"Sir, why are you fiddling with the meter?"
"Oh, I'm sorry! I thought it was the stereo."
"Sir, why are you fiddling with the stereo?"
Astute readers remember that there is a code, to which I strictly adhere. Its a simple set of principles, governing the relationship between cabbie/fare in my car:
Do not attempt to humiliate me.
Do not attempt to humiliate anybody else.
Do not touch any of my instruments.
As long as everyone keeps to these rules, we're going to have a great time. I will take you from A to B in a safe and speedy manner, pausing the meter if I ever take a wrong turn. After all, you shouldn't pay for my mistakes. However, despite all my efforts, there is one principle that people have a lot of trouble with: the third one. Thou shalt not touch the cabbie's instruments.
More specifically, people fiddle with the stereo.
"But Crabby," you say. "I get that people can't fiddle with the transmission, breaks, or wheel. But the radio? Surely you don't need that in order to drive safely."
And with that, I know I won't be picking you up any time soon.
Actually, here's the thing; I am not a human being.
See, when riding in someone's car, there's an implicit understanding that all the knobs and buttons up front belong to the driver. Unless you're familiar with the driver, you keep your hands to yourself (unless you were raised by wolves). It is common courtesy, from one human being to another.
But here's the thing; as a worker in the service industry, I am not human. Much like the waiter is the-thing-that-brings-the-food, and a garbage man is that-which-collects-the-garbage, a cab driver is nothing more than that weird force that propels the car forward. I don't blame anyone for this outlook; humanizing the people that don't matter to us personally is a standing challenge in the human experience. Indeed, it is necessary to reduce the greater part of humanity to functions and remind ourselves intellectually that they are in fact people too.
Genocide and dickish customers are two possible results of failing to maintain that intellectual reminder.
This brings us back to the stereo. Why do people feel the need to play with the stereo? Why are people confused, sometimes even offended when I ask them to not touch my instruments? Why do people consistently think that my job description includes acting as an impromptu DJ, on top of driving them to their destination?
Simple: I am not a human being. I am that-which-drives-the-car. And that-which-drives-the-car does not need to be respected, because it has been paid. It is the same rationale people use when they feel they can say "shut up and drive"; the same rationale that allows a man to finger his wife in the back seat; the same rationale that allows someone to throw their garbage and leftover french fries in the back seat.
I am not alone in this. Ask anyone in the service industry, and they have similar stories. Personal space invaded. Common courtesy thrown out the window. Verbal abuse.
There's really nothing to be done about it. As human beings, we are incapable of humanizing everyone. If you are the kind of entitled creature who believes that paying for somebody's labour and time gives you power or some kind of ownership over a person, consider this:
You are not human in my eyes either. You are that-which-is-to-be-transported. You are cargo, until proven otherwise. But I will do you a favour: I will treat you as if you were a human being. I will act as if you were (despite no evidence to the contrary), and start the process of humanizing you. I do this because it is in my interest that you are satisfied with the trip, plus I try to be a good guy. So, if I can make the effort to treat you as if you were human, then you you will do the same for me.
My life as a cabbie, what I saw, and how I escaped.
Friday 26 June 2015
Sunday 21 June 2015
“And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.”
"I don't know what the deal is with Midsummer. I mean, what are we celebrating?"
"We're celebrating that we fucking survived winter and that there's food coming out of the goddamn ground. This whole thing about winter being a mild inconvenience at worst is a very new thing; one that I don't think will catch on."
Another midsummer. Another 12 hours behind the wheel. A disapointment in monetary terms. Quite pleasant on others. And of course, not without incidents.
It started out as any midsummer behind the wheel; the fares came in with a lovely regularity. all of them happy, some of them drunk, most of them going far, as it is custom during Midsummer to get the hell out of town. It was my plan to make a double my usual wage. Of course, fate had other plans in store.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Later on in the evening, sometime around midnight, I picked up this fellow. Big guy, shaven head, with scars and jailhouse tattoos. He was drunk as all hell.
"Pleasant midsummer?"
"Fuck no... Its shit. You know what I hate..? I hate people who try to be smarter than me."
At this point, I had a distinct feeling that there were a lot of people in the world that he hated. Still, I had no desire to antagonize him (indeed, he looked aggressive enough that this was a matter of self-preservation). So we talked a bit.
