Singapore reminds me more of Sparta everyday. A small wealthy and powerful elite living on the backs of the many poorer migrants. Some of these migrants get a better life, but most also suffer a lot of discrimination in the process.
I stumbled upon this blog (http://taxidiary.blogspot.com/) by a former PhD researcher turned taxi-driver. Reading the stories in there, I wonder if anything can be done for the many poor migrant workers to Singapore who are exploited by the system. They have little recourse to the legal systems, the government or to the social or financial resources Singaporeans or expatriates have. And yet they contribute so much to Singapore’s society.
Erratum: I am not referring to the taxi-driver but to the stories of migrants he encounters in his taxi-ing. That said, I think his situation deserves pity too.
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The entry below from the blog reminds me of many friends I have. It is sad but true. I can even see some of the same personalities at the very conference I am attending now. I wonder what the world would be like if people had more empathy. Sadly, the reasons why most foreigners like Singapore are frequently the very reasons why I feel such antipathy towards it.
Late evening, around 9:30pm, three men, two Caucasians and one Singaporean Chinese, boarded my taxi on Shenton Way outside a nightclub. They came from a drinking party and were heading for another one in a hotel in Chinatown. Well dressed in business attire, they were all in their early thirties and carried an aura of superiority and self-satisfaction, typical of young and smart professionals currently on their way up the career ladders. Life had treated them well.
The Singaporean guy, probably the youngest and surely the shortest among them, was in the middle of his speech when they got into the car. “…200 ringgits a bottle, you know, that’s cheap. The girls, 70 ringgits an hour. That’s what, 30 sing. Right? You can have them for the whole night if you like, also very cheap….”
“Sounds like KL is a great place to party,” said the white man sitting beside me with a half-empty Heineken bottle in his hand, nodding in recognition.
The animated Singaporean was unfinished. “But it is the Singapore girls that’s the best. There’s just no comparison….”
“Yeah, but they are not cheap.” The white men at the back interrupted. “Singapore girls are fantastic but expensive.”
After some debate on Singapore girls, their interests became focused on a lady who was among the people they mingled with earlier in the pub. They all agreed that the woman was the hottest babe in the club tonight. Their multi-angled analyses of the woman were sophisticated and rigorous enough to earn my respect for their ability to make acute and penetrating observations, a valuable skill in any profession. Before the hormonal fire inside of them could blaze any further, however, the Singaporean man dumped cold water on it by saying that the lady was a friend of a friend, and was already married. That brought to conclusion both their short-lived fantasies and the trip itself.
The meter displayed a fare of $5 something and they gave me $6 while working their way out. I said, “wait a minute, there is an extra $3 surcharge.”
The Singaporean looked at me with the straightest face and widest eyes he could possibly make, and said, “what surcharge? Why it’s not shown on your meter?”
“Sorry about that,” I cursed silently before answering. “The meter is an old type but I can give you a receipt with the surcharge on it.”
“Forget it,” the men responded in unison. “We are not going to pay anything that’s not on the meter.” With that, they stepped out of the car.
“Hey guys,” I employed the best knowledge of diplomacy I had this time. “You can’t do this to me. Try to be fair, will you?”
The Heineken guy came back in and said to me, “I live here so I know what you said is correct. But if I were a tourist, I would just tell you to fxxk off. Know what I mean?”
I stared at him, in a way a cobra stares at a mongoose. Privately, however, I was unsure what to do. To escalate the issue, or to let it go, that was the question. At this moment, the Singaporean guy who was now standing on the stairs at the hotel’s entrance, called out loudly, “come on, xxxxx. Hurry up. Just ignore him.”
Before I blinked my eyes, the young white professional promptly cooled down the air between us. “Look, you are a nice man. I am not actually trying to offend you. I meant if I were… Never mind, here is your three dollars. But you should go back to your company and tell them to fix the meter. That’s a very good piece of advice for you, boss.”
“Well, thanks.” I looked down and took the money. “But I can’t even remember how many times I…”
My voice trailed off. The man went out and shut the door before I could finish my sentence.
“…have told them.”