Pain in the proverbial

Ever since I came to Singapore, a number of things about me have changed. For one thing, I have become a very orderly person. Nowadays, there is a sense of orderliness about the mess on my table. Another thing is that I have become more conscious about fitness. Everywhere I look around, I see trim, fit and healthy people enjoying themselves. A third things is that I have started saving-up some money. If there ever comes a rainy day, I have sufficient funds on my credit card to scurry into a shop and buy myself an umbrella.

But the changes have been more than just external. I have undergone drastic biological changes as well. The most prominent of these is the development of what I would like to call the ‘Gluteal assault and resultant trauma’ symptom. It is better known as the pain in the proverbial, and no. I am not referring to anyone’s spouse or children here. Many learned men of science have attributed reasons ranging from muscle problems, piriformis syndrome, sacroiliac joint restrictions and even sciatica to it. But as far as I am concerned, it is all thanks to the weight of my wallet.

Before anyone starts making preposterous assumptions about the kind of money I carry on my person, let me declare that I usually travel with little more than a couple of tenners, some small change and maybe a paper or two in my wallet. But when it comes to the number of cards I have to carry, things get a little burdensome. First of all, there is my Foreign Identity card. Whether I have to open a bank account, borrow a DVD, access government services or even fill-up a discount coupon, I need to have my FIN around. Then there is the really useful EZ-link card provided to make my usage of the public transport system hassle-free.

In order not to be left behind, my company too has benevolently given me an identity card that I need to use each time I enter or exit the office. And everybody’s friendly neighborhood DBS bank too has provided me with a nicely embossed card. Citibank chooses to announce my status as a credit customer through yet another card and the lift in my apartment block refuses to allow me access unless I flash another access card at it. Then there’s the membership card at the community center, the card issued by the Internet parlour, the DVD club membership card, the phone card I use to call overseas, another phone card of the insertable variety to make local calls and even a card that gets me a discount of 5% at the local grocery store. And finally there are my own visiting cards and those of the numerous people I meet on a daily basis. Enough cards for a full deck.

Although I must admit that I wouldn’t be carrying all these cards if they weren’t useful, I must point out that by carrying them, I am greatly increasing my chances of becoming a cripple. What started of as an annoyance to my stride has already progressed to a level where I practically hobble to and from wherever I am going. And at the rapid rate that everyone seems to be handing out cards for all occasions and purposes, the day is not far when I may move on to a more debilitating stage. My friends have often pointed out that I walk with my chest puffed. I can’t even gloat about this fact because the truth is that my chest is puffed only because the cards are weighing me down. And the only way I can continue walking like a human being is to puff my chest out to regain my natural balance!

I haven’t been able to discuss this problem with anyone. After all, who would be interested in the travails of my butt? And most of the people would anyways only look at the sickeningly positive side. About how everything is so ordered… how no one needs to carry cash around… how transactions are so simple nowadays, when compared to the days when people had to lug around tons of small change etc.

But each time I sink into a reasonably hard chair (or even a cushioned one for that matter) I am painfully reminded of my very real Gluteal assault and resultant trauma. And I would any day retain my posterior if it comes to choosing between that and convenience. Suggestions anyone?

Blame it on Nicoll

I work in a wonderful organization. First and foremost, the work is meaningful. Colleagues are bright and cheerful and the pace of work, active. Pay is decent and the creature comforts are all catered to. But if there’s one thing that rankles, it is the insistence that all employees clock-in at 9.00 am sharp.

This is one area where no delays are condoned. No excuses accepted. Never mind the fact that you practically worked through the night. You come in late, and you are fined for the delay. You come in really late and you might as well go home. The fine you’ll end up paying will be more than the wages you’ll lose for the day!

Each day, it was not uncommon to see dozens of employees gather at the gates between 8:55 and 9:00 am. Often, fights would also break-in as some slowpoke employee would have taken more than his/her fair share of time, thereby causing the unrelenting clock to cross over to 9:01. Oh! ‘A scuffle at the gates’ became more than a turn of the phrase for most of us.

One would think employees would be miffed with the management and would crib, sulk and even complain about this issue. Or, that most of them would at least try and make it a couple of minutes in advance. But I was shocked to discover that they viewed something else as the root cause of all the evil. Yes! The salary deductions pinched them. The unfairness at times hurt them. But all of them seemed to have ganged-up to collectively put the blame on the already bruised and battered — I’ll bet you never guessed — Nicoll Highway!

Take Ms. Tan for instance. Each day as she walks towards her desk, huffing and puffing, all she can do is rant and rave at the ‘betrayal’ by the Nicoll highway, which forces her bus to take a loger route, thereby resulting in a late clock-in. Or Mr. Ng for that matter. He invariably ends-up fighting with cab drivers because, according to him, they take the longest and most expensive route to work each day. As for the cab drivers, they conveniently blame the Nicoll highway. At this point, the two warring sides gang-up and together, curse, spew venom and direct their ire at the collapsed arterial. In fact, things have come to such a pass that Ms. Rafiyah has moved with bag, baggage, kids and reluctant husband in tow, to a HDB just two minutes from the office gates!

