HOSP 1 (2) pp. 173–188 Intellect Limited 2011
Hospitality & Society
Volume 1 Number 2
© 2011 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/hosp.1.2.173_1
CHIN-EE ONG
Institute for Tourism Studies, Macao
Hidden injuries of class
and bourgeoisie dreams:
Casino workers, traditional
shipbuilders and boutique
hotels in Macao
ABSTRACT
KEYWORDS
With more than US$15 billion invested in Macao’s gaming industry between 2005 and
2010 for the creation of world-class casinos, theatres, theme parks and luxury shopping malls, intense casino development transformed Macao’s urban landscape. Much
is said about Macao’s astonishing rate of tourist arrivals and staggering gross domestic
product in the last four years as a combined result of longstanding casino tourism and
nascent World Heritage tourism in the 29.5-sq km postcolonial territory. Less is known
about its 500,000 residents and workers. Building upon existing work that interrogates
the salient connection between the self and class position of workers, I examine the
‘hidden injuries of class’ or the difficulties for the individual worker in terms of achieving dignity and respect in capitalistic Macao. Specifically, drawing upon life and work
history interviews with former traditional shipbuilders and casino workers, I examine
both pre-casino and casino Macao’s class experiences and relations. In doing so, I seek
to relate the present with the past and illustrate how the building of Macao’s bourgeoisie
dreams in forms of the territory’s pursuit of casino resorts and boutique hotels brought
about ‘hidden injuries of class’ for two different generations of Macao proletariats.
Marxism and class
dignity
shipbuilders
casino dealers
boutique hotels
Macao
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INTRODUCTION
Tourism and hospitality research in Macao has focused on destination branding
and marketing (Leong 2007), casino tourist motivations, behaviours and profiles
(Vong 2007), human resources (Baum 2007; Church and Frost 2004; Robinson
and Wallace 1983), heritage and conservation (du Cros 2008; Imon et al. 2008a;
Lamarca 2002), and tourist arrival forecasting (Zhang 1999). While these research
studies are important in their respective ways, they have focused mainly on what
can be said to be concerns of the bourgeoisie and capitalist aspirations, and have
overlooked those of the proletariat and working class. Building upon research
efforts from studies of politics constituting Macao tourism and hospitality (Chan
2003; Chou 2005; Lang 2000; LaRochelle 2001; Sheng and Tsui 2009; Veng 2004)
and subjectification of tourism and hospitality workers and/in small firms (Minca
2009; Ryan and Hall 2001; Turfs 2006; Valtonen 2009; Veijola 2009) and of Macao
tourism places (Simpson 2008a, 2008b) to global capital, this article argues that it
is very important for tourism scholars in Macao to look beyond capitalist issues
and concerns and pay more attention to the working class and the emotional
consequences of their subjugation or what Sennett and Cobb (1993) describe as
their ‘hidden injuries of class’. In Sennett and Cobb’s work, they demonstrated
some of the ways in which capitalism alienates workers and hinders their attainment of respect and self-worth. This article also seeks to contribute to emerging
critical approaches to hospitality (Lynch 2005; Lynch et al. 2009).
Bringing together about US$15 billion of investment in Macao’s gaming
industry in the last five years for the production of top-notch casinos, theatres, theme parks and luxury shopping malls, extreme casino development has
vastly transformed Macao’s urban spaces and society (Sheng and Tsui 2009;
Simpson 2008b). Existing studies speak of Macao’s astounding rate of tourist
arrivals and stunning Gross Domestic Product in the last four years. This is
a combined consequence of longstanding casino tourism and nascent World
Heritage tourism in the 29.5-sq km postcolonial territory. However, we know
little about its 500,000 residents and workers. In this article, I have chosen
to look at the classed lives of casino dealers and traditional shipyard workers in Macao. The first (the casino dealer) is a more conventional subject and
figure to discuss in a hospitality article, having been a topic of discussion for
business and scholarly interests (Chandler and Jones 2003; Shaffer et al. 1999;
Wan and Pilkington 2009). However, little is known about the emotional and
class aspect of casino work, and casino dealers form a significant segment
of Macao’s hospitality workforce. The second (the former traditional shipbuilders) are relevant, for on 7 April 2009, residents of a quaint little village in
Macao were asked, as part of a broader tourism and urban revitalisation plan,
whether they want the traditional shipyards in Lai Chi Van precinct kept as
an industrial heritage site or redeveloped as a high-end waterfront boutique
hotel zone. Once a pillar of Macao’s economy, traditional shipbuilding and
what remains of its tangible memories face hospitality-induced demolition.
