Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance – 12/7/2007
The book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig has been my reading material for the past week. His motorcycle journey across the North-Central states—from Minnesota to Oregon and California—seemed promising, but to be honest, it hasn’t been the smooth reading experience I expected. The book dives deep into heavy philosophical and analytical explorations—especially around the idea of “Quality”—which, frankly, left my shallow mind wandering at times.
Pirsig’s reflections on the relationship between Art and Science, and his metaphor of motorcycle maintenance as a path to self-understanding, are indeed thoughtful and “Zennish.” But I felt somewhat disappointed. I was hoping for more insight into his journey in relation to his son, something more tender, more human. Instead, I found myself lost in intellectual ramblings.
I’ve visited the author’s son’s grave at Green Gulch Farm, on a hill overlooking the highway along Star Route 1 in Sausalito, California. It’s also where Alan Watts’ grave marker rests, next to Chris’s. I was told Chris was mugged and killed in San Francisco, only sixteen or seventeen years old at the time.
At work, the scene isn’t looking good. Rumors suggest I might be laid off next month. That alone is enough to set my mind spinning into all sorts of worst-case scenarios. Supposedly, I’m “too old for the job,” and a fresh supply of young Indonesian students from Bali have arrived, eager and willing to work.
It’s disheartening. But it’s not entirely fair to blame the Indonesians—or foreign workers in general—for every lost job or depressed salary in Malaysia. The deeper issue lies with a system that favors cheap, compliant labor under the guise of “practical training.” These students work for a fraction of what locals would require, and they don’t ask questions or complain. They are, in many ways, indentured laborers—willing to go to great lengths to keep their jobs.
For the resort operators, it’s a lucrative deal. Get young adults fresh out of college, pay them a stipend (if anything), and receive money from their training institutions to boot. It’s a win-win—for everyone except the locals who are pushed out of jobs, and the youth who never receive the proper training they deserve.
Where is the average Malay youth supposed to find quality training these days, if not in government-run programs? I’m not speaking about “Malaysian” youth in general—I mean the Malay youth specifically, the sons of the soil.
It’s scary to witness how this scenario is unfolding. The former Prime Minister once said we are sitting on a time bomb—and he might have been right. We like to pride ourselves on being a harmonious, multi-ethnic society, but the truth is that the number of ethnic groups has doubled or tripled in recent years with the influx of foreign workers from Indonesia, Bangladesh, Myanmar, India, China, Vietnam… and beyond. What we have now is a multi-ethnic pressure cooker—one that’s simmering just beneath the surface, and we’re in denial about it.
I watched a lady politician on TV the other night talk about how crime and other social issues are linked to this unchecked influx. Some of these foreign workers have settled here and put down roots, deeper than anticipated.
But again—foreign workers aren’t to blame. They’re just trying to survive, to send money home, to build a future. They didn’t decide that I should be let go. They didn’t create a system that treats them better than locals. They’ll leave eventually—when the money runs out or when there’s a crackdown. Until then, they’ll keep showing up, keep working, and keep quiet.
So what’s left for me to do?
Move on. Look for another job. After all, this is my country. There’s still work to be done somewhere. If not, why would they be importing labor?
Blame it on the bosses.
Enough said—for now. Let’s just hope there’s no knock on the door tonight.
Good morning! Here are the hashtags in horizontal format for your post:
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