The conversation was rambling, with him making a lot of references to things he thought he had explained to me. It was pretty incoherent. But I picked up on a central theme and that is what people are shit. So of course I agreed. And so, I won a small amount of liking from him.
"You know who I am, right?"
"Afraid not."
"Seriously, you don't know me? <name> ?"
"Not at all."
"You haven't been following the shootings...? Ah, never mind. Gang stuff."
I went cold. For the past two years, we've seen a gang war going on in the northern part of town. There have been shootings, and at least one bomb, resulting in several deaths. And if this guy was for real, he was implying that he was a fairly high profile player in this game.
"Right," said I. "Well... I find that the less I know about that stuff, the less trouble I'm in."
He barked a surprised laugh. "Good answer!"
The conversation flowed a bit easier then. He didn't tell me anything really, but an image emerged. Here was a man who lived a brutal life, doing brutal things, and who loathed everyone, and himself. And here I was in the uncomfortable position of offering comfort while trying not to potentially offend the guy and get shanked.
"Fuck, I just want to blow my brains out."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to drink until I can't stand up any more."
"I suppose that's a kind of solution."
"It isn't. But it fucking works."
He paid me, and wandered off into oblivion, after saying in a begrudging tone: "You're a good cabbie."
___________________________________________________________________
Later on, I drove way outside of town, into the goddamn woods to pick up a guy so drunk he instantly fell asleep when he sat in the car. When we got back to town, he couldn't pay. 80 minutes and 600 kroner wasted. Fuck that guy. Fuck him to death.
_______________________________________________________________________
And finally, there were some angry young men who flipped right the fuck out because I refused to let them be five passengers in a car made for four. But that's another story, because it ties into a larger topic about safety, which I'll get to down the line.
___________________________________________
I ended up making 1,3 of my usual wage. Still, all in all, it was a rather lovely shift. Monetary and alcoholic issues aside, Midsummer is a great holiday. It really brings out the best in people. I hope yours was pleasant too, whether or not you celebrate it.
"We're celebrating that we fucking survived winter and that there's food coming out of the goddamn ground. This whole thing about winter being a mild inconvenience at worst is a very new thing; one that I don't think will catch on."
Another midsummer. Another 12 hours behind the wheel. A disapointment in monetary terms. Quite pleasant on others. And of course, not without incidents.
It started out as any midsummer behind the wheel; the fares came in with a lovely regularity. all of them happy, some of them drunk, most of them going far, as it is custom during Midsummer to get the hell out of town. It was my plan to make a double my usual wage. Of course, fate had other plans in store.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Later on in the evening, sometime around midnight, I picked up this fellow. Big guy, shaven head, with scars and jailhouse tattoos. He was drunk as all hell.
"Pleasant midsummer?"
"Fuck no... Its shit. You know what I hate..? I hate people who try to be smarter than me."
At this point, I had a distinct feeling that there were a lot of people in the world that he hated. Still, I had no desire to antagonize him (indeed, he looked aggressive enough that this was a matter of self-preservation). So we talked a bit.
The conversation was rambling, with him making a lot of references to things he thought he had explained to me. It was pretty incoherent. But I picked up on a central theme and that is what people are shit. So of course I agreed. And so, I won a small amount of liking from him.
"You know who I am, right?"
"Afraid not."
"Seriously, you don't know me? <name> ?"
"Not at all."
"You haven't been following the shootings...? Ah, never mind. Gang stuff."
I went cold. For the past two years, we've seen a gang war going on in the northern part of town. There have been shootings, and at least one bomb, resulting in several deaths. And if this guy was for real, he was implying that he was a fairly high profile player in this game.
"Right," said I. "Well... I find that the less I know about that stuff, the less trouble I'm in."
He barked a surprised laugh. "Good answer!"
The conversation flowed a bit easier then. He didn't tell me anything really, but an image emerged. Here was a man who lived a brutal life, doing brutal things, and who loathed everyone, and himself. And here I was in the uncomfortable position of offering comfort while trying not to potentially offend the guy and get shanked.
"Fuck, I just want to blow my brains out."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to drink until I can't stand up any more."
"I suppose that's a kind of solution."
"It isn't. But it fucking works."
He paid me, and wandered off into oblivion, after saying in a begrudging tone: "You're a good cabbie."
___________________________________________________________________
Later on, I drove way outside of town, into the goddamn woods to pick up a guy so drunk he instantly fell asleep when he sat in the car. When we got back to town, he couldn't pay. 80 minutes and 600 kroner wasted. Fuck that guy. Fuck him to death.
