Could Tharman actually be an reincarnation of Nostradamus?

September 21, 2012

“Young Singaporeans entering the workforce today will have accumulated enough savings in their Central Provident Fund (CPF) when they retire to see them through their golden years.
This was one of the key findings from a Ministry of Manpower-commissioned study, revealed Deputy Prime Minister Tharman Shanmugaratnam yesterday….”

As a farmer. I am always mindful of the capricious nature of markets especially when it comes to long term projections. Last year this time. I was literally earning double due to favorable commodity prices for CPO (Crude Palm oil). During that period many eminently qualified economist and futurist predicted that things can only get better for oil palm growers. I was skeptical. You could even say that’s my nature. As when you really boil it down to the crux – many of these so called experts are really just commodity traders sitting in some air conditioned cubicle in some skyscraper thousand of miles away far removed from what’s happening on the ground – how could they be so cock sure? To cut a long story short I prepared for the very worst even in the best of times by diversifying aggressively into other sectors and even buying up large blocks of futures to hedge my bets. And I am glad I did so. Now that the market has turned sour. This would be a good opportunity to buy out more land. As for those foolish farmers who bought lock, stock and barrel into those rosy prediction that the party will never end. Many have over extended and its likely they would be forced to sell part of their estates just to tie them through this period of uncertainty. That just goes to show you how even the best predictions can be so easily outdone by the vagaries of the market. It’s also an instructive lesson on why we should NEVER just believe those who make happy predictions without interrogating their assumptions exhaustively.

I really don’t want to come across as rude or offensive. But it can be difficult at times to remain polite – especially when one is presented with the question: how is it even possible for anyone to predict whether your kids will have enough to retire somewhere down the distant future in an age that is so uncertain? We are talking about one whole generation ahead of us! An entire lifetime! Perhaps maybe 50 years down the road. How is that even possible? I really don’t understand. Has Philip Yeo and his guppies hit pay dirt and successfully cloned Nostradamus? What about economic shifts? inflation? Ever heard of folk being in-between jobs as a result of firms downsizing? Tell me how many of you even know of any middle class families in Singapore who have never had to deal with retrenchment, global shifts, cut throat competition from foreign professionals. No thanks to the happy go lucky unmitigated immigration policy of the PAP. What about the rising cost of living? Spikes in commodities? Economic meltdowns? The bad habit of the PAP to always pass the cost to the user whether he likes it or not? The effects of economic contagion? Most important WHAT Quality of life is Tharman’s assumption based on? – will our kids be just existing hand to mouth shackled to a 12 hour job after 55. Or will they be able to retire with pride and dignity?

As for me I find Tharman’s claim impossibly hard to believe given that many in the middle class have seen their lives literally eroded as the result of diminishing job opportunities due to fierce competition from migrant workers – the helium price of HDBs and cars etc. And all this has occurred within less than a span of ten years! To the extent where Tharman himself even obliquely conceded that PAP’s policy of leaving everything to market forces may well have been wrong. Now he claims to be able to foretell the future 50 to 70 ahead for our kids well into the distant future!

I am really sorry. As I said, I find this impossibly hard to believe in the absence of further details. I am sure the nation destroying press will try their best to fill up the holes with their usual run of the mill happy days stories. But I can literally go on and on for at least ten pages and not even begin to scratch the surface of this subject on why all long term predictions are at best wrong.

The way I see it is simple Simon. The only thing that is certain about the future, is that it is guaranteed to remain uncertain. And against that backdrop you have someone who claims to be able to foretell the future of your kids.

Sure I believe. Care to share with us your assumptions Tharman? Or will this be another rerun caper of how it’s possible to own a HDB and still survive on a salary of 1k.

As usual I give you the facts. You decide for yourself.

Darkness 2012

———————————————————————-

“I don’t think there is ANY basis to take Tharman seriously unless we know his working assumptions. Its really as simple as that. What you need to understand here is, the happy facts can be presented in so many ways depending on the assumptions used. I am not trying to be personal or malicious. I am simply calling a spade a spade. As only a fool par excellence will take and run with what he has just said. A wise man will go through his assumptions with a fine tooth comb. But you know what? I have a feeling no details or very little will ever be revealed about those assumptions along with the weightings that has been ascribe to the drivers accounting for the summary of this study. I may be wrong. Then again I may well be spot on. As it is taking this seriously is really like basing all your hopes and aspirations on something that came out from a fortune cookie.