In this article, I argue that it is pertinent for hospitality and tourism scholarship in Macao to go beyond its current focus on business and ‘bourgeoisie
dreams’ and pay more attention to the hidden injuries of class of its proletariats. In particular, drawing upon life and work history interviews with former
traditional boatbuilders and casino workers, I examine the ways in which class
positions are entwined with issues of respect and dignity and the ways in which
Macao proletariats make sense of these. This article is organized as follows. In
the next section, I review existing efforts at understanding labour and workers in
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tourism, paying attention to power and personal issues in tourism and hospitality. I then consider my research endeavour and issues relating to methodology.
In the first findings section, I discuss pre-casino Macao’s class experiences and
relations and a recent proposal for redevelopment of the waterfront area. In the
second findings section, I describe and interpret current experiences and exploitations. The article concludes with a synthesis of the main points presented, and
a consideration of the broader implications of such findings for understanding
heritage interpretation and contemporary subjectification of workers in Asia.
WORKING AND LIVING WITH CAPITAL
Work in tourism is a pertinent area for tourism and hospitality inquiry (Baum
2007; Minca 2009; Turfs 2006; Veijola 2009). This study seeks to build upon an
existing corpus of work that has offered insights into human resource provision
(Baum 2007), gender (Veijola 2009), power, governmentality and the biopolitical (Minca 2009), and cultural performance (Turfs 2006) of hospitality work by
listening to and considering the personal and individual experiences of Macao
casino dealers and former shipbuilders. While the early calls of Britton (1991)
are not worker-specific, his insights into the exploitative nature of enclave
resorts and peripheries in the tourism production system have alerted tourism
and hospitality researchers to the workings of capitalistic powers and pointed
to some of their consequences. More recently, calls have been made for more
critical and reflexive hospitality studies that examine the nexus between hospitality, society and power (Lynch et al. 2011). Tourism and hospitality scholars
could have drawn from the pioneering work of the Frankfurt School critical
theorists (see e.g. Adorno 1966; Horkheimer 1982) and the later work of Jurgen
Habermas (1984a, 1984b, 1989) as well, for these have significantly shaped
academic and activist notions of critical theory and vision. These authors have
stressed the need to look beyond the Leninist interpretations of Marxism and the
obsession with political economy. Instead, they have called for greater attention
to alienation, freedom and emancipation of workers via the destruction of their
false consciousness (see e.g. Horkheimer 1982). To do this, researchers have
focused their attention on Marx and Engel’s concepts of the bourgeoisie and
the proletariat and many of Marx and Engel’s ([1848] 2010) original humanistic ideas on the conditions of the workers and labouring class in capitalistic
societies. According to Marx and Engels, modern society is gravitating towards
two opposing poles: bourgeoisie and proletariat ([1848] 2010). By bourgeoisie,
Marx and Engels mean the strata of modern capitalists. This privileged group
are the owners of the means of production and the employers of waged labour.
In the case of Macao, the owners of casinos, property firms, hotels and tourism
businesses constitute the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie’s ascent in society has
changed the nature of work for the working class, or proletariats:
The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto
honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the
physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its
paid wage labourers.
(Marx and Engels [1848] 2010: 23)
Instead of seeing pride, dignity and respect in the work that they do, the work
that proletariats do and the proletariats themselves are increasingly measured
in monetary terms.
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In tourism and hospitality studies, Britton (1991) warned a capitalizing
world of the dangers of unregulated capital(ists) in the world of exclusive
resorts and low-paid local chambermaids, drivers and receptionists. Harris et
al. (2011) considered how the media, through the deployment of representations and images in a popular television series, can circulate such oppressing messages that chain the housekeeping sector. In this article, I argue that
hospitality research in Macao circulates the kinds of quasi-public messages
that perpetuate bourgeoisie concerns and downplay proletariat concerns. It
is also important to consider how these concerns travel beyond grand narratives and into concepts of space and place (Gregory 1978, 1993), and explore
how capital–worker relations project themselves in territories of social struggles and lived and experienced life-worlds (Harvey 1972; Peet 1978). This is
an issue to consider, for Macao is a place where business and political interests converge and where truly informed and empowered public participation
is only just emerging.