_______________________________________________________________________
And finally, there were some angry young men who flipped right the fuck out because I refused to let them be five passengers in a car made for four. But that's another story, because it ties into a larger topic about safety, which I'll get to down the line.
___________________________________________
I ended up making 1,3 of my usual wage. Still, all in all, it was a rather lovely shift. Monetary and alcoholic issues aside, Midsummer is a great holiday. It really brings out the best in people. I hope yours was pleasant too, whether or not you celebrate it.
Wednesday 17 June 2015
The things we do for love.
"You married? Got kids?"
"No sir. Single."
"I have to give half my life to my wife, the other half to my kids and that still isn't enough. Stay single. It's better."
A warning: This entry starts with some angry ranting. If you feel like skipping it, then do. There's a story for you.
I'm usually pretty strict about when I work. Not for how long, mind. But I'm particular about the days. I avoid mondays (because monday is when restaurant/bar workers go out to party, and while I find them kindred spirits while sober, they're just awful while drunk). I avoid Sundays, as that is the Sabbath and should be kept holy (or so I'm told.). And finally, I avoid Tuesdays, because Tuesdays fucking suck.
Nothing, absolutely NOTHING happens on Tuesday. People have the good sense of staying home. Those who do venture out can rarely be called people. Much like World War 1, its equal parts slow misery and gut-wrenching horror.
"Dear God, Crabby," you say. "Another rant about how awful the nightlife is?"
To which I say: No. I just had to get that off my chest. Tonight's story is not about that. Tonight's story is about love.
It's still awful, but it's love nonetheless.
________________________________________________
I picked her up at Iron Square. Short and stocky, with pale pink hair and a skirt blazing in all manner of unsightly colours. She got in, said hello in a voice that was a little too excited. I replied in a voice that was a little too un-excited.
"So, how are we doing tonight?"
"Well... I got a boyfriend tonight."
"... as opposed to other nights?"
"No, I mean... We made it official tonight."
"Congratulations!"
As she spoke, I noted that she sounded a bit anxious, unsure. So naturally, I asked her if she was attracted to the guy. And she immediately replied "No."
So here's her story:
She loved this guy. They had been very close friends for very long. He had been her bridge over troubled waters, her rock of Gibraltar, her lantern in the dark, etc. And she had been so happy in their friendship. But then he told her that he had fallen in love with her.
Not so strange, huh? Just wait. It gets better.
He had fallen for her, hard. The very idea of being with her without being with her was unbearable. If they couldn't be lovers, they couldn't be friends. In essence, he gave her a choice: be my girlfriend, or get out of my life.
This girl, not being an idiot, promptly told him to fuck off. However, a week later she realized that she "couldn't live without him", and so decided that if the price she had to pay to keep him in her life was to be his girlfriend, then it would be a small one.
"And now I suppose we'll have to have sex too..." she murmured.
"Hm," I said. "I don't know you. And you don't know me. So take what I say as you wish."
"All right."
"I foresee complications in your future."
We talked on for a bit. She posited that perhaps she could grow to fall in love with him, something that definitely isn't unheard of. I said that it could happen. And, she went on, he was such a lovely guy. How much could this change, eh? They could sit up for ages, drinking wine and loving each others company, whether or not they were a couple.
True, said I. But of course, you may have to screw at some point.
This too was a price to be paid.
Perhaps I'm a cynic, but something about emotionally blackmailing a someone into being your girlfriend doesn't sit well with me. In fact, it kinda made my blood boil. Its the kind of spineless behaviour that makes the world just a little sicker. Because here's the secret that most storybooks try to gloss over: the thing about love, crushes, attraction, is that it passes. I don't deny him the right to express his feelings to her; he took a chance, hoping that she'd share his feelings. But the thing is, if the person -your friend- says No, then its your goddamn duty as a human being and a friend to nod and bear it until the feelings have passed. Because they will fucking pass.
Instead, this guy gives her an ultimatum. A fucking ultimatum, with the delightful subtext: "Your friendship isn't worth half as much as the validation of my feelings for you".
And I think that in her heart, she knew it. Not once did she say she wanted this, or that this was a good thing. What it came back to was "I want him in my life" and "this changes nothing", and "Everyone thinks we're such a cute couple!"
But not once did I hear her say: "I believe in this, and I long to see where it goes."