Tell me WHO would even do that when it comes to their families. You’ve got to be kidding me!”

One Response to “Could Tharman actually be an reincarnation of Nostradamus?”

  1. dotseng said

    There are only really two varieties of men who go to that God forsaken interior of the deepest bowels of Africa to turn the wheel of life. The first are of course those who are stupid enough to join the French Foreign Legion to try to escape from their averagely miserable lives.

    The other was that variety of man who lived on the hill overlooking the vast expanse of Gabundi Cocoa Estate. The Chinaman Cocoa Farmer who was now looking at a spent heat stroked white man with cropped auburn hair who claimed to have lost his way somewhere along the dusty road between the Seritati and Kafuri road 200 miles from Kampala. 

    The Chinaman knew he was a deserter from the Legion – it took him exactly 5 seconds to form that conclusion – he could make out the bruised callouses on the outer edges of the man knuckles – a physical disfigurement brought forth by a design flaw on the cocking device of the St. Entiene standard issued FAMAS that the legion used – the last two laces of the man were parallel and finished off with a butterfly knot. The Chinaman knew again, legionnaires used this to keep out fine sand from their boots on long marches. 

    But despite all this – the Chinaman nodded to the tribesman who had brought him in that hot afternoon. At first the Matabilli tribesman looked to the rest of the braves – he too had after all known that this was probably a deserter from the legion. The tribesman had wanted to say something to the Chinaman Cocoa farmer, but he had been cut short by a stern voice as the farmer narrowed his eyed and now he had looked down submissively.

    The Matabilli tribesman bowed his head and the man was taken into the plantation house by the Chinaman’s servants – the Chinaman was after all the Shahidi – a chieftain and medicine man in his own right who knew all the tribes in the region. To the far North, East, West and to the southern reaches of Uganda where the confluence of the Nigiri and Togoba river met – the Shahidi was known to all the tribes, the Adomako, who were once descendants of the fierce Zulu. They guarded the Chinaman’s estate. Only the Adomako were permitted to roam the grounds of the Shahidi’s plantation. To the South, the man knew the Kashari who once transported salt cones on camels across the barren plains of the Sahara – they served as the eyes and ears to the Shahidi and had told him the legion were scouring the western plains in search of the deserter.

    The Chinaman was the Shahidi – the rain maker, the man who could open the heavens and bring down the water of life. This he did by firing his world war II antique 88mm canon which he filled with silver halide at clouds to seed rain – the tribesmen considered a form of magic. And so they all obeyed him.

    The following day a column of legionnaires in light armored entered the gates of Gabundi estate – the officer who was in charge was mindful of the Chinaman Cocoa farmer. He had heard so many things about the Shahidi that he ran an illegal goldmine in Nariobi that stretched even all the way across Burundi, had dabbled in the illegal ivory trade in Kenya and had even smuggled arms right up the Serengetti through Zambezi and Congo rivers – he had even once saved some of his own men from certain decapitation three years ago, when he had intervened and negotiated for the safe return of two kidnapped legionnaires and a French TV crew with the dreaded Askhali tribesmen who made it their living hijacking tankers off the coast of Burundi. That day as his armored column approached the planters house at the top of the hill the young legionnaire officer was wary that he was very far from civilization. As the armored column passed by the many Cocoa trees, the farmer’s Adomako tribesmen who eyed them suspiciously as they cradled their AK-47’s – while the younger braves looked on with their spears. 

    When the Chinaman planter was shown the picture of the deserter – he was brusque and replied in crude African Pidgin French also called Guinea Coast Creole Francaise – this was the lingua franca, or language of commerce, spoken deep in the interior of the heart of darkness known as deep Africa. And had been used since time in memorial along Western coast of Africa during the warring period of the Atlantic slave trade. It had all been lost – but in these parts where only the omnipresent law of the AK-47 ruled – this dead language which was once used by all stretching across the Coast of Guinea was used that day.