Furthermore, it is important, as Sennett and Cobb (1993) remind us, to
focus our analytical lenses on the psychological and emotional aspects of
Macao’s hospitality workers’ relationship with capital, as well as to examine
how this relationship is experienced. The study of emotional labour or the
deployment of managed emotional displays is well documented in management sciences (Ashforth and Humphrey 1993; Brotheridge and Grandey 2002;
Hochschild 1979, 1983). However, Sennett and Cobb argue that more can be
done to relate the emotional aspects of work to class conditions and experiences, as the experiences and aspirations of proletariats have been sidelined
and forgotten. They argue that since a worker’s self and identity are tightly
fused with his or her class position, some emotional and psychological hurt
may be present in a worker even if he or she has attained social mobility or is
well compensated materially. To Sennett and Cobb, social mobility and affluence do not guarantee the achievement of respect, dignity and self-worth
on the part of workers. Furthermore, they argue that the commodification of
work as merely a paid activity in many capitalistic societies has resulted in
the loss of respect and dignity in modern-day workers. While class struggles
in the form of strikes and street marches is highly visible, Sennett and Cobb
remind their readers that there are ‘hidden injuries’ proletariats undergo that
are important too. They call this resulting hurt and emotional distress ‘the
hidden injuries of class’. In the next section, I outline my approach to understanding such classed experiences.
TALKING TO AND WRITING ABOUT MACAO PROLETARIATS
Data was collected through a life and work history approach (Laslett 1999;
Rybarczyk and Bellg 1997). Fieldwork at the traditional shipyard at Lai Chi Van
started in the summer of 2007. While I had visited the area on numerous occasions between 2007 and 2011, hanging out and conducting ethnography at Lai
Chi Van had turned out to be an inappropriate approach as the site is largely
residential now. Except for the empty spaces of the disused shipyards and
the small cafe that still serves the small community of residents, there is very
little public space available. However, a few former shipyard workers still use
the shipyards to work on their carpentry projects and they continue to patronize the local cafe, where they rest or hang out with other residents and old
friends. In these venues, I was able to conduct interviews with five shipyard
workers between 2007 and 2011. These interviews and conversations focused
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Hidden injuries of class and bourgeoisie dreams
on the history of their work and life. Approximately twenty in-depth and long
interviews were conducted with these five shipyard workers over the time
period, yielding a rich data set that underpins the arguments in this article.
A similar approach was used in my study of another group of Macao
proletariats – the casino dealers. An ethnographic or participant observation
method was deemed unsuitable for this project, as my presence as a researcher
was likely to disrupt interactions at the setting including at the gaming tables
and the employee resting areas. Furthermore, as service workers, casino dealers are trained and expected to engage in emotional labour and acting while
on the job, which means that participant observation on site may not have
yielded findings that speak of their exploitation or oppression. Instead, my
friendship with seven casino dealers facilitated interviews focused on their
work and life histories. Approximately 32 such interviews were conducted
between 2007 and 2011. In this article, pseudonyms are used to protect the
privacy of my informants from the shipyard and casino communities. The
quotes reproduced were translated from Cantonese and Mandarin.
Such an approach draws upon insights from social constructionism
(Hollinshead 2004, 2006; Willson and McIntosh 2007) and seeks to reveal the
intricate, experiential and personal ways the informants would construct and
make sense of the interactions and the social world around them. As such,
I situated fieldwork through encounters that put the informants at ease and
where I felt responses would be authentic, candid and forthcoming. Built on
the conceptual architecture of ‘abductive reasoning’ where a researcher neither
deduces from testable hypothesis nor induces from a conclusive and complete
set of data, but seeks to reveal insights from a situated study (Coffey and
Atkinson 1996), this research argues methodologically that patiently talking to
and writing about twelve Macao proletariats through in-depth conversations
and dialogue is illuminating and revealing of the issues Macao hospitality and
society is facing. Old age, death and migration (to Hong Kong, China and
the region) of the former shipbuilders have resulted in a mere fragment of the
shipbuilding community remaining in Lai Chi Van, and have made a more
conclusive and complete inductive approach unsuitable. A questionnaire
survey is not appropriate, as it is unlikely to yield an in-depth and rich data
set. Furthermore, the small number of former shipbuilders present may
pose a problem for sampling in a deductive approach. Through the course
of the research, I sought to engage in acts of researcher reflexivity (Ateljevic
et al. 2005), and I made no claims about being ‘neutral’ or ‘objective’. Rather,
I was and am conscious of, and made no attempts to conceal, my political
and philosophical orientations or the potential power dynamics between the
researcher and the researched. To this, I sought a more collaborative approach
of writing with (and not about) my informants. While the life and work history
interview approach necessitates attentive and patient listening and a faithful
representation of the discourses my informants articulated, I made it a point
to revisit my informants when possible to share with them the findings of the
research. I also shared with them my views on their situations. In addition,
I did not claim to be a local or to be capable of offering insider perspectives.
Instead, I adopted the position of a long-term foreigner with attachments
to Macao and friendships with Macao people. Data collected were read and
analysed interpretively to allow themes and subthemes to be discovered.