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my relationships to be based on mutual consent, rather than taking friendship hostage.
Finally, we reached her destination.
"It was great talking to you," she said.
"Likewise. I wish you the best of luck. I really do. Maybe this will grow into something beautiful."
"Oh God, I do hope so..."
Me too, lady. But I'm not counting on it.
___________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________
Edit: a friend of mine had the following to say on the subject:
CW: i think it's completely acceptable to feel like you can't be friends with someone because you have feelings for them and can't deal with just being friends. i think the mistake is in giving another person an ultimatum
Crabby : Its mainly the ultimatum that I have trouble with.
CW: you made it seem like the only appropriate thing to do was to suck it up and keep being friends though. that's how i read it. And i just feel like, it's totally fine to tell someone you can't deal with just being friends and need some space if that's all it is.
Crabby: That is a good point actually. Sucking it up and waiting for infatuation to pass is the way I've dealt with similar situations in the past five years. It has worked fine for me. But yeah... if your feelings make you miserable, nobody can force you to maintain the friendship.
CW: yeah, i think it's totally fine to get some distance if that's the best thing for your mental health
CW: in fact i think it's the best thing
CW: it's weird to me when people feel like they have to sacrifice their own health and resources for a friend. friends are great, and it's nice to be nice to them, but there are limits
Agreed, CW. Views adjusted.
"No sir. Single."
"I have to give half my life to my wife, the other half to my kids and that still isn't enough. Stay single. It's better."
A warning: This entry starts with some angry ranting. If you feel like skipping it, then do. There's a story for you.
I'm usually pretty strict about when I work. Not for how long, mind. But I'm particular about the days. I avoid mondays (because monday is when restaurant/bar workers go out to party, and while I find them kindred spirits while sober, they're just awful while drunk). I avoid Sundays, as that is the Sabbath and should be kept holy (or so I'm told.). And finally, I avoid Tuesdays, because Tuesdays fucking suck.
Nothing, absolutely NOTHING happens on Tuesday. People have the good sense of staying home. Those who do venture out can rarely be called people. Much like World War 1, its equal parts slow misery and gut-wrenching horror.
"Dude! Not cool."
"Dear God, Crabby," you say. "Another rant about how awful the nightlife is?"
To which I say: No. I just had to get that off my chest. Tonight's story is not about that. Tonight's story is about love.
It's still awful, but it's love nonetheless.
________________________________________________
I picked her up at Iron Square. Short and stocky, with pale pink hair and a skirt blazing in all manner of unsightly colours. She got in, said hello in a voice that was a little too excited. I replied in a voice that was a little too un-excited.
"So, how are we doing tonight?"
"Well... I got a boyfriend tonight."
"... as opposed to other nights?"
"No, I mean... We made it official tonight."
"Congratulations!"
As she spoke, I noted that she sounded a bit anxious, unsure. So naturally, I asked her if she was attracted to the guy. And she immediately replied "No."
So here's her story:
She loved this guy. They had been very close friends for very long. He had been her bridge over troubled waters, her rock of Gibraltar, her lantern in the dark, etc. And she had been so happy in their friendship. But then he told her that he had fallen in love with her.
Not so strange, huh? Just wait. It gets better.
He had fallen for her, hard. The very idea of being with her without being with her was unbearable. If they couldn't be lovers, they couldn't be friends. In essence, he gave her a choice: be my girlfriend, or get out of my life.
This girl, not being an idiot, promptly told him to fuck off. However, a week later she realized that she "couldn't live without him", and so decided that if the price she had to pay to keep him in her life was to be his girlfriend, then it would be a small one.
"And now I suppose we'll have to have sex too..." she murmured.
"Hm," I said. "I don't know you. And you don't know me. So take what I say as you wish."
"All right."
"I foresee complications in your future."
We talked on for a bit. She posited that perhaps she could grow to fall in love with him, something that definitely isn't unheard of. I said that it could happen. And, she went on, he was such a lovely guy. How much could this change, eh? They could sit up for ages, drinking wine and loving each others company, whether or not they were a couple.
True, said I. But of course, you may have to screw at some point.
This too was a price to be paid.