    The officer of the French foreign legion who wore his pristine white kepi blanch knew that the Chinaman cocoa planter could have used, le français standard, le français normé, le français neutre – civilized French which he much preferred. But that day, he had chosen to speak to the representative of the French government in Creole Francaise – he was simply reminding the French officer that he was very far from civilization. It was the Chinaman’s way of conveying to the nervous French officer that in these remote parts where only a godless sky ruled – a man could very well die in a thousand and one ways – the legionnaire realized that it was pointless to continue the conversation. He realized only too well, that it wasn’t worth trying to intimidate the Chinaman Cocoa planter. He was after known to the Legion – and his superiors had warned him – “we may need his help one day, so don’t push your weight around with him, toerwise you may end up having to go back in a plastic bag.” with these thoughts, the young French officer turned around and left. After all this was how politics was conducted in deep Africa. This after all wasn’t Kenya, Nariobi or Cape town – the laws were malleable here, elastic to the point where it even meant so very little. And everything under the sun was negotiable. Besides all the Shahidi had to do was snap his fingers and half his men would probably be cut down by machine gun fire – it was after all the legionnaires last tour of duty in this God foresaken part of the world. Besides he only had less than a month to go before returning to wife and kids in France. The last thing he needed now was to stir up a shit storm. So that day the French light armored column did a U turn and drove right out of Gabundi estate.

    That same evening as the man dined with the deserter on the thirty or so feet long table on the plantation house on the hill – he was impressed by the man’s cooking. He has earlier allowed the man to wander around his kitchen. Somewhere between desert and cognac, the man turned to the deserter and asked in a slow and grave voice like rolling thunder,

    “Tell me why did you run away from the Legion?”

    The deserter knew instantly the Chinaman who wore flared ridding breeches and ankle high mirror polished boots with a revolver slung from his shoulder holster had seen right through him like a pane of glass – he was transparent – he had known it all along and pretended not to know till this moment when he had raised the question when he was most relaxed and comfortable.

    “I couldn’t take it anymore. I rather take my chances on the run than to spend another minute in that hell hole.”

    The man nodded his head. He murmured, “I understand completely.” Then he continued, “it is not easy for a man to run away from the legion….tell me what will you do if it was possible for me to arrange to get you the right papers to make it all the way back home safely?”

    “I am a cook. That’s what I do best. I am happiest when I am in the kitchen…..”

    The man sighed as he emptied his third cognac that evening – he began to loosen his shoulder holster and removed what to the man seemed like an oddity – an old Webley revolver. He knew instinctively that the men knew his weapons – as only this clumsy British firearm was the preferred side arm of the Bedouin as only such a weapon could stand up against the fine ochre red dust that blew from the North to the South every year clogging and jamming even the best modern firearms – the deserter had once served in Sudan and Chad. He began to look at the man – and wondered whether perhaps the illegal gold miner, rain maker who the tribesmen called Shahidi with his magic cannon who ran the Cocoa estate might have been a man who had also once seen the terror of war. 

    “Yes, I understand how it must be like to be hunted…to be on the run….you should stay here longer…..when the coast is clear…..I shall make arrangements……meanwhile please be feel free to cook wander around kitchen….cook for me…..and one day perhaps many years from now…..we may look at this time and place….and even laugh out loud…..you see civil war will rip through this country very soon…. I have really cashed out…soon you wouldn’t even need papers to walk from here all the way to Kampala. But for the mean time…..you will be safe here.”

    The deserter was relieved. And thought this was where the man had felt that the conversation should have ended. For some inexplicable reason – he felt compelled to ask one more question – perhaps it was the effect of the fine Cognac, the faint and calming murmuring of the cicadas or the gentle breeze that blew that day from the Kalahari.

    “Tell me what would you do? Where will you go when this country explodes into civil war?”

    He hadn’t expected the man to reply, as the Chinaman seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. But he was mistaken, that evening the Chinaman was happy to have a dinner guest.

    “I want to go to a place where people don’t point guns at me. I want to go to a place where I don’t have to carry this with me.” he gestured to the old Webley revolver. “I want to go to a place where if I call the police, they will come. I want to go to a place where I had write a cheque and use a credit card and not carry gold bars in a lorry with ten men armed to the teeth. I want to go to a place where I only see tanks and soldiers during parades. I want to turn the wheel in Singapore….yes, Singapore.”

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