Off to Bangkok with carpets.
Over the years I have accumulated seven rather nice carpets, the sort that are woven by children in dark cupboards for little more than a daily plate of gruel over a period of several years; and then sold to people like me who don’t think about the implications of their purchase.
At least five years of dust, grime and occasional cat vomit means that the carpets are in need of cleaning, and not the sort of cleaning that is available in Pattaya. So they are loaded onto the truck, wrapped in plastic sheet and trussed together firmly. The resulting shape is somewhat disquieting:
On the road out of Pattaya there is one of those regular flash light in middle of road police check thingies. As usual, they are out for anyone they might be able to extract a contribution from, and a farang with a load in his truck is a clear target. I am stopped.
Cope strides over and checks my licence and then glances at the back. He points to the plastic covered mound and asks what it is. At this point I should just tell him the truth and then be on my way. But I am a little pissed at being stopped and pretty sure he won’t understand whatever I tell him anyway. So I say:
“My grandmother”.
Big mistake. I have been blessed with a policeman who speaks English but does not recognise sarcasm. His eyes widen, he looks more closely, and then:
“Is she dead?”
The obvious answer to this would be “well she wasn’t when I tied her up, but as of now I have no idea”, but I cut my losses with: “not grandmother, carpet”, in the futile hope that the Thai for grandmother and carpet sound similar.
Of course I then had to unwrap the carpet to prove there was no grannie hidden away beneath a sik/wool Pakistani offering. Twenty minutes later I was on my way, leaving a very bemused and not entirely happy policeman.
Uneventful trip into the city and no problem with the security at The Emporium, in spite of my payload which is identical in dimension to an AGM-129A cruise missile warhead; just with less radiation and more knot density. But on the way home, the karma police were poised to strike.
On the road leading up to the overhead expressway out of the city, there is a regular radar speed check. The cops like it there because it is pre-motorway and therefore has a lower speed limit, and they can station their buddies at the toll booths to catch offenders. They were at their game on the way in this morning, and I assumed they might still be at it on the way out; so I kept my speed below 80kph. The limit is actually higher; I did not want to give them any excuse.
All seemed quiet on the road, but nearing the toll booth I could see a hovering cop (figuratively, not literally). They often hang around and pull people over at random; and I could do without that, even though I was now without carpets. So I headed for a distant booth, picked up my ticket and was away before he could scuttle over and stop me.
But the little bugger jumped on a bike and flagged me down! Looking a little flustered, he arrived at my window and, judging by the noise coming down his walkie-talkie, he was being yelled at by his boss for not stopping me at the toll. “You speeding, we have photograph” he explained, and then giggled and nudged my shoulder. He did a lot of this and I could tell we were going to be friends. What he should have said was: “you not speeding, but on camera we saw farang in car and thought; aha!”
He then got out a form which showed that the speed limit was 110 kph and I had been clocked at a convenient 115 kph. Somewhat suspicious that I had never actually seen him write on the form, it was almost as if (perish the thought), this was a standard, pre-completed form which was waved at everyone from whom bounty was to be extracted. Even more suspicious was that I had never been anywhere near 115 kph.
We then had the little ritual, punctuated by more giggling and poking, whereby I signed the form and he gave me a copy, telling me I had to go to the nearest police station which would be hidden behind a hedge in a part of town I would never find.
I now had three choices:
Play hunt the police station for several hours where I would never be shown the supposed photo, but I would pay a 1,000 baht fine and get my driving licence back.
Contact the office of the Commissioner of Human Rights at the United Nations and demand a show trial.
Say the magic sentence “can I pay the fine to you now?”
There was then a brief discussion on how large the fine should actually be, obviously a lower amount than the official figure due to the time saved on paperwork etc. I usually try for 100 baht, but the 300 baht lying next to the gearstick was to be my downfall.
Bribe Fine paid, driving licence returned and we were now great buddies. He gave a cheery wave and risked his life by stepping out into the speeding traffic to make sure I re-joined the highway safely. No doubt he was looking forward to getting me again next time.
An amusing episode, but more expensive than usual. I am sure if I had had a potentially deceased relative in the back of the truck, I could have received some extra discount.
Comments 🔗
2009-07-29| todd saysyeah thinking a dashboard camera is a good idea so you can playback your speed to the cop…
2009-07-29| Billy saystears in eyes, respect ….
2009-07-30| Spike saysThank you; there is no finer compliment.