Perhaps I'm a cynic, but something about emotionally blackmailing a someone into being your girlfriend doesn't sit well with me. In fact, it kinda made my blood boil. Its the kind of spineless behaviour that makes the world just a little sicker. Because here's the secret that most storybooks try to gloss over: the thing about love, crushes, attraction, is that it passes. I don't deny him the right to express his feelings to her; he took a chance, hoping that she'd share his feelings. But the thing is, if the person -your friend- says No, then its your goddamn duty as a human being and a friend to nod and bear it until the feelings have passed. Because they will fucking pass.
Instead, this guy gives her an ultimatum. A fucking ultimatum, with the delightful subtext: "Your friendship isn't worth half as much as the validation of my feelings for you".
And I think that in her heart, she knew it. Not once did she say she wanted this, or that this was a good thing. What it came back to was "I want him in my life" and "this changes nothing", and "Everyone thinks we're such a cute couple!"
But not once did I hear her say: "I believe in this, and I long to see where it goes."
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my relationships to be based on mutual consent, rather than taking friendship hostage.
Finally, we reached her destination.
"It was great talking to you," she said.
"Likewise. I wish you the best of luck. I really do. Maybe this will grow into something beautiful."
"Oh God, I do hope so..."
Me too, lady. But I'm not counting on it.
___________________________________________
"Seriously, dude.
Totally inappropriate, what you said up there."
___________________________________________________________________
Edit: a friend of mine had the following to say on the subject:
CW: i think it's completely acceptable to feel like you can't be friends with someone because you have feelings for them and can't deal with just being friends. i think the mistake is in giving another person an ultimatum
Crabby : Its mainly the ultimatum that I have trouble with.
CW: you made it seem like the only appropriate thing to do was to suck it up and keep being friends though. that's how i read it. And i just feel like, it's totally fine to tell someone you can't deal with just being friends and need some space if that's all it is.
Crabby: That is a good point actually. Sucking it up and waiting for infatuation to pass is the way I've dealt with similar situations in the past five years. It has worked fine for me. But yeah... if your feelings make you miserable, nobody can force you to maintain the friendship.
CW: yeah, i think it's totally fine to get some distance if that's the best thing for your mental health
CW: in fact i think it's the best thing
CW: it's weird to me when people feel like they have to sacrifice their own health and resources for a friend. friends are great, and it's nice to be nice to them, but there are limits
Tuesday 16 June 2015
The Red-Light saint.
"I don't think I could ever do your job. All those drunken idiots. I'd go bitter."
"Strangely, on the whole my view of humanity has actually improved with this job."
The other night i stepped into a 711 on Vegetable Square to get a cup of coffee. Returning to the cab, I saw a middle aged woman dragging a heavy suitcase. She looked at me and smiled.
"Are you free?"
"Sure," I said and got in.
"I'll just be a moment; I need to buy cigarettes."
I turned on the meter and waited.
She wasn't going far. It was maybe a seven minute trip, from Vegetable Sq. to Mt. John. Still, she had an easy friendliness around her. And above all, she was probably the only sober person in town that night. So I struck up a conversation.
"So what have you been up to tonight?"
"I've been working all evening," she replied.
"Oh yeah? With what?"
"Prostitution. Street-walking, mostly."
"Oh..." I said, wracking my brain for something sensible to say. See, I've driven sex-workers before. And as previously mentioned, I've also encountered my fair share of johns. My views on the subject are mostly open, but that doesn't mean I'm used to the situation. Fuck it, I thought. If she can be casual about this, so can I. "I didn't know there were any swedish girls in Rose Grove."
"No, most of them are roma. So yes... I do what I can."
"Do what you can?"
"Yes. Give them condoms, coffee, a warm blanket, a shoulder to cry on-"
And this is where realization hit me like a fist. "Oh, so you don't.. I ... Oh, I mean- When you said..."
She stared at me for a moment. Then she realized and we were both laughing. Once recovered, she told me her story.
No, she was not a prostitute. But she did work with them. She belonged to a non-profit organisation that every night made their way to Rose Grove, in order to give the girls working their some small comfort. The pimps, she told me, left them so little money that the girls couldn't even afford condoms. So this is where this woman, this saint, and her colleagues come in and without judgment, and without any religious or political agenda, offer comfort and basic humanity to these girls.
Because really, they need all they can get. Most of the girls are roma, and they come from lives of such poverty. Many, if not most of them, are sold into prostitution by their own families. In fact, it has become common practice. The Saint pointed out that sickening though the practice is, it reflects the miserable conditions under which these families live.
