RAWBangkok

I was a dickhead today and I got my way.  This is very unusual in Thailand.

Back in the US, it frequently paid off to act like a dickhead in certain situations, but here in the Land of Smiles it usually gets you nothing but an uneasy smile, a shaky apology and a shrug of the shoulders.

Here’s what happened.

For Christmas my sister sent me a gift certificate from Barnes & Noble which I used to purchase 7 books.  I’ve been keenly awaiting their arrival.

Today I found a slip of paper in my box at Werewolf Mansion saying that there was a delivery for me at the Prakhanong  Post Office.

I looked at my watch and realized I had enough time to get there, grab the delivery and drop it back to my room before going to a late business appointment.  I went straight back to the BTS without even going up to my room.

Eight minutes walk to the train.  Four train stations.  Five minutes walk to the Post Office in my shirt and tie.  All the way the back of the hot and dusty package pick up area with lousy signage.  Seven minutes waiting for the people in front of me to collect their packages… can’t anyone see that I have to get to work?

Anyway, it’s my turn.  I’m hot & sweaty and mildly impatient, but I’m not late.  I just want to get my box of books and go.

The lady smiles at me and says one word:  “passport”.

shit.

I knew right away I wasn’t gonna get the books, and I really wanted them today.  I had a long empty spot in my schedule tonight… two hours trapped somewhere with nothing to do but read, and I was counting on making a big dent in “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote.

I don’t routinely carry my passport around, and it never occurred to me that I’d need any ID to pick up the package… I figured the delivery slip would be enough.

I should have turned and left, coming back the next day with my passport, but I really wanted those books tonight and I didn’t have enough time to go home and come back before going back to work.

I decided to bluff.

I had an old drivers license from Australia — long expired — in my wallet.  I use it for work, where I often have to leave ID with security guards in exchange for a visitor’s pass to enter secure buildings.

I offered it to the lady.

She, of course, insisted on my passport.

No, I don’t have my passport, but this is my ID.  I was counting on the idea that the ID form would defeat her… she’d match the name and not understand the rest.  She’d give me the package and let me go.

Nope.  She struggled with the ID for a moment then called her supervisor.

He came over.  In passable English he tells me I need a passport.  I hand him the expired Australian Drivers License.  He looks at it.  “Do you have an ID card?” he asks?

That IS an ID card I tell him.

“No, this is a drivers license” he says.

Shit, shit, shit.  He can read English with out any problem.

I answer that in Western countries we don’t have National Identity Cards like Thailand and other Asian countries.  In Australia the drivers license is our ID.  I feel sure this is gonna work.

He doesn’t debate the point.  He simply says… “Look at the issue date”.

Holy fuck this guy is good.  The license expired like ten years ago.

At this point I really should have given up and walked away, but the heat, the dust, the frustration…

I was raised as an American, and faced with a situation where the rules stand between you and getting what you want Americans bluster.  So I blustered.

“What does it matter whether it’s current or not!?” I asked.  “Its my name, and my picture.  You can see who I am.  For goodness’ sake, it’s only a box of books.”

He deftly ignores my points and moves on to the next problem.  The books are addressed to me using my nickname; my ID has my proper name.  So, my ID says James Ferguson but the box is addressed to Jim Ferguson.

He calls my attention to the inconsistency.  I answer that Jim is the nickname for James.  If you know so damned much about Western IDs surely you must know how our nicknames work.

He again ignores what I have said and simply tells me I need a passport.  Puts the delivery slip and expired drivers license on the counter and walks away.

I knew I was defeated but, dammit, John Paul Jones (”I have not yet begun to fight”) may not have been a real American but he was on our side.  If he can win with a losing hand against the mightiest navy in the world then surely I can prevail over a minor government bureaucrat when I am in the wrong.

I focus again on the girl.  She’s obviously younger, less experienced and an easier target.  She also happens to be trapped at the window.

I push the paper and ID at her and insist again that she give me my box of books.

She looks nervous; licks her lips and then her brow scrunches up as she compares the name on my ID to the delivery slip.  Apparently she learned something from watching her supervisor deal with me.

This isn’t the same name.

It’s my nickname for god’s sake!  How many Ferguson’s do you think are running around Sukhumvit this afternoon with ID and a delivery slip insisting on collecting a box of books.  Use some common sense.

