Poor old Bit Mau Han, the guy who lit up a ciggie in a taxi, he's really getting it in the neck. Sued by the taxi driver, sued by the police and by now presumably given the old heave-ho back to South Korea while, on the other hand, any number of unregistered businesses set up by Koreans are let off the hook with an "Ah, usually they are not aware of the laws."
So what? Aren't we taught, from an early age, that in the eyes of the law ignorance is no excuse? What is it Ram Maxey writes? Only in da Pilipins.
Not a lot for me to take a crack at these last few days, some good headlines though. Thursday - "Computers smarter than us?" Not yet they're not - can't count election votes can they?
Also on Thursday - Nokia launches a new cellphone model - just what the world needs, and, how about Saturday's "Palace dismisses RP's ranking in corruption" as only a "perception." Perception being the recognition of a truth.
Taxi tales and after all these years I'm an old hand. No more trying to stamp an imaginary brake pedal through the floor, no more teeth marks on the facia and no more changes of underwear.
I lean back, pretend the seatbelt works, ignore the thumps and bangs and burning smells, gaze out of a side window and admire the scenery but, tell me, what's in the rucksack all taxi drivers jam between the front seats these days? A green shirt in case a TV crew turns up?
Anyway, the other day - it was a long-haul trip, Buhangin to Matina and return - I boarded a real junker. You've seen them - taxis steered with a see-sawing motion to keep the front wheels straight ahead - when, blow me down, a third the way along the Diversion Road and I wasn't watching, was this driver sleight of hand, the meter gave up the ghost and flickered back to P26. A meter festooned - almost invisible - beneath a multitude of blue LTO cables and seals.
Did I look like a tourist? True, I was wearing long pants. Shaved. Even a splash of aftershave (Green Cross). I said nothing. Cucumber cool. Merely sniffed in acouldn't care less way at the worsening smell of burning engine. Let the driver stew in his own juice.
At Matina, our turnaround, I hopped out to do my biz while the driver opened the hood and flung buckets of water over a radiator approaching meltdown. I wasn't long - the usual, sign here sir, three times three sirs and once for luck. All five copies sir - and then it was back aboard spouting Old Faithful for the return trip and do you know - those buckets of water must have done the trip 'cos the meter ticked along as good as gold. P84 one way. Thank you very much.
One last thought - Miriam for president 2010. Never be dull would it?
