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Coffeeshop Chit Chat - Cab Driver and PAP- Who Is Truly Rich? </TD><TD id=msgunetc noWrap align=right>
Subscribe </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE class=msgtable cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="96%"><TBODY><TR><TD class=msg vAlign=top><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%"><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgbfr1 width="1%"> </TD><TD><TABLE border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgF width="1%" noWrap align=right>From: </TD><TD class=msgFname width="68%" noWrap>ckmpd <NOBR></NOBR> </TD><TD class=msgDate width="30%" noWrap align=right>2:58 am </TD></TR><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgT height=20 width="1%" noWrap align=right>To: </TD><TD class=msgTname width="68%" noWrap>ALL <NOBR></NOBR></TD><TD class=msgNum noWrap align=right> (1 of 3) </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgleft rowSpan=4 width="1%"> </TD><TD class=wintiny noWrap align=right>20853.1 </TD></TR><TR><TD height=8></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgtxt>Reflections From Dr Cai, the PHD cab driver"
"Late at night, around 1 am, I was cruising on Boonlay Way, heading towards the city. Near Jurong East Central, I saw three men standing in the darkness on the sidewalk. I slowed down as I approached nearer. When I eased by them, they appeared to be uncertain whether they needed a ride. I was just about to pick up speed when one of them jumped on the road behind me and raised his arm. I saw it from the mirror and braked to a stop.
The man waved goodbye to his companions and walked towards me, whereas the other two each picked up a bicycle from the ground and started to move away. He came and sat in the front seat and told me to go to Tiong Bahru.
He was probably in his mid thirties, wearing a polo T-shirt and a pair of cheap, creased trousers. His hair looked to be in a state that it hadn’t tasted shampoo for weeks. Despite the displeasing odor he carried into the car, I was glad to have a customer at last.
On the way, he told me that he was from Myanmar and had been here for a year and seven months. His English was bad but not bad enough to prevent us from having an enjoyable conversation. Today, he said, he came to see his sister’s son, one of the men with bicycles I saw just now. By the time they realized that it was time for him to go back to his dormitory, it was already too late to take MRT. “I have never taken a taxi before in my whole life,” he said. “This is the first time.”
I asked him what he does for a living in Singapore and he said he works on ships in Jurong Island, earning $500 a month. After meals and phone cards, he has no money left. He works 12 hours a day and for every 4 days of work, he gets one day off. I told him that, in this regard, he is luckier than me. I also work 12 hours a day, sometimes even longer, but I have no days off. I work seven days a week.
When we reached his dorm, the meter fare was about $19 with the midnight surcharge. From his pocket, he took out what looked to be a currency note folded into a small square, in the size of a beer bottle cap. He slowly unfolded it, as if it was made of some delicate, easy-to-break fabric. It was a $50 note.
“A gift from my nephew,” he smiled at me. “He’s been here more than 4 years and he makes $1200 a month. A rich man.” He handed the note to me while holding his smile in place, apparently with an effort.
I smoothed the money between my fingers as I thought about what to do. I quickly made up my mind.
“I know you are a poor man.” I said to him, looking into his eyes. “And I am a poor man too. So today we are going to help each other out. OK?”
He nodded with a timid, uneasy expression on his face.
“I will just take $10 from you. Is it okay with you?”
He opened his mouth but lost his voice. He stuttered something and then said thank you twice in English and twice in Chinese.
“Thank you,” I said earnestly, “for taking your first taxi ride with me.”
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"Late at night, around 1 am, I was cruising on Boonlay Way, heading towards the city. Near Jurong East Central, I saw three men standing in the darkness on the sidewalk. I slowed down as I approached nearer. When I eased by them, they appeared to be uncertain whether they needed a ride. I was just about to pick up speed when one of them jumped on the road behind me and raised his arm. I saw it from the mirror and braked to a stop.
The man waved goodbye to his companions and walked towards me, whereas the other two each picked up a bicycle from the ground and started to move away. He came and sat in the front seat and told me to go to Tiong Bahru.
He was probably in his mid thirties, wearing a polo T-shirt and a pair of cheap, creased trousers. His hair looked to be in a state that it hadn’t tasted shampoo for weeks. Despite the displeasing odor he carried into the car, I was glad to have a customer at last.
On the way, he told me that he was from Myanmar and had been here for a year and seven months. His English was bad but not bad enough to prevent us from having an enjoyable conversation. Today, he said, he came to see his sister’s son, one of the men with bicycles I saw just now. By the time they realized that it was time for him to go back to his dormitory, it was already too late to take MRT. “I have never taken a taxi before in my whole life,” he said. “This is the first time.”
I asked him what he does for a living in Singapore and he said he works on ships in Jurong Island, earning $500 a month. After meals and phone cards, he has no money left. He works 12 hours a day and for every 4 days of work, he gets one day off. I told him that, in this regard, he is luckier than me. I also work 12 hours a day, sometimes even longer, but I have no days off. I work seven days a week.
When we reached his dorm, the meter fare was about $19 with the midnight surcharge. From his pocket, he took out what looked to be a currency note folded into a small square, in the size of a beer bottle cap. He slowly unfolded it, as if it was made of some delicate, easy-to-break fabric. It was a $50 note.
“A gift from my nephew,” he smiled at me. “He’s been here more than 4 years and he makes $1200 a month. A rich man.” He handed the note to me while holding his smile in place, apparently with an effort.
I smoothed the money between my fingers as I thought about what to do. I quickly made up my mind.
“I know you are a poor man.” I said to him, looking into his eyes. “And I am a poor man too. So today we are going to help each other out. OK?”
He nodded with a timid, uneasy expression on his face.
“I will just take $10 from you. Is it okay with you?”
He opened his mouth but lost his voice. He stuttered something and then said thank you twice in English and twice in Chinese.
“Thank you,” I said earnestly, “for taking your first taxi ride with me.”
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