"We can speculate about their motivations; sacrificing one daughter in order to feed the rest of the family, or perhaps sending her away to a life that (though awful) will be marginally better than the one she's living in. Or maybe its just cruelty. It doesn't matter. In the end, they're sold to Turkey, and then sent over here."
One of the more sickening aspects of it is that the Romanian embassy refuses to help. Since the Holocaust, the Roma are one of the last ethnic minorities that it is socially acceptable to be openly racist towards. And none so openly as Romania, apparently. If you're Roma, you're basically persona non grata in most parts of Europe, but apparently in Romania you're not even persona. This is reflected both in the fact that Romania refuses to help those of her citizens stuck in FUCKING SLAVERY, as well as their disinterest in the fact that many Romani of romanian origin would rather sit in various european streets begging, rather than find opportunity in Romania. You know your country is fucked up and severely lacking in opportunity, if your people would rather humiliate themselves in a foreign country, rather than stay and try to work there.
Now, I could be wrong. I can only speak for what's going on in Sweden, and I can only speak for what the romanian government has done and said in Sweden. For all I know, Romania is heaven on Earth, where rainbows shoot out of the asses of unicorns, in order to provide waterslides for the little pink bunnies so abundant there. I kinda doubt it. On a final political note: Europe keeps asking what to do about all the romani beggars and sex-slaves of romanian nationality. I humbly suggest that the EU turn its eyes on Romania, and ask them to straighten the fuck up and stop letting the fallout of their social problems flood the world with misery and suffering.
Digression over.
This woman, the Saint of Rose Grove, provides a service. Nobody pays her or her colleagues. Very few know about her. And the police can't do much about the prostitution around here, as they have all their resources tied up in a gang-war that has been plaguing the northern parts of the city this past year. So there's no solution to the problem in sight. Until there is, the Saint will be providing the girls in Rose Grove whatever comforts she can. Its not much, and it certainly won't make their lives better. But it is clear that it makes it bearable. Which is far more than what most people would offer them.
___________________________________
For those of you who know Swedish,
click here to see how you can help.
"Strangely, on the whole my view of humanity has actually improved with this job."
The other night i stepped into a 711 on Vegetable Square to get a cup of coffee. Returning to the cab, I saw a middle aged woman dragging a heavy suitcase. She looked at me and smiled.
"Are you free?"
"Sure," I said and got in.
"I'll just be a moment; I need to buy cigarettes."
I turned on the meter and waited.
She wasn't going far. It was maybe a seven minute trip, from Vegetable Sq. to Mt. John. Still, she had an easy friendliness around her. And above all, she was probably the only sober person in town that night. So I struck up a conversation.
"So what have you been up to tonight?"
"I've been working all evening," she replied.
"Oh yeah? With what?"
"Prostitution. Street-walking, mostly."
"Oh..." I said, wracking my brain for something sensible to say. See, I've driven sex-workers before. And as previously mentioned, I've also encountered my fair share of johns. My views on the subject are mostly open, but that doesn't mean I'm used to the situation. Fuck it, I thought. If she can be casual about this, so can I. "I didn't know there were any swedish girls in Rose Grove."
"No, most of them are roma. So yes... I do what I can."
"Do what you can?"
"Yes. Give them condoms, coffee, a warm blanket, a shoulder to cry on-"
And this is where realization hit me like a fist. "Oh, so you don't.. I ... Oh, I mean- When you said..."
She stared at me for a moment. Then she realized and we were both laughing. Once recovered, she told me her story.
No, she was not a prostitute. But she did work with them. She belonged to a non-profit organisation that every night made their way to Rose Grove, in order to give the girls working their some small comfort. The pimps, she told me, left them so little money that the girls couldn't even afford condoms. So this is where this woman, this saint, and her colleagues come in and without judgment, and without any religious or political agenda, offer comfort and basic humanity to these girls.
Because really, they need all they can get. Most of the girls are roma, and they come from lives of such poverty. Many, if not most of them, are sold into prostitution by their own families. In fact, it has become common practice. The Saint pointed out that sickening though the practice is, it reflects the miserable conditions under which these families live.
"We can speculate about their motivations; sacrificing one daughter in order to feed the rest of the family, or perhaps sending her away to a life that (though awful) will be marginally better than the one she's living in. Or maybe its just cruelty. It doesn't matter. In the end, they're sold to Turkey, and then sent over here."