This was followed by streamlining themes and drawing linkages to existing
theoretical models. In this case, the themes were found to relate to a Marxist
framework of class and, in particular, to the psychological and emotional
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aspects of class experiences and to the ‘hidden injuries of class’. In this article,
I follow the conventional ethnographic practice of differentiating the words
of my informants, my observations and interpretations, and my view of the
situation (Holliday 2007).
PROLETARIATS OF MACAO’S PAST: TRADITIONAL SHIPBUILDERS
On 7 April 2009, improvement plans for Coloane Village were announced and
the Coloane villagers were asked to choose between the two plans produced
by the City Planning Department of the Land and Transport Authority of
Macao. Plan A described a revitalized Coloane Village as a hub for arts and
culture, while Plan B advanced a more commercially lucrative high-end housing and boutique hotel precinct. At the time of this writing, the decision on
the revitalization has yet to be made and revealed. If Plan A goes ahead, the
Lai Chi Van area, which houses the most complete set of what remains of
Macao’s traditional boatbuilding yards and docks, would become Macao’s
first industrial heritage site. Of particular interest to this article are the implications for past proletariats who worked in these harsh landscapes.
To understand the situation of traditional boatbuilders, a brief historical
overview may be warranted here. Traditional boatbuilding is one of the oldest
industries in Macao (Deng 2001). While the exact time traditional shipyards
were established is unclear, late Qing Dynasty documents written in the
year 1887 point to the existence of about 40 traditional shipyards in Coloane
Village and a resident population of about 100 at that time (Zheng 2007).
According to my informants, the number of shipyards remained relatively
constant until the industry’s rapid decline in the early 1990s. These shipyards
and their workers were notable for their skills and craftsmanship in building
Chinese-style wooden boats and ships. This work was done using very simple
hand-tools and virtually no drawn construction plans. The industry was still
strong in the early 1990s, with the Macao Census and Statistics Board (1991)
identifying a total of 38 traditional shipyards in Macao. Of these, 22 were
on the Macao Peninsula and sixteen on the off-shore island of Coloane. At
that time, worker numbers were estimated at 500. Many of these shipyards
were traditional Chinese family businesses and drew their labour force from
family members, relatives and other close associates. In 2006, Macao’s last
piece of traditional shipbuilding was completed in one of the last Lai Chi
Van shipyards.
According to my informants at the shipyards, life as a traditional boatbuilder was hard but meaningful. However, class relations within the shipyards were more fluid. Shipyards were usually family-owned businesses and
owners worked alongside their workers and fellow builders. Owners can be
seen as petite bourgeoisie whose toil and sweat reaped rewards that were
reinvested into their businesses. Both shipyard owners and workers, however,
aspired to get their children and families out of blue-collared jobs and hard
labour by investing in their education. Ieong, a shipbuilder in the 1970s,
shared his view on shipbuilding work:
No, we do not want our children to be doing this. It is dangerous and
hard work. I want my children to study. At that time, I thought, ‘they
ought to have a better future than me, a better life.’ Education can do
that for them. I sent my son to Australia and my daughter to Hong
Kong for their studies. And it did the trick. Today, my son works as a
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lawyer’s assistant and my daughter in human resources in one of the
casinos. In my time, we did not have that many opportunities to go to
school. Today, I am happy my children are leading a better life. They do
not need to fear losing their fingers to the cutters or their lives to the
fire. In our shipbuilding days, we prayed to the God of Carpentry and
God of Fire and asked for protection [pointing to the altars at the back
of the shipyard].
(Ieong, a former shipbuilder, 2007)
Ieong’s thoughts were shared by other shipyard workers I met. Their hardship and pain were real. Shipbuilding was a dangerous vocation and the fire
gods the shipyard workers worshipped in their shipyard were testaments to
but one of the threats to their livelihood and life while at work. In the words
of Chu, Ieong’s colleague in the shipbuilding days:
We had an accident here [Lai Chi Van] then. The shipyard next door
caught fire. It was a real mess. The situation was complete chaos.
Everything [in the shipyard] was made of wood and the entire place
exploded into flames. I have fond memories of my time as a builder but
I remember these horrible ones as well.
(Ieong, a former shipbuilder, 2007)
Indeed, findings from the interviews indicated that the dangerous nature of
the job, coupled with declining economic benefits, brought about the decline
of the industry. At the time of my fieldwork, many masters, apprentices and
craftsmen working at the shipyards had switched to flexible part-time or alternate careers or retired when their steady stream of boatbuilding jobs declined.
