Checking out from my hotel this morning. Flying down to Phuket this afternoon.
When I roll my bags into the lobby, a scene is already taking place. A ferang – he’s small in stature, with closely cropped, graying hair, a German accent – is leaning over the counter, pointing at things, and giving the receptionist orders.
“Don’t tell me to just wait a minute,” he says. “It’s very simple. You just take my passport and give me zee key to my room.”
Then he glares at me. He’s about two-thirds my size. I turn my attention to a nearby potted plant; I like plants; this one looks healthy and happy, the leaves are firm and rubbery. It’s a happy plant caught in an unhappy scene.
I’m hoping my relaxed body language will communicate to the receptionist that I’M IN NO HURRY. And that I, unlike this guy, know how to behave. Because I’m competitive and this is me proving I’m the better hotel guest.
“Yes?” she says, making an effort to smile at me.
She’s attractive. Symmetrical features and big eyes set within a lightly freckled face, giving her beauty an accessible, girlish quality. Probably in her late twenties. A red and blue tattoo is halfway visible beneath a shiny purple blouse and blue blazer. Tattoos are still risqué in Thailand; she may have worked in a bar – perhaps as bartender – in her early twenties. Would a Thai hotel hire a former bar girl? Maybe times are changing or maybe employers can’t be so choosy anymore. Or maybe she never worked in a bar and just likes tattoos.
“Checkout,” I say. “Room two two zero.”
She punches some buttons on her calculator and hands me a bill for 59 Baht (one Heineken from the minibar, plus service charge). I give her three 20’s. She hands me a one-Baht coin as change. Total elapsed time: perhaps fourteen seconds.
“Excuse me,” says the German. Now his anger has boiled over. “I was first. You must take care of me before him.”
Dude, it was only a one Baht coin. Just one Baht. Surely we can sneak it to the front of the line. And if you were less unpleasant she might …
“Let me speak to your manager,” he says, stepping behind the counter. He’s breached the perimeter. Very aggressive behavior. What next? him trying to wrestle her to the ground? I’ll bet she’d win that fight.
The German pokes his pointy nose into the back office. “Hello?” he says to an empty room. “Is the manager here?”
“Manager not here right now.”
I roll my eyes at her. I’m on her side.
Of course, it’s quite possible that the German’s been done wrong and is justified in losing his cool. But I don’t like him. My intuition didn’t like him from the start. Seems like a prick who expects German orderliness to follow him as he travels the world.
I pocket my one-Baht coin and wave good-bye. Too bad I can’t say a proper good-bye and thank you. The Royal Ivory Nana staff are, as far as I’ve seen, competent and friendly. The tattooed receptionist deserves better.
Pulling my suitcase towards the front entrance, I pass a taxi driver stationed within the hotel grounds. I decline his “taxi, sir?” because he must be a spider waiting for a tourist fly. He’ll want an insane fare and then a small argument will ensue during which he’ll say that I’m cheap, or he’ll be nice at first but then try to sell me a timeshare in Pattaya. Why else would he sit in the hotel all day instead of hitting the streets looking for Thai customers?
As I reach the sidewalk, a taxi pulls up. That was easy. Here’s the kind of driver I want, the kind who just happened to be passing by, wasn’t specifically tourist hunting. A regular, working guy.
“Airport,” I say, pronouncing the word as a Thai would. I can’t remember the Thai word for airport, but a lot of times the Thais themselves use English words. For example, there’s no Thai word for “free.” You want to say ‘free,’ just say “fuh-lee.”
The driver asks me which airport. Good question: a new airport’s just opened; I landed in it yet yesterday. Big modern building; pleasant place to spend some time. Feels like a space station. He says it’s important to know which airport – the new or the old – because going to the wrong will “siah wee-la” – waste time – and might make me miss my flight, which he wouldn’t want.
Good thinking, especially as my flight is on some new discount carrier called “OK 1 2 Airlines” or “1,2, GO Airways,” (which probably sounds better in Thai) and wouldn’t the cheapest flights leave from the old airport?I call my friend Mike who’s lived in Bangkok for several years. I apologize for interrupting him at work. He pulls up flyOK12.com. “Their homepage says all flights leave from Don Muang Airport.” Don Muang is the old airport.
