I quit Laotian Express on Tuesday, a month after having joined, seven actual working days, 48.5 shit-filled hours (almost literally) and $232.80 for my efforts.
It’s been quite a ride, and rather interesting because you see someone new every day, same age but vastly disparate backgrounds. Most of us wanting to earn just a little bit of pocket money, some of us probably needing that money for slightly more pressing family reasons.
There are three full-time Filipino workers to the dozen local workers, and the Filipinos amongst the nicest and most approachable. I find it a little sad that we need foreigners to teach us Thank You and Please and How’s Your Day Been.
I think the best thing about this job is that while I’m happy at finally getting to resign, I don’t regret the experience too much. I have learnt how to serve without ever getting thanked. I have learnt how bleeding difficult it is to earn $4.80. I have learnt how to place seven cups on a small tray more suited for five; on the first day I started precariously with four. I have learnt how to endure a kitchen with poisonous cough-inducing fumes and I have learnt how to get food and soup and grime on my hands without instantly heading to the sink.
I think literally every exploit I’ve gotten myself into in December has been that of serving people. My two jobs, my ice-breaking dayz of Rhema Conference, the kitchen saikang I did in preparation for the Christmas Eve extended family gathering. And I have learnt that sometimes the best things you take away from something aren’t the ones people know of.