This does not seem to be restricted to my office alone. Just the other day, I happened to read a letter published in a newspaper, in response to a complaint by a commuter. The focus was on the bunching of buses on some routes, especially during peak hours. The SBS Transit official who responded apologized for the inconvenience, but in doing so, also mentioned the closure of Nicoll Highway as the reason! Never mind the fact that the bunching has been happening from long before the collapse!

Or another letter, this time by a foreign tourist, who claims that a taxi she boarded at Lucky Chinatown, took well over an hour to get to Plaza Singapura — a grand distance of 2.8 kilometers. When she asked the cabbie about the inordinate time it was taking, he shrugged and — yes you guessed right — blamed it all on Nicoll. It is an altogether different matter that she called the taxi operator to complain about being taken for a ride!

There was an instance, not so long ago, when a native Hopea Sangal tree, the last of its kind in the world, was felled by the DTZ Management Services guys as a result of the ‘mis-appreciation of the true condition of the tree’. Only when some members of the public rose in protest at the desecration did the authorities intervene to rectify the oversight. The contracting company was fined and the sculpture society roped in to sculpture the trunks with vignettes from Singapore’s history. These sculptures are displayed at Changi village, near where the mighty tree finally met its end at the callous hands of man.

Maybe it is time bits and pieces of the collapsed Nicoll Highway structure were carted away and placed prominently on a pedestal as a monument to the National scapegoat?

Conversation in a cab...

When any cabbie in Singapore, especially an old hand starts a conversation with “You new to Singapore ah?”, alarm bells start clanging in my head. For by now I have had enough experience with them to predict what’s coming next. And so far, I’ve unfortunately never been proved wrong. At the very first opportunity he gets, he will demand to know, “So, which road you want to take?”

I’m sorely tempted to retort with ‘the longest and the costliest’. But I usually ask him to take the quickest. Big mistake. For no cabbie can resist the temptation to extol the virtues of the fascinating roadways, the efficient ERP systems and the streamlined traffic. He will immediately launch into elaborate descriptions of the island’s several roadways, expressways and the toll that using them will invite, all the while whizzing through traffic, tunnels and even steep curves at a speed Schumacher would be proud to attain.

I try and squirm out of such situations with complete and stoic silence. But on one instance, probably somnolent due to the heavy nasi biryani I had just consumed, I absent-mindedly let out a ‘whatever’. The cabbie pounced at the god-given opportunity to regale me with some deep insights into the Singapore psyche.

“Nah beh! You kena whatever lah! Here, all costs money.” Then, as though to verify the authenticity of his pronouncement, he turned around to quizzically ask, “Where you from?” “India,” I offered meekly. Condescension dawned upon his features. Understanding too. “Aah! You tourist here. You can afford lah! But citizen. He kena. All is costly here in Singapore.”

I began opening my mouth to clear his misconception, but quickly thinking about the extended misery, kept it firmly shut. It never deterred him though. He continued as though nothing had happened. “Ordinary Singaporean die, die in Singapore with pockets empty. Here people come to make money. But kena spend. Must save,” he counseled. He then launched into a painstakingly elaborate description of his halcyon days as a building contractor, his struggles to own a HDB flat, the cost of education in Singapore and even found time to mull over whether he should pack-up and migrate to Perth for the good life like several of his cronies seemed to be doing.

I restricted my part of the conversation to grunts of agreement, mortally afraid that each attempted utterance would result in another tangential soliloquy. But my cabbie couldn’t have cared less. On and on he went speaking about the unfairness of it all. The long hours, the prohibitive cost of living, the lousy economic scenario… nothing was spared from his recitation of woes.

By now I had had enough. Although my destination was another kilometer away, I was ready to get out of the whizzing cab then and there. I was literally suffering under the might of his talkativeness. Claustrophobia seemed to be setting in and I desperately looked out of the window for some means of escape. And then I spotted a coffee shop. Tucked away at the foot of a corner building, and happily for me, almost empty.

“Please drop me here,” I pleaded, managing to get my words out in the midst of his verbal barrage. He stopped talking, peered into the rear view mirror, and accomplished a feat of parallel parking with such élan as to make stuntmen proud. But I didn’t have the time or the inclination to admire his handiwork. Although the digital meter said 4:85, I fished out a fiver and thrust it into his hands before stumbling out of the air-conditioned cab and into the heat of the midday sun.

What a relief! Although it was unbearably hot, the heat seemed more bearable than the constant drone of my cabby’s voice. I stood there for scarcely a moment. Then I dived under the protective shade of a parasol and ordered a chilled glass of Red Bull. A man needed to recoup his energy after that ordeal!

Scarcely had I paid for my drink than who should I see before me, but my cabbie! I sputtered over the drink even as he stood before me, grinning widely. Extending his hand, he dropped 15 cents into my palm saying, “You forget your change lah!” He then turned around quickly, walked over to a faraway table and proceeded to eat the biggest, fanciest meal I have seen any human being consume in one sitting.

Wonder how much he paid for that hearty claypot fare?