In addition, many former shipbuilders were no longer at the Lai Chi Van site
or in Macao at the time of fieldwork due to death and emigration. Wong,
another former shipbuilding colleague of Ieong and Chu who remains on the
Lai Chi Van site, makes his living as a carpenter today. At the time of fieldwork, many of his former employees and peers were taxi-drivers and renovation contractors. When asked about the government’s plans for Lai Chi Van
and the rest of Coloane Village, some of the shipbuilders found themselves
caught between their wish to retell a nostalgic past and a reluctance to relive
the harsh conditions of their work. Mok, a former shipbuilder now in his 60s,
confided:
I prefer the government to adopt Plan A as I do not wish to see my
shipyards demolished. These are my memories. Demolishing them is
equivalent to erasing my memories. We do not need any more hotels or
boutique hotels. However, I do not know what kind of museum it will
be. What do you people mean by industrial heritage? Do you simply
put up an exhibit to show how hard and harsh our work conditions are?
Would people want to see that? I for one will not want to see that. I may
want to see it if I am a tourist and not a former shipbuilder. But I do not
want to see it again. Shipbuilding is not a glamorous work.
(Mok, a former shipbuilder, 2008)
While some were reluctant to show or relive the harsh realities of their past
work, Wong, a former shipbuilder in his 70s, was proud to have done that
hard and harsh work. In one of the interviews, he paused and proudly rolled
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up his sleeves to show me the scars on his arms. These were marks and traces
of labouring at the shipyard, he said:
Soldiers have badges. We have this. We wear this on our arms and we
remember we earned our living by being courageous and hardworking.
I will be happy to tell people about my past and my accounts of work
at the shipyard. This is how many of us made good. We were poor and
poorly educated but through our hard work, many of us managed to
start a family and were able to give our families a good honest living.
(Wong, a former shipbuilder, 2009)
When asked whether he would be happy to be a part of student or visitor
workshops conducted on traditional shipbuilding if the industrial heritage
museum focusing on traditional shipbuilding should take off, Wong appeared
receptive but warned of difficulties, as carpentry skills required for the shipbuilding are extremely advanced. He was also open and positive about on-site
heritage guides. He mentioned that he would be very happy to tell students,
Macao people and tourists about the past of this place and the glory days of
Macao shipbuilding.
Other former shipyard workers, however, were puzzled and amused. In
the words of Chu, a 60-year-old former shipbuilder:
Why would tourists want to see this? Is it because tourists from the West
have not seen poverty before? Shipyards are dirty and messy places.
Why would they want to see this?
(Chu, a former shipbuilder, 2007)
Chu was conscious of the ‘dirty’ and ‘messy’ nature of his past workplace and
was reluctant to showcase this to the world. He also associated his former
workplace with poverty and low status. When asked about sharing his stories
and accounts with visitors at the proposed industrial heritage museum, Tam,
who worked at the shipyards between 1970 and 1980, commented:
Yes, I’d love to be a tour guide. I like to speak to people. But what kinds
of topics should I tell them about? Would people want to hear from an
uneducated former shipyard worker? Will they laugh at me?
(Tam, a former shipbuilder, 2011)
Although Tam is a sociable and articulate person, he was apprehensive, at
the time of the interview, about guiding visitors at the proposed industrial
heritage museum. He was unsure about what kinds of topics his largely
bourgeoisie audience wish to hear about. He also appeared unsure about
whether his audience would empathize with his past or look down on his past
work and life if he were to share those accounts. In a time and place when
college and university education was fast becoming a mass consumption
good, Tam was conscious of his lack of formal education. While he is a skilled
carpenter and shipbuilder who has learnt and tuned his craft through years of
apprenticeship, he did not feel his credentials counted in Macao today. Tam
and some shipbuilders’ hidden injuries of class could also be seen in their
inability to come to terms with their individual and collective past. At the time
of the interviews, they did not think their work and contributions in the past
were worthy of respect, and felt that while they had carried themselves in
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dignified ways, Macao society tends to salute the well-educated, the whitecollared and the non-labouring bourgeoisie class.
Although most shipbuilders interviewed felt they had achieved financial
success through working at the shipyards and demonstrated social mobility for their families (by putting their children into tertiary education and
white-collar jobs), shipbuilders like Tam, Chu, Ieong and Mok had difficulties
seeing pride and respect in their past work and life histories. Mok, for example, would not want to see his past represented again before his eyes. Tam
was afraid that visitors, especially bourgeoisie tourists, would ridicule his past
conditions. While the potential construction of an industrial heritage museum
commemorating the shipbuilders’ contributions to Macao society is likely to
bring pride for some shipbuilders like Wong, such hidden hurt caused by past
exploitation will not go away easily for other shipbuilders, such as Tam and
Mok. The interpretation of the shipyards to the shipyard workers will have to
include a narration of their persistent subjugation to capital.