Now, although I was taking up space at the window, I wasn’t the only customer.  A Swiss guy and his Thai girlfriend had been working on getting their package at the same time.

The girl behind the window turns and looks at the Thai girl with the Swiss boyfriend and explains to her in rapid Thai what the problem is, asking her to translate for me.  Amazingly I understand every word she speaks.  It must have been the adrenalin.

I look squarely at the Thai customer and tell her in English, before she utters a word that I understand the issue perfectly, and that she needn’t translate for me.

This brings things to a momentary halt.

Up till now I’ve been a mild pain in the ass, but I haven’t really crossed the line.  Now I made my first real mistake.

The girl behind the window talks to the Thai customer again.  I didn’t really listen, but interrupted saying that she can talk to me and not the Thai customer — “she doesn’t even know me!” I said.

Well, she wasn’t talking about me… she’d been explaining what the Swiss guy had to do to pick up his package.

I was now officially a rude git.

It would have been too late for a graceful withdrawal, but I could have exited with my tail between my legs now and not faced any more embarrassment.  But I was in high gear already.

I was left cooling my heels for several minutes.

The girl returns with a piece of paper fresh from the printer.  Apparently they have some badly worded English phrases on tap for just such an emergency.  She has printed an explanatory sentence.  The spelling is suspect and the grammar poor.  The situation is not a perfect match, but I get the message.

I’ll get my box when I return with my passport.

I decide to continue being a dickhead instead.  I’ve invested about ten minutes in the effort so far and I figure I can invest about ten more minutes before I have to accept defeat and go to work without my package.

I point to the ID and the delivery slip and say (this time rather loudly, though still not shouting, and definitely not cursing), “Come on… you have my delivery slip, you have my ID, the surname is the same.  I don’t have my passport, but use some common sense.  Just give me my box.”

I guess I was just loud enough.

Another guy comes over, looks over her shoulder, gets a quick explanation from the girl.  He looks at me.  Fifty-ish farang in a shirt and tie.  Sweating and red-faced.  Impatient but not abusive.  He picks up a book and slides it across the counter.  “sign here” he says.

I do.

He checks the signature carefully against my ten year old drivers license.  The similarity apparently satisfy him.

He gives me my box of books, but at the last minute hold’s them tight before letting me take them and walk away.

“It’s the only time,” he says.  “Next time you bring passport or you don’t get the package.”

I tell him that sure, I understand.

I’ve already got what I wanted, so there is no need to say anything further, but I suddenly remember where my passport is.  My “agent” has it, because she is going to the Ministry of Labor this week to get my new work permit.

This doesn’t make me any less of a dickhead.  I hadn’t remembered before now.  The bluster had been based on instinct and years of training in the US, but for some reason I tell him this fact.

He apologizes and says that he hadn’t understood earlier.  Now I feel like a real shit-heel.  I took my package and left.

Let me say that this is typically NOT the way to get things done in Thailand.  Making a scene is normally the fastest way NOT to get what you want.  Americans tend to want to solve a problem in front of them… Thais prefer to ignore the problem and walk away.  A typical solution would have been for the girl to continue to wait on other customers, leaving me to stand, ignored, until I got tired and went away.   To have her patiently deal with me for fifteen minutes, and for two supervisors to get involved as well, is unusual.

For someone to exercise discretion in breaking the rules (with no bribe being offered or asked for) is also unusual.

By Thai societal norms I behaved very badly indeed.  I embarrassed myself by losing composure (though, I will say again that I was never abusive, shouting or rude… simply impatient and stubborn).

This was all the worse since they were right and I was wrong.  Policy calls for me to show my passport to get a package.  I knew I was wrong the entire time; I just didn’t want to go through the trouble of making another trip.  I counted on the idea that the I.D. would confuse them.  It did create a bit of confusion for the girl, but neither of the supervisors was flummoxed… they were both competent and correct.  They knew exactly what they were looking at, and they had the language skills to deal with me.

When he finally gave me the box, the tone of voice told me that he was indulging me the way you indulge a petulant child, giving into a tantrum, but then warning him that if he tries it again tomorrow he’ll get a belt across his bottom for his trouble.

I came home, opened my box, took out the seven books.  I pulled out the historical crime novel In Cold Blood and took it with me when I went out.

I managed to read about 20% of the book in the two hours I had to kill tonight.  Capote’s a genius in this book.  It almost made the entire episode seem worthwhile.

Almost.