Good catch. Good thing the driver asked. He might just be a working guy, but he knows his job.
He and I chat for a while, me using my Thai, which is basic but has enough vocabulary to answer the usual questions. “Do you live in Thailand? Where do you work? How long are you traveling?”
He asks me when I first came to Thailand. 1992, I say. Has Bangkok changed much since then? Of course, but I can’t say how, other than mentioning the BTS (elevated train system) and mumbling something about things being bigger now.
Does he think Bangkok is better?
It’s worse, he says. Thailand’s had problems, recently, and he mentions Thaksin, the last Prime Minister, recently removed from office by a bloodless coup. Thaksin, my driver says, made life difficult for taxi drivers. “Cannot eat,” he says.
“Uh huh,” I say. Then I freeze. ‘Cannot eat’ (and its cousins ‘no profit’ and ‘life is expensive’) is a phrase you hear when you’re about to get scammed. It’s the emotional carpet-bombing – building sympathy – that makes you lower your defenses.
And that’s how I realize I forgot to ask the driver to use the meter.
“Chai metuh,” – use the meter – is what you always, as a foreigner, must say when getting in a cab. Say it before you start moving. If the driver says no or gives you some story about it not working or about how the meter is only for Tuesdays, get out. Find another taxi.
But for me, it’s too late. We’re already on the elevated freeway, heading north at 80k an hour.
For a second, I hope that he turned it on without my asking. Shouldn’t my Thai skills earn me some sort of better-than-tourist-but-not-as-good-as-Thai status?
I lean forward to look. The meter is not on.
Here we go again. And this hurts more because I should have known better. These Thais taxi drivers are getting smarter, distracting me with questions and small talk.
Trying to sound cheery, I ask why the meter’s not on. He shrugs this off with a laugh and a wave. “The meter’s never used for trips to the airport.” That’s a lie. He knows I know it’s a lie. He’s put me in an awkward position to extract more of my money, and what’s more important than money?
How about honesty (tis a sin to tell a lie), and doing unto others? Aren’t those universal virtues? Or do they only flow from the Bible? Is it completely naive to expect Judeo-Christian morals in a country where people don’t even go to church on Christmas?
I ask him how much he wants.
“500 Baht.” There’s that smile again.
That’s a ridiculous number. Probably double what it should be.
Does this ever get easier? Will I be doing this when I’m 90? If I’m lucky. Unless I surrender in every battle, abandon any principle of frugality, relinquish all responsibility to the greater cause of global tourism. At least this gives me something to write about.
I call Mike again and ask what the fare should be. “150 Baht should cover the meter. Another 40 for the tolls.”
“Thanks,” I chuckle, “this should be fun.” Trying to sound like I’m looking forward to this, rubbing my knuckles.
In my wallet are three 500’s, two 100’s, and four 20’s. Keeping an eye on the driver, I take out the 500’s and stuff them into the money belt concealed under my shorts (an old habit). Once we pull into Departures unloading zone, I get my luggage from the trunk so that I can walk away if things turn ugly. Anger is an emotion to avoid in Thailand; don’t take it lightly.
He steps up to me and is no longer smiling. I open my wallet so he can see me pulling every bill I have. 280 Baht.
Then I make the mistake of saying, “preun bawk wa gap pohm …” which is me nervously starting to explain that 280 Baht is more than what my friend says I should have to pay. But it sounds like I’m running to Mommy.
He snatches the cash and fires a stream of angry Thai at me, saying something about my friend (sorry, Mike, for dragging you into this) and probably calls me a dog or a man who fornicates with dogs. It’s definitely not “sorry for the misunderstanding.”
I turn around so that his curses bounce off my shoulder blades. All around me, Thais are pulling suitcases from SUVs and sedans and taxis. No one else is being shouted at.
Travel has gotten easier, but can sometimes still feel like work.
It’s 3:30 when I land in Phuket.