While employing former shipbuilders as museum guides or interpreters may bring about emotional dissonance, demolishing these shipyards and
replacing them with boutique hotels may be problematic as well. The building of further bourgeoisie dreams in Macao by adding yet more hospitality
facilities at the Lai Chi Van shipyard area is likely to mean an erasure of the
shipbuilders’ individual and collective memories and solidarity. To Mok, the
shipyards are a part of him, his memories. For Wong, his shipbuilding past as
materialized in the ageing shipyards are his ‘badges’ – signs of his dignified
struggle against the hardships of the day.
PROLETARIATS OF MACAO’S PRESENT: CASINO DEALERS
In this section, I want to draw attention to the situations of casino dealers and
their supervisors in Macao’s gaming tourism industry. As Macao shifts from
an industrial outpost manufacturing dangerous and difficult commodities
including traditional wooden ships, firecrackers, explosives and matchsticks
to a gambling-based service economy, casino resorts have become the biggest
employers in Macao, and gaming tourism has established itself as the main
draw for its regional and international visitors. Much of Macao’s working class
works for the casino resorts. As a result, the classic proletariat in contemporary Macao is the casino dealer, in the same way that the shipbuilders can be
said to characterize the working class in pre-casino resort Macao society.
Findings from the interviews indicated that casino dealers commonly
agreed that they were well compensated materially. Although much of the
industry has relied on imported or foreign labour from the Philippines,
Thailand, Malaysia, Hong Kong and Mainland China for operational staff
and much wider and further for middle and senior management, one job,
however, is protected. Casinos in Macao are allowed by law to recruit and
hire only Macao residents as croupiers, or ‘casino dealers’ as they are called
in Macao. This has led to a generally well-paid vocation where demand often
outstrips supply. This was so even before the major expansion of the industry
after the liberalization of gaming and the dissolution of Stanley Ho’s casino
monopoly. Starting dealers commonly take home more than a degree-holding
office worker would take home for salary. The diverging wage gap between
dealers and office workers became even wider with the establishment of Las
Vegas Sands Corporation in Macao, as the American firm introduced yet
more attractive remuneration. Working for a US/‘western’-style management
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was looked upon by job seekers at that time as an attractive benefit on top of
the already higher than usual pay package. When Sands first recruited, there
were long queues just to get application forms for the job and a subsequent
mad rush to submit the hastily completed forms. Casinos appear to be the
ideal employer for residents of Macao and casino dealing the ideal proletariat
vocation, particularly in relation to pay. However, what might we understand
about the subjective and individualized dimension of such a classed relation?
The first aspect of the casino dealers’ experiences as casino proletariats
is the joys, perils and pains of emotional labouring. Casino dealers are first
and foremost service workers, and it is their job to keep the gamblers smiling
and returning. Yuki, one of the casino dealers I interviewed, spoke of such
‘enforced’ emotional labour:
I am an open person. I do not keep people away. I do this as part of my
work as well. Very often, I treat the gamers as though they are my friends.
That way, I am naturally nicer to them. We cannot be cold to them. They
can complain to our supervisors if they think we are not friendly.
(Yuki, a casino dealer, 2009)
While 23-year-old Yuki is a sociable person, the socializing with or ‘being nice to’
gamers is an enforced and prescribed practice. Dealers like Yuki have to perform
the emotional labour of treating casino guests ‘as though they are’ ‘friends’ on a
daily basis. Sometimes, for Yuki, such ‘friendships’ brought joy to her work:
It is boring just to be dealing cards. However, if you meet some nice
guests it will make your day better. Some gamers will talk to you. Some
even ask me for my mobile numbers, QQ [Chinese networking platform] number and Facebook contact. We are not allowed to give them
our contacts. But it does make the job more meaningful. When people
ask about you and show that they care, it feels warm.
(Yuki, a casino dealer, 2009)
The ‘playful’ setting made it easier for the gamer and dealer to enter into
conversation. In Yuki’s case, this type of interaction over the gaming table
helped make her job more meaningful. When casino guests maintained a
friendly relationship, Yuki felt respected as well. However, in some cases,
forming and maintaining this kind of instant friendship was easier said than
done. In the words of 30-year-old Patrick, a casino dealer for eleven years:
I try to do as best I can [to serve casino guests with a smile]. But it is
difficult. They are gamblers first and gamers second. They will be nice to
you when they win. They will tip you and so on. However, when they
lose, it is a very different story. The good ones will just keep quiet. The
rest, they blame you, scold you and abuse you. One thing they like to do
is to blow their cigarette smoke into your face while you lean forward to
deal or collect the cards. How can we be nice to this kind of people?