One of the more sickening aspects of it is that the Romanian embassy refuses to help. Since the Holocaust, the Roma are one of the last ethnic minorities that it is socially acceptable to be openly racist towards. And none so openly as Romania, apparently. If you're Roma, you're basically persona non grata in most parts of Europe, but apparently in Romania you're not even persona. This is reflected both in the fact that Romania refuses to help those of her citizens stuck in FUCKING SLAVERY, as well as their disinterest in the fact that many Romani of romanian origin would rather sit in various european streets begging, rather than find opportunity in Romania. You know your country is fucked up and severely lacking in opportunity, if your people would rather humiliate themselves in a foreign country, rather than stay and try to work there.
Now, I could be wrong. I can only speak for what's going on in Sweden, and I can only speak for what the romanian government has done and said in Sweden. For all I know, Romania is heaven on Earth, where rainbows shoot out of the asses of unicorns, in order to provide waterslides for the little pink bunnies so abundant there. I kinda doubt it. On a final political note: Europe keeps asking what to do about all the romani beggars and sex-slaves of romanian nationality. I humbly suggest that the EU turn its eyes on Romania, and ask them to straighten the fuck up and stop letting the fallout of their social problems flood the world with misery and suffering.
Digression over.
This woman, the Saint of Rose Grove, provides a service. Nobody pays her or her colleagues. Very few know about her. And the police can't do much about the prostitution around here, as they have all their resources tied up in a gang-war that has been plaguing the northern parts of the city this past year. So there's no solution to the problem in sight. Until there is, the Saint will be providing the girls in Rose Grove whatever comforts she can. Its not much, and it certainly won't make their lives better. But it is clear that it makes it bearable. Which is far more than what most people would offer them.
___________________________________
For those of you who know Swedish,
click here to see how you can help.
Übermeter.
"Do you mean to tell me that if a bunch of drunken party people get into your car and tell you to turn up the volume, you won't do it?"
"I mean to tell you that if you're looking for a DJ, then you shouldn't call a cab."
So it's been a week since I've returned to the nightlife. It terrifies me how quickly my body and mind adapted to a nocturnal lifestyle. Nine months of hard work, trying to live life like a normal human being, and yet here I am, with my eyes hollow and my brain running on fumes, cackling with every cent I make.
Now, this week has been mostly uneventful, though there have been some major changes. For one, the powers that be have decided that they need to tighten their grip on cab-owners. Apparently there's too much tax fraud going on, so we (that is, those that would be my bosses) are required by law to have a meter that continually sends all the numbers directly to a server, rather than storing it for later accounting. Thus, all the meters have been, or are in the process of being changed. From the dot-matrix hunk of 80's technology we used to have, to the dot-matrix hunk of 10's technology that we have now. And whoever designed this meter was obviously very drunk, or otherwise mentally impaired.
It's a mess. Press the wrong button, and the whole thing crashes and you need to reset it. However, there are no indicators to show which buttons are the right ones. Through trial and miserable error (resulting in way too much paid time being lost), I've managed to create a working relationship with the new meter. So, go me. I'm on a roll.
Another change I've noticed is Uber. A year ago, I had heard about Uber; a new way of transporting people, skirting the line between cab driver and carpooling. I had heard that american cabbies were furious about Uber, and I had heard through various american media how convenient and wonderful Uber is.
And now, Uber has appeared on the home market. This past week, I've had at least one conversation a night about Uber. And every conversation is the same: first the fare will ask me what I think of Uber, to which I respond that I have no real opinion. Then the fare will make a statement to the effect of "I bet its worrying that they're taking so much of the market", to which I respond that Uber most likely is the future of cab-driving. This usually surprises people.
Because that's the thing: Uber has found a brilliant way of gaming the system. You eliminate a metric ton of middlemen, plus with a little application of free-market invisible hand mojo, you guarantee that only those drivers who win the approval of the fares get work. What they are in practice are organised, illegitimate cabbies, who answer to nobody but their customers. From a purely capitalist perspective, they're an absolute beauty.
Does Uber worry me? Of course it doesn't. My intention is getting out of this business; I do not see Uber as a threat to my long-term plans. However, I will say this; Cabbies are, at least formally, trained professionals. We go through a process to get our licenses, we answer not only to our customers, or our companies, but to the government itself. Specific laws govern our driving and our income. Uber drivers are not.
