My history with outsourcing

Today at work was one of the worst yet, if I wanted to feel like I’m making any kind of contribution. There’s a stamp that I use to record my work on each page of the documents we process, and I didn’t use that stamp a single time over the course of the nine-hour shift. I did, however, solve a very difficult crossword puzzle and manage to come in second in the lottery we hold each day to see how late our production coordinator will be. So there’s that.

It might be a good point to discuss how my office got itself into this position, and the special part I was able to play in what’s looking more and more like our eventual demise. It’s all about “outsourcing”, which later became “right-sourcing” and then “offshoring” before it finally turned into “international”.

In 2002, a meeting was held in which the plan was laid out for us. The more straightforward parts of our workload would be sent to India while our higher skill level was to be used on the challenging, specialized work. Outsourcing was just starting to be discussed in the news media and we listened with concern as it appeared to be showing up in our own backyard. It sure felt like the writing on the wall to me (actually they used a whiteboard) but I did perk up a bit when they said our branch would be responsible for training and bringing the Indian team on-line.

I’ve generally enjoyed my business travel experiences. Ever since I survived a week in the notorious Red Hook district of Brooklyn sorting books in a dilapidated warehouse, I’ve generally had an easy time on training and related visits around the country. But I had yet to do any international travel, and it was finally looking like I’d get my chance. Even if I were to eventually lose my job, I’d still have the experience of going to Asia.

My trip came in the summer of 2003. I was to spend three weeks in the city of Bangalore, one week on each shift, training the eager young workforce. I flew into Germany before connecting on to India on a 28-hour journey. Because I can barely sleep on an airplane, I arrived with a very special case of jet lag, compounded by the fact that our arrival time was 2 a.m. local. It’s not unsettling enough to find yourself halfway around the world for the first time; you also have to go through Indian immigration and customs with a wide-body full of travelers in the middle of the night. I emerged from the airport expecting to see my host holding my name on a sign, but instead was confronted by a sea of faces trying to spot their incoming families and/or desperately begging for handouts.

When I finally found Akshay, he led me to the driver who would take us to my hotel. Even at that early hour of the morning, the sights and sounds of the subcontinent were overpowering. Between the heat, the pollution, the traffic, the intense overcrowding and the profound poverty, it didn’t even feel like the same planet. But I did see some cool cows.

I had about a day and a half to get acclimated before I’d have to report to work. The office was right around the corner from the hotel in a complex that also held what the locals called a “mall” but what appeared to me as a warren of flea market stalls. To get there from the hotel, I had two options: cut through a traffic-choked alley that also served as the parking lot for hundreds of motorcycles belonging to the workforce, or venture out onto the street. I tried the street once before deciding that being struck by a scooter would be preferable to being hit by a taxi, then run over by a bus, then asphyxiated by an auto-rickshaw, then flipped into the poisonous river, then set upon by beggars.

The office was still in the process of being set up when I arrived the first Monday, so I was shunted to a small desk off to the side and given a single individual to present my carefully prepared training spiel. He and all the people I worked with were very friendly, accommodating and eager to learn, or at least I think that’s what they said. Their heavily accented English had me agreeing with stuff I had no idea they were talking about. I was further confused by the Indian custom of wagging the head from side to side as a way of saying “yes, I agree with you.” They need to cut that out – it’s very disconcerting.

By the third day I was still not sleeping well, I was growing tired of all the exotic atmosphere and I was starting to think I needed an exit strategy. Would I irrevocably damage my career and look like a total wuss if I arranged to return home immediately?

Fortunately, I got sick instead. The Indian doctor who came to my hotel room to treat my nausea gave me a pretty good once-over, and left two medicines I’d never heard of before. “Take two of this one every four hours and one of this one every six hours,” he instructed. Or something like that. I just did the math and split the difference, and for some reason got better.
Once I was back on my feet, the second week had arrived and I was supposed to be working with the second-shift crew. I made a brave effort with the unfamiliar evening hours; I kept telling myself it was actually day shift back in the U.S., but my self wasn’t convinced. When another group of trainers from the states arrived toward the end of that week, I greeted them like long-lost relatives. At least I had someone to commiserate with, though unfortunately they turned out to enjoy their trip immensely.

When the third week rolled around and my third-shift trainees waited to hear my presentation, I gave up all pretense of being flexible with my time. When 4 a.m. rolled around and I faced the prospect of another four hours of me wagging my tongue and them wagging their heads, I had to decide whether to brave the motorcycle alley in the dead of night or hang in there. I braved the night and dragged myself back to the hotel.

The end of my stay had finally arrived, and I was thrilled to be heading back to the U.S. I flew into Philadelphia and drove to my hotel on an unusually cool and sweet-smelling late summer day. (I guess you have to go half way around the world to consider Philadelphia sweet-smelling). I had several days of meetings at my northeast office before I could head home, but I was still glad to be back.

Now it’s five years later and the fruits of my labors training abroad have ripened, fallen to the ground and turned into a rotting mush that I can’t get off my shoes. I’ve definitely enjoyed the experience of working with the people I met; I’m just not too thrilled that I did such a good job that now my own job is threatened. Globalization has a way of sucking on a personal level while doing a lot of good at a much higher level. I’d just rather be seeing that broader picture from 30,000 feet on a business-class flight for a month of training in Paris – not too likely in the current business environment.