The delicate art of complaining

The delicate art of complaining

JAKARTA (JP): What is white and round and emits a shrill high-
pitched bleat when provoked?

Sorry to say, but it is me in the act of making a complaint.

So much to gripe about, so little time.

Hoity-toity restaurants which pile on the attitude but lump
you with almost inedible fare at choking prices. Taxis which
crawl along on a hope and a prayer as a veritable menagerie of
creepy-crawlies jostle to make a home out of your person. The
shriveled man toting a bottle of Mansion House who elbows in
front of you at the Hero because it's only one item after all,
even if you only have two.

A lot of life is about frustration. Yet we have to
magnanimously swallow most of the bitter pills because that is
what is dealt us. But it is a different story when it comes to
services for which we are shelling out hard-earned rupiah. We
expect to have our gripes heard out, to have our egos assuaged
and to have something done to have the wrong put right.

Yet I believe that most of those bearing the brunt of a
complaint do want to lend a sympathetic ear. The crucial point of
having your complaint heard -- and acted upon -- is how it is
expressed.

People, and how they vent what is on their minds, can be
divided into three categories:

All Business: No pussy-footing around or kicking up an ugly
stink. Instead, these complainants make a beeline for the
Customer Relations or Manager offices to state their cases to
those in positions of power. They know the value of going
straight to the top.

The Gentle Touch: A friend of mine is loathe to make a scene.
Instead, he quite rightfully thinks of the dignity of the other
person and approaches the problem so that no feathers are
ruffled. Sandwich not to his instructions? His approach is to
gently beckon to the waitperson, clarify the problem and wait for
the matter to be taken care of. A study in forbearance.

Mr./Mrs. Firecracker: Emotional pyrotechnics are put on
display for all and sundry. Caught up in their anger, these
walking raw nerves let it all hang out as they take no prisoners.
Unfortunately, they often end up leaving a trail of bruised egos,
plus bemusement at the spectacle of a grown man or woman doing a
competent rendition of a ticked-off toddler on acid.

I shamefully confess that, yes, I do all too often belong to
the latter group. The complaint, whatever and how valid it was,
is suddenly washed away in a tidal wave of dripping indignation.

Does it do any good? It may get the point across loud if not
so clear, but it leaves me keeping tabs on a long list of places
to avoid or tread carefully lest I end up being served gutter
water and having my meal spat upon by the assembled kitchen
staff. I burn my bridges and am left taking the long way back.

I learned a sage lesson recently when I, Mr. Live-for-The-
Moment, decided to splurge on a night in a fancy hotel.

I was set for a Saturday night sojourn in the sauna when I
came upon my nemesis, all prim and proper in her designer
uniform.

I signed it at the reception and was preparing to ask for a
locker key when the grilling began.

"Are you staying here," she asked, peering at my name and room
number on the ledger.

"Yes," I replied, a bit confused.

She gave me the once over, and it was obviously not to her
liking.

"Really?"

I tried to ignore that one, and asked for a locker key.

"Oh, I'll need your room key in exchange," she said.

Taken aback, I stammered that this was the first time I had
heard of the fitness center needing a key. Besides, the key was a
blank card.

"It's our policy," she proffered. "You'll get it back when
you're finished."

Mumbling a feeble aside that it was a stupid and embarrassing
policy, I yielded to the key exchange with Tini the Terror.

I was left in a funk. I was not paying good money to be
treated in such a way, to engage in a verbal tussle over what was
appropriate treatment of guests.

How had I come up short in the receptionist's lofty
estimation? Was my shirt washed one too many times so it just did
not have this esteemed hotel's touch? Did I look too young? Old?
Fat? Who knew, except Tini, defender of this little corner of
Olympian delights.

It should have been case closed, but the next day at my hotel
breakfast I related the story to a friend, Yusak. Clear-headed
and professional to a tee, he has been an unwilling witness of me
in fits of pique.

This time, he told me, you have the opportunity to take a
softly-softly approach.

Put it in writing and state the facts. No ranting or raving,
or need to get bent out of shape.

I did what he said. The next day I was presented with an
apology letter and a free night's stay for the future.

Yusak's advice paid off. I kept some dignity, avoided a
confrontation and learned that it can pay to complain as long as
one keeps one's cool.

-- Bruce Emond