(Patrick, a casino dealer, 2010)
Indeed, casino dealers interviewed agreed that casino guests’ moods and how
they treated casino dealers depended largely on whether or not they won the
game. Patrick’s quote illustrated how difficult it was for casino dealers to gain
the respect of the casino guests. Some guests even cause bodily harm to the
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casino dealers when they lose. David, a 22-year-old dealer who has worked in
the industry for two years, had one such experience:
Yes, they do get violent. I do not only hear about them. I had one such
encounter. He [the casino guest] started by banging the table hard with
back of his fist. Then he threw his glass of water at me. The glass crashed
into the pillar behind me. He then hurled all kinds of threats and abuses
at me. He threatened to beat me up when I get off work. He said all
these while being escorted out by our security guards.
(David, a casino dealer, 2011)
In addition to actual bodily hurt, such instances of physical abuse also pointed
to the lack of respect some casino guests have for casino dealers. While being
beaten up or having objects thrown at one is not a regular feature of the job,
a persistent health threat is the amount of second-hand smoke casino dealers
inhale on the job. Currently, a smoking ban in Macao public spaces has stalled
amidst lobbying from casino stakeholders. This is a case of Macao’s casino
stakeholders building their bourgeoisie dreams at the expense of the health
of its proletariats. Casino profits in Macao have surpassed those of Las Vegas
fourfold, but the wages, welfare and protection of Macao casino workers have
not moved as fast.
Another concern is the risk of blocking or taking away casino workers’
career aspirations. Casino card dealing is not the preferred career path for
some. However, many were attracted to it because of the high salary. Amanda,
a 24-year-old dealer, had wanted to pursue a marketing career before she left
university for a dealing job. Regarding her casino work and her career aspirations, Amanda confided:
I joined the casino eight years ago. Then, my mother had queued up early
to ensure I got the application forms. So many people wanted to join my
company then as it was the first American casino to enter Macao. In fact,
my family was so eager for me to join the casino that they even allowed me
to quit my studies. I was studying marketing in the University [of Macao]
then. I was in my first year of studies. The main draw was the wages. My
starting pay then was more than my mother and father’s wages combined.
So they were very excited about me finding such a ‘good’ job. I had wanted
to be a marketing executive. However, the job offer was too good to reject
then. Now I still think of going back to school but I am afraid I may be too
old. I also do not want to lose the income. The salary is good.
(Amanda, a casino dealer, 2009)
Job openings have attracted many Macao young people to the casino industry.
As the minimum age for casino dealer recruitment is eighteen, the casinos
compete with the universities for the same group of young people. While the
casino wages are attractive to this group of high school graduates, when they
go to work for the casinos, they give up tertiary education and the potential
for a managerial career in the future. Some find it difficult to leave their dealing job later, even though they dislike their work. Nam, a dealer in his late
30s, experienced such a dilemma. In the words of Nam:
I find it difficult to go away. I am not young anymore. I do not know if I
can still study. The work here is tough but at least I know I can pay my
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mortgage on time. I want to try graphic design but you know, in Macao,
there are only casino jobs. It is very difficult to find design related jobs
here. Even if I graduate with a design diploma or degree, I may still have
to work on the gaming floor.
(Nam, a casino dealer, 2007)
The dealers I spoke to expressed fears about studying and finding employment outside dealing. As Macao’s economy has been overly casino-centric,
jobs outside the gaming and service industry are perceived to be limited. In
fact, one dealer is so rooted in his casino job that even while he was laid off,
he rejected other job openings and remained bent on returning to the gaming
floor. Luis, a dealer in his late 20s, explained his predicament:
They retrenched me. I do not love the work. It is hard work and the
gamblers are bad. I have some job offers but they are too low paying.
They are decent clerical and administrative jobs. I also got an offer
for a sales job. However, the pay is too low compared to my previous
job. I used to take home about two thousand USD a month but these
new jobs can only give me seven hundred USD a month. I prefer to
take a break. Play my mahjong [a Chinese gambling game] with my
dealer friends who are also retrenched and wait for the next dealing
job to come.
(Luis, a casino dealer, 2010)
Luis is not alone in his plight and views. At the time of the fieldwork, a
restriction on the number of mainland tourists travelling into Macao imposed
by the Chinese government had seen gaming numbers dwindle and dealers
retrenched. On further probing, Luis revealed how self-worth and self-belief
amongst some casino-dealers are fast eroding:
We can’t do any real jobs. We do not have any real skill that is marketable outside the gaming table. We do not have the qualifications too.