Now I'll be the first to tell you that 80% of cabbies really have no business on the road. Getting a license is not difficult (especially as there are those who can, for the right amount of cash, set you up with a license, no questions asked). Uber drivers are on the other hand answerable to their customers. And I don't like giving that kind of power to the public.
It is bad enough that some people already feel the need to wave the tip in front of my eyes and threaten to take it away if I don't obey (this is a great way to get kicked out of my cab). What happens when not only some extra money is used as leverage, but a review? A review that could affect all your future business? All in all its a fair system; those who do good will be more desirable. But what is never taken into account when it comes to the free market is the sheer spitefulness of humanity.
Combine that with the internet, a bastion for rational levelheadedness if ever there was one, and suddenly you've got potentially very unpleasant working conditions ahead.
Be that as it may, Uber is here to stay. It won't be the last I hear from them, so I'm going to do a bit of reading on the subject.
And don't worry. Summer has just begun. I will be working my ass off. And with that, there will be stories, rest assured.
"I mean to tell you that if you're looking for a DJ, then you shouldn't call a cab."
So it's been a week since I've returned to the nightlife. It terrifies me how quickly my body and mind adapted to a nocturnal lifestyle. Nine months of hard work, trying to live life like a normal human being, and yet here I am, with my eyes hollow and my brain running on fumes, cackling with every cent I make.
Indeed.
Now, this week has been mostly uneventful, though there have been some major changes. For one, the powers that be have decided that they need to tighten their grip on cab-owners. Apparently there's too much tax fraud going on, so we (that is, those that would be my bosses) are required by law to have a meter that continually sends all the numbers directly to a server, rather than storing it for later accounting. Thus, all the meters have been, or are in the process of being changed. From the dot-matrix hunk of 80's technology we used to have, to the dot-matrix hunk of 10's technology that we have now. And whoever designed this meter was obviously very drunk, or otherwise mentally impaired.
It's a mess. Press the wrong button, and the whole thing crashes and you need to reset it. However, there are no indicators to show which buttons are the right ones. Through trial and miserable error (resulting in way too much paid time being lost), I've managed to create a working relationship with the new meter. So, go me. I'm on a roll.
Another change I've noticed is Uber. A year ago, I had heard about Uber; a new way of transporting people, skirting the line between cab driver and carpooling. I had heard that american cabbies were furious about Uber, and I had heard through various american media how convenient and wonderful Uber is.
And now, Uber has appeared on the home market. This past week, I've had at least one conversation a night about Uber. And every conversation is the same: first the fare will ask me what I think of Uber, to which I respond that I have no real opinion. Then the fare will make a statement to the effect of "I bet its worrying that they're taking so much of the market", to which I respond that Uber most likely is the future of cab-driving. This usually surprises people.
Because that's the thing: Uber has found a brilliant way of gaming the system. You eliminate a metric ton of middlemen, plus with a little application of free-market invisible hand mojo, you guarantee that only those drivers who win the approval of the fares get work. What they are in practice are organised, illegitimate cabbies, who answer to nobody but their customers. From a purely capitalist perspective, they're an absolute beauty.
Does Uber worry me? Of course it doesn't. My intention is getting out of this business; I do not see Uber as a threat to my long-term plans. However, I will say this; Cabbies are, at least formally, trained professionals. We go through a process to get our licenses, we answer not only to our customers, or our companies, but to the government itself. Specific laws govern our driving and our income. Uber drivers are not.
Now I'll be the first to tell you that 80% of cabbies really have no business on the road. Getting a license is not difficult (especially as there are those who can, for the right amount of cash, set you up with a license, no questions asked). Uber drivers are on the other hand answerable to their customers. And I don't like giving that kind of power to the public.
It is bad enough that some people already feel the need to wave the tip in front of my eyes and threaten to take it away if I don't obey (this is a great way to get kicked out of my cab). What happens when not only some extra money is used as leverage, but a review? A review that could affect all your future business? All in all its a fair system; those who do good will be more desirable. But what is never taken into account when it comes to the free market is the sheer spitefulness of humanity.
Combine that with the internet, a bastion for rational levelheadedness if ever there was one, and suddenly you've got potentially very unpleasant working conditions ahead.
Be that as it may, Uber is here to stay. It won't be the last I hear from them, so I'm going to do a bit of reading on the subject.
And don't worry. Summer has just begun. I will be working my ass off. And with that, there will be stories, rest assured.
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