Stealing Asia

by David Clarkson

  ‘You okay, mister?’

  I traced the voice back to another Thai local. He was the only person on the crowded street to have taken any notice of what had just happened to me.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I think a man just tried to steal my bag.’

  The stranger nodded his head, knowingly.

  ‘Yes; people see white man and think that he rich. Are you rich?’

  I was not sure how best to answer his question, but before I did, he broke into the most ingratiating smile I had ever seen. His teeth were crooked and yellow, but they conveyed good intentions. If Thailand had game shows, the producers could do a lot worse than offer this man a job of presenting one.

  ‘Where you go?’ he asked. ‘You need hostel?’

  He was a large man. Well, by Thai standards at least. Although I had no reason to trust him, I also had no reason to distrust him either. My confidence was low from the attempted bag snatch and I really craved help of any sort. The most important thing was that at this time he was the only person in the city with whom I had any kind of a relationship. If I was to put my trust in anybody, then he was the logical choice.

  ‘I’m looking for the bus station,’ I told him. ‘I need to get to Koh Samui.’

  ‘I can take you to bus,’ he offered.

  He led me back along the street, which I had originally walked down, before taking me around a turning at the other end. I looked around and could see no other white people, yet I myself did not attract any curious glances from the many Asians all around. I was beginning to find that fairly typical of being an outsider in a foreign land. If everyone was not staring at you; you were invisible. There was no middle ground.

  After ten minutes we came to a small travel office. The shop had a waiting lounge, which contained a vending machine holding many familiar junk food brands. Travel photographs lined the walls, depicting pristine tropical beaches side by side with ancient Buddhist temples. I was now in more familiar territory and felt confident I could secure a good deal. My guide continued on to the rear of the shop where he started up a conversation with a man who I assumed to be the manager. I approached the counter, which was staffed by a pretty Thai girl.

  The receptionist blushed as she took my details. I was not consciously flirting with her, but I guess that being with Asia had changed me somehow. A pretty face no longer made me nervous like it once had and this new found confidence with women obviously projected itself. She started to write me out a ticket, but the manager came over and stopped her. He tore the paper in half and replaced it with another, which he then passed across to me.

  All I could make out was the cost – 350Baht. The rest was written entirely in Thai script. I assumed the price was reasonable. It was my first purchase in a new country and I had no basis for comparison. I was able to calculate the exchange rate against sterling and it was roughly only a few pounds, which seemed like a good deal, so I was happy.

  ‘When does the bus depart?’ I asked.

  He gestured to the man who had led me in from the street.

  ‘Come, come,’ the helpful stranger beckoned. ‘I take you to bus now.’

  I was led back out of the shop where it was a further ten minutes walk to the bus station. There were many terminals and each was lined with large, spacious, air-conditioned coaches. To my surprise and ultimate disappointment, we did not stop at any of them. We carried on walking until we came to a subsection of the station, which was reserved for minivans. I was then placed onto a small, cramped, non air conditioned box on wheels not unlike the one in which I had ridden earlier.

  ‘Enjoy,’ the man said, before leaving me with my new driver.

  ‘Sawasdee,’ I said, trying out the one word I had managed to learn before coming to this country.

  ‘Sawasdee,’ the driver replied, a tad hesitantly.

  ‘You will take me to Samui?’ I asked, hopefully.

  The driver smiled, but I could see in his eyes that he could no more understand me than I could him.

  I climbed aboard and took a seat in the exact same position in the back right corner of the van as in my earlier transport. When the minivan got underway, we pulled out of the station and I saw the helpful stranger standing by the roadside. I offered him a smile and a wave. He returned the smile, but instead of a wave he formed the shape of a pistol with his right hand and mimed a gunshot at the back of the van. His smile no longer seemed quite so friendly and a chill ran down my spine. I wondered if I had trusted the right man after all.

  Chapter 3

  The soldier could not have been any less than eighteen years of age. Though he could have passed for younger. Much younger. If I had been in any other place it would have been easy to dismiss him as just a child with a toy. However, the ten foot high barbed wire fence complete with gun turrets told me that this was no playground we were on and the sweat dripping from the soldier’s brow indicated it was anything but a toy he was pointing at me. The tank dominating the courtyard was also a major giveaway.

  I took a step forward. The gun barrel moved up an inch. I took a step backward. This time the weapon held steady. Seeing this as a positive sign, I attempted to make eye contact with the boy soldier in order to affirm my benign intentions. Our glances met, but I was unsure what gesture to make next. This was a completely alien environment and a nod of the head or a wave of the arms could have completely different connotations to what I was used to.

  ‘Move,’ the soldier said.

  He directed his head towards a line of people that had formed about twenty yards to his right. His gun, however, remained pointed in my direction.

  The row was single file, but it moved swiftly. Just beyond the queue there was a small manned booth where passports were being checked and stamped. I could see no white people in the line and all of the women wore headscarves. My heart knew what this meant, but my head was still searching for an alternate explanation.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ I said to the soldier. ‘I am not supposed to be here.’

  His rifle started to tremble. It was clear that he was even less at ease with the situation than I.

  ‘Move,’ he repeated, with a tad more authority in his voice.

  I slowly reached into my pocket and pulled out my passport as I thought that it may help to explain the predicament I had found myself in.

  ‘Move,’ ordered the boy soldier for a third time, before looking around for one of his comrades to assist him.

  I was given the impression that “move” was the only word of English he knew. I also started to get the feeling that I was close to being identified as a possible trouble maker. There was only so long before my lack of co-operation would be met with force. Seeing futility in trying to communicate any further, I found myself swept along with the crowd and slowly shepherded toward the checkpoint. It was less than five hours since I had entered the country and attempting to leave so soon would almost certainly raise suspicion. Although I had nothing to hide, I did not wish to be taken aside for a more thorough security check.

  Looking around for a friendly or welcoming face, I saw none. With the shadow of a gun barrel still looming over me, I was now just metres from the checkpoint. The tide of people was sweeping me relentlessly along with it, but I knew that I had to try and break free of it if there was to be any chance of salvation. Then as I was about to give in to panic, my way out presented itself.

  There was a small tourist police office located just before the first customs booth. I could only hope that the police would be more helpful than the soldier had been. Trying not to attract the attention of the armed sentinels, I pushed my way out of the immigration queue and made my way towards this last outpost of law and order.

  It was now late in the afternoon and the sun was fast being devoured by the horizon. I cursed its failing light as I tried not to contemplate the thought of being trapped in this decrepit town after nightfall. As I approached the police station, I tried to replay the previous three hours in my he
ad in order to ascertain exactly where it had all gone wrong.

  Our minivan had left Hat Yai at precisely