From Bangalore to Bandung for UFB
A mug’s view We had Ultra Fast Broadband installed last week. So, for a few ultra long hours, our modern family of five drifted, unconnected to the wider world. For a while it was touch and go whether we were going to make it back alive.
Various people told us UFB was the way to go. Apparently it can increase the signal around your home, we were informed, so I was looking forward to getting a signal in the workshop and in the sleepout for the kids. The kids were looking forward to getting a signal while they bounced on the trampoline.
On top of that, connecting to UFB was cheaper than our existing broadband plan. Work that one out. Sign us up we said.
We spoke to various call centres around the world. ‘‘No problem,’’ our telecommunications service provider from Bangalore said. Of course I had no idea where the person I was talking to was talking from. They could have been in a call centre in Blockhouse Bay for all I knew. Either way, no problems.
Except there was a problem. Over the next couple of weeks we had three separate conversations with three separate people from somewhere between Budapest, Buenos Aires and Bahawalpur who each told us UFB hadn’t reached our street yet.
We told them it had. We’d watched them dig up our shared driveway to install it. We’d signed papers saying it was okay to do so. The third time we told them this I was lying on my back fixing a leak under the sink in the bathroom. I may have been a little grumpy when I told them about that time men in various white vans came up the driveway and dug various trenches and ran various cables.
Turns out there are two different telecommunication maps, telling our various call centre service providers on the other side of the planet, conflicting stories about what is up our driveway. Either way, no problems.
Dates were set for the UFB installation from driveway to house. Many men in many different vans arrived yet again. There was an outside team making the connection to the house, and an inside team making a close connection to all the crap I have hidden under the house.
I took them for a tour under what we call the ‘‘bowels’’ of the house. It’s tall enough to stand and walk around and admire 20 years of hoarded building materials, kids gear, camping equipment and packaging supplies for home businesses. It is a treasure trove I am particularly proud of. Photos were taken to show where cables would need to be run for the UFB, and possibly to send to the producers of Hoarders NZ.
So, a couple of days later, cables were installed. Much drilling was done through concrete and timber and plaster board. The contractor left with a wave of his hand and a smile and a zipped mouth. We were cut free from the apron strings of our obsolete broadband connections and ready to set forth into a brave new UFB world.
Back on the cell phone (because the landline no longer worked), our service provider in Barisal told us to call back in a couple of days if it wasn’t working. I got my wife to call back to Balashikha to confirm that. A couple of days? ‘‘A COUPLE OF DAYS!’’ A rising panic emanating from the bowels of the house wafted into the room.
It was at this stage we cottoned on to the fact the flash new box that was installed in the house to the flash new modem needed to have a connection to our nonwireless desktop computer. Sure there were other wireless devices in the house that would work, but the desktop computer was device number one. If it didn’t work, what was the point?
Staring down at the giant mess of cables running between new ‘‘Optical Network Terminal’’ and ‘‘Wi-Fi Gigabit Modem Router’’ and phone jack and newly installed multi-plug power board to make the damn things go, I couldn’t help but feel I’d been stitched up with less than Optimum Information. A red mist of technophobia did descend.
As the hours ticked by, so too did the tension in the house tick up. When the kids returned from school, all five of us diagnosed the problem. Needless to say we had five different diagnoses, each requiring a slightly more raised voice to be heard.
As World War III came close to eruption in the house the neighbour tiptoed up the stairs and dropped off some home-grown acid-free tomatoes, before bolting back over the fence. It was only when I went outside for some fresh techno-free air that I found the tomatoes. I haven’t seen the neighbour since.
Needless to say the wireless system with its new password started to work a couple of hours later.
We got back on the cellphone to someone from Bhubaneswar who was a gem. He talked me down from the cliff edge.
He told me to pull out various cables and insert various cables to get the phone to work. I asked for his home phone number if ever I had another problem.
A day later we got our emails working. I tried to tell Chorus, who contract out the services to install the cables for UFB, that they need to communicate better about the realities of changing systems over, but I had to phone Bandung to make this information known.
Bandung said it was Bhubaneswar’s problem. I said it wasn’t. As much as I like robust international relationships, shouting at strangers in strange cities on the other side of the planet wasn’t what I was after.
Eventually I got put through to a lady in Christchurch. Our call was recorded for training purposes.
Some days it’s hard not to think the customer is the only one getting all the training.
I still can’t get wi-fi in my workshop or the sleepout, or in one bedroom in the house. But the kids seem to get it when they bounce upside-down on the trampoline.