion.

I wrote the following, as a comment, in a newspaper this morning.  Then, realized that I had a Blog, a worthy stage for my act.

Enter, stage right (or left).  No one political party in the world can design an equitable immigration policy, and those religions that preach 'Peace on Earth to all men', seem to forget those words when they leave the church or mosque.

Personally, I like to teach many people the difference between an 'immigrant' and a 'refugee'. In the 'ideal' world, immigrants should not cause major problems, but that assumes that immigration departments adhere to the regulations, i.e., no person (s) should be coming into a country without sufficient funds to support themselves for a defined period of time, or be sponsored by a business (or another individual) for a specific period of time, e.g., three years. After three years, they should qualify for resident or even citizen status.

But a refugee usually has no choice. They come, for various reasons, for fear of their lives. Once their case is proven, I am sure that most of us would be sympathetic to their situation. We may say, 'There, but for the grace of God, go I.' Nevertheless, I need to mention a rarely spoken, controversial point; If, and when, the fearful reason for their acceptance as refugees has passed, they must be encouraged to return to their safe country of origin ... and, from there, apply for immigration. A precedent exists, e.g., a tourist arrives in a country, loves it so much, decides to stay, but must return to their country of origin to apply at the embassy ... and prove educational skills, financial sufficiency, and criminal record, etc.

That is not discrimination.

Travel 8 - Bangladesh - Amazing Photo

I have just discovered this photo in documentation found from my recent stay in Bangladesh.  It is a wonderful example of the political situation found in Dhaka today (Mentioned in my Travel 7 post earlier), whenever there is a hartal (strike).

The attacker (terrorist/anarchist) is a member of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party's youth wing, attacking a group of policemen huddled in a shop doorway.  It is quite noticeable that the police are wearing protective clothing and carrying weapons including a rifle and tear gas guns.  I can only assume, from my experience, that the police either do not have ammunition for their weapons, or they are obeying an order not to shoot.

Opposition Youth Attacking Police

NEW AGE Newspaper

2,000 Page Views

It is very satisfying to tell you that this Blog has just passed the 2,000 page view point.  I hope that something written (or quoted) may be remembered or, at least, given you cause for thought.  Allow me to add that some of you have yet to become 'Followers' ... I hope that you will take a moment to consider this.  Feedback is also most important.

Quotation - Success

"I don't measure a man's success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom."

George S. Patton

Travel 7 - Bangladesh (Human Life)

Inactivity on this Blog, due to the ‘blogspot’ application being unavailable in Bangladesh, was a little frustrating because I was remiss in keeping a journal of my experiences.

Arriving back in Canada, I felt it necessary to quickly post a warning about the corrupt and unscrupulous management of the school that hired me (See Education 4).  That being done and, hopefully, forgotten, I may continue with another topic ... resisting the urge to use the title ‘A Day in the Life’.

In a previous Post (See Travel 5) I wrote,“... another aspect of Bangladeshi life that will never be forgotten, is the low value of human life.  Every time I picked up a daily newspaper, I was astonished by the number of murders that were taking place every day (every day).  There are two categories;  firstly the group attacks on males resulting from some petty street argument and, secondly, the 'honor' killings of females, more often than not, housemaids.  Then, only if reported, do the police become involved, but only to document the incident (Rarely is there a report of a conviction).  It is difficult not to mention religion in this context.”  I should, now, try to present a more detailed picture of that terrible situation which is rarely described in the Western media.

Dhaka (Bashundhara)

To do this, I randomly grabbed a local newspaper, the Daily Star (May 23rd, 2013), and spent some time analyzing the contents for evidence of the low value of human life.  Here is the result:

• “Man dies in cop custody - Family alleges torture as it gave half the money demanded in bribe for his release.”
• “BNP to call another hartal* next week - The BNP last night decided to enforce a nationwide daylong hartal next week protesting the ‘ban’ on rallies in the capital for a month.”
• “Rapist gets life term in Ctg - A Chittagong court yesterday sentenced a man to life and fined him Tk 1 lakh for raping a five-year-old girl.”
• “Road crash kill four - A man was killed and three others were injured as a truck rammed a Nasimon at Maligasa intersection in Pabna yesterday.” (Yes, I did notice the title error, Ed.)“MC College student stabbed to death - A student of MC College was stabbed to death by miscreants in the city’s Pathantola area yesterday.”
• “Injured CU student dies - A Chittagong University student, who was injured after falling off the railing in the corridor of his hall on Tuesday night, died in Chittagong Medical College Hospital early yesterday.”
• “Vandalism marks BNP’s hartal - At least 15 CNG auto-rickshaws were vandalized and another torched by pickets in Keraniganj upazila during yesterday’s daylong hartal in Dhaka district called by BNP.”
• “Sylhet court frames charges against six - A Sylhet court framed charges against six people in a case filed against them on a charge of killing journalist Foteh Osmani in Sylhet city on April 18.”
• “Accused in Rekkat murder case held - Detective Branch (DB) of police has arrested a youth in connection with local Swechsebok League leader Rekkat murder case.”
• “Two ‘smugglers’ killed in ‘shootout’ with BGB - Two alleged smugglers were killed in a ‘shootout’ between members of Border Guard Bangladesh (BGB) and a gang of smugglers ....”
• “18-party men sued - Around 200 leaders and activists of 18-party Alliance were sued yesterday on charge of vandalizing vehicles and blasting cocktails on Tuesday.”
• “Youth ‘commits suicide’ - A youth allegedly took his own life by taking poison over a family feud in Pakpara village in Kalidashpur ....”
• “Man kills daughter - A two-year-old girl was killed allegedly by her father at Bhatpara village ....”
• “Youth electrocuted - A dish line worker was electrocuted in Kawkhali upazila on Tuesday night.”
• “Housewife killed for dowry - A housewife has been killed allegedly by her husband for dowry at Asadpur village under KHaliajuri upazila.”
• “30 extrajudicial killings so far this year - Bangladesh security forces perpetrated at least 30 extrajudicial killings and 10 forced disappearances and carried out wide-spread torture in 2012, according to the human rights organization Amnesty International.”
• “2 killed in ‘shootout’ - They were suspected of murder, abduction, says RAB.”




• “Rajshahi Jubo League leader shot dead - A Rajshahi leader was gunned down in a factional clash at Chandipur in Rajshahi city yesterday afternoon.”

Please note that this is an average daily record, and I have other newspapers that describe similar statistics.  It is surprisingly noticeable that deaths and injuries on the railways are not mentioned in this instance.   Incidentally, this newspaper, ironically, had a photo of Mahatma Gandhi on the front page.

Dhaka (Bashundhara)

*The ‘hartal’ is the word to describe a politically organized strike.  Unlike Western strikes that are organized by individual trade unions causing, for example, the cancellation of public transport or government offices, the hartal is organized by a political party (usually the opposition) where they forcefully demand a total shutdown of all businesses, usually involving a youth wing that breaks windows of shops that remain open and set fire to buses that ignore the call ... even rickshaws are not spared.  I believe it to be a form of anarchy, where I argue that the country is not ‘developing’, it is in a sad state of stagnation politically.

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