We are really quite useless. Casino card dealing is the only job I can
do that pays me the money I am used to. However, if you ask me,
I will say I do not love this job. It [the card dealing job] makes me
dislike myself.
(Luis, a casino dealer, 2010)
Not only do casino dealers find it difficult to command respect from their
casino guests, but some also find it hard to find self-worth through their card
dealing jobs. Findings from the interviews indicated that casino dealers like
Luis and his mahjong mates were ‘stuck’ in the dealer job for a variety of
reasons. A Marxist interpretation will suggest that these casino proletariats
were misled by capitalism, and that these casino dealers were ‘bought off’
by the affluence that their unsatisfactory, and even some feel demeaning,
but well-paying jobs delivered. In the interviews, I can see an emotional and
psychological aspect to this as well – the hidden injuries of class. Luis finds it
difficult to come to terms with his current identity as a casino dealer. Although
Luis does not like to be identified as a casino dealer and dislikes dealing cards,
Macao’s casino capitalism has conditioned him to stay in it. However, such
conditioning comes with ‘hidden injuries’ within the individual – an eroded
self-worth and an emotional dissonance.
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CONCLUSION
In this article, I have described the lives of Macao’s past and present proletariats using the cases of Macao’s traditional shipbuilders and casino dealers,
respectively. While some of the concerns raised are specific to shipbuilding
and casino work, others are likely to find echoes in other groups of the Macao
working class. Here, I have focused on discussing the individualized aspects of
their subjugation, or what Sennett and Cobb (1993) have termed the ‘hidden
injuries of class’. In the case of the traditional shipbuilders, my interviews
helped reveal some of the personalized classed accounts and interpretations
of shipbuilding, while the recent plans to revitalize the area as Macao’s first
industrial heritage attraction or as boutique hotels have thrown open questions of how proletariats’ subjugation and dignity are to be interpreted. An
industrial heritage museum would mean that certain aspects of the materiality
of their heritage are conserved. If bourgeoisie dreams are pursued to a much
greater extent with the boutique hotel option, an important part of the shipbuilders’ and Macao’s proletariats’ individual and collective memories and
histories will be erased. Here, I have argued that a nuanced interpretation
and presentation of their accounts and narratives, coupled with a committed
call for solidarity of all who were and are marginalized by capital, can form
an appropriate approach. The approach should take into consideration the
emotional hurt resulting from past exploitation and the current wishes of the
former shipbuilders. It should also be one that celebrates their dignified struggle against the harsh conditions of their day.
Moving from past proletariats to the current working class, the findings
of this article revealed subtle but persistent forms of exploitation in the casino
sector. Although casino dealers in Macao felt they were well compensated
financially, they struggled to achieve respect from casino guests and a sense
of self-worth amongst themselves. While emotional labour can at times bring
about joy and meaning at work in forms of friendly encounters, findings from
this research suggest that verbal and even bodily abuse can happen as well.
This is particularly so when casino guests have fared badly at their games.
The interviews also revealed a low sense of self-worth amongst casino dealers, with one informant confiding that he dislikes himself for being a casino
dealer. The casino proletariats’ exploitation is also extended to their inhalation
of a great amount of second-hand smoke. I hope to draw attention to the need
to attend to such hidden injuries of class amongst hospitality workers such
as casino dealers. This is made more pertinent as regional economies such as
the Philippines, South Korea, Vietnam and Singapore have joined the casino
resort bandwagon in recent years. Beyond its Marxist and hospitality focus, the
findings of this article may also relate to emerging concerns over the performances of worker subjectification in globalizing ‘service economies’ in Asia.
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SUGGESTED CITATION
Ong, C.-E. (2011), ‘Hidden injuries of class and bourgeoisie dreams: Casino
workers, traditional shipbuilders and boutique hotels in Macao’, Hospitality
& Society 1: 2, pp. 173–188, doi: 10.1386/hosp.1.2.173_1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Dr Chin-Ee Ong is Assistant Professor in Heritage and Tourism Management
at the Institute for Tourism Studies (IFT), Macao, Macao Special Administrative
Region, China. His research interests include post-Mao, post-socialist and
postcolonial gazes and travels; governmentality and power-knowledge issues
in cultural tourism; city imaging and mobilities; heritage interpretation; and
visitor management.
Contact: Institute for Tourism Studies, Colina de Mong-Ha, Macao, Macao
SAR, China.
E-mail: [email protected]
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