A taxi from the airport into Patong, where I’m planning to stay, will cost more than 1000 Baht: about as much as I plan to pay for a hotel. You may wonder why the fairly long ride I’d just taken in Bangkok should cost 150 Baht while a shorter distance in Phuket is almost ten times as much. For that price disparity, you can thank Phuket’s taxi mafia. Perhaps ‘mafia’ is too loaded a term; it’s more like a thuggish union that’s fixed rates artificially high and prevents bus companies from expanding their services.
So I’ve always used the minvan service into Patong: 150 Baht. It’s only marginally less convenient than a private car.
Today, though, I learn that even the minivan isn’t such a good deal.
For starters, the guys running the van are really surly. They nudge us around like cattle, scowl at any question, and keep us in a hurry-and-wait mode for twenty minutes. They throw a woman’s backpack onto the roof, but throw it too hard so that it clears the entire van and lands on the street. They find this funny.
But the ride takes on a new dimension of interesting when, halfway to Patong, we pull off the main highway and stop at a row of shophouses.
A woman wearing a striped blouse and nametag opens the van’s side door.
“Accuse me. Could you get out please?” Some of us, she explains, will be shunted into a different vehicle. “So come inside please with your tickets.”
I look at the storefront. “Hotel booking service.”
We’re directed inside. I feel like I’m back in third grade on a fieldtrip. I’m sat at a desk and handed a glass of water. A young woman is across from me.
“Where you stay in Patong?”
I look about me. The same scene is playing out at a dozen different desks: maps are being pointed at, brochures are being opened, and dazed tourists are leaning forward to hear sales pitches. This reminds me of speed-dating.
“Why you laugh?”
“Do we have to do this?” I say. “I don’t need your help. Really. I lived in Phuket for three years.”
“You not have hotel? I give you discount. How much you want to spend?”
Why isn’t she impressed with three years? “I’ll pick a hotel when I can see it.” I point at my eyes with two fingers, the way you’re supposed to when scuba diving. Private joke.
“But now is Songkran,” she says. Songkran is the Thai New Year, a big party where you throw water on people. I’ll write more about that soon.
“Mmmm. I know. Because I used to live here. See? Songkran is part of the reason why I’m here now. And to visit my friend, WHO STILL LIVES HERE.”
“So I afraid all the hotel fully booked.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“Because we have allotment. Room allotment. So if you go to hotel, they cannot give you room, because we reserve.”
This I must consider for a moment. But, I think, if the hotels were fully booked, why would they give her a substantial commission to make a last-minute booking? Sounds like Patong’s a buyer’s market.
She’s pointing at a map, showing me the convenient location of a very nice, clean guesthouse, for 700 Baht a night. In the brochure photos, the bedspreads are a cheery tomato hue and the windows are drenched in sunlight.
The last time I saw a misleading brochure was two days ago.
I’m not going to not budge. Though I am concerned about hotels being full this close to Songkran, my gut thinks she’s just trying to scare me. Has she or her company done anything, so far, to earn my trust? Patong is full of dingy little guesthouses and I’m in the mood to window shop a bit.
“You travel alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why you not come with you girlfriend?” She smiles and tilts her head.
For a second, I almost flirt back at her, but then I remember where I am, and that these assholes have practically kidnapped us. Is this even legal? Should I demand to speak to the police?
Undaunted, she pulls out another brochure, and once again, Trevor finds himself in a test of wills: the irresistible sales pitch meeting the unmovable resolve.
I say “no” to her a half-dozen times before she stops smiling and lets me get back in the van. But of course the van doesn’t go anywhere for another half-hour because some of the other passengers are busy having their credit cards processed. The airport-to-Patong-via-hotel-reservation-service minivan takes an hour longer than I’d planned, and it’s well past dark before I check in to a hotel.
In summary, day #2 has had its share of trials. I’ve learned to expect this in Thailand. My time here often feels like tropical fun punctuated by intensely unpleasant tests of will. But then a flawless vacation would be boring.
And to be fair, Bangkok and Phuket are the most spoilt destinations in Thailand. Bangkok is, well, Bangkok, and Phuket is the country’s most commercial “paradise.”
And while I relish fighting my way out of these rip offs, many tourists remain blissfully ignorant of them. Which is not such a bad thing. The Buddhist in me sees such ignorance as a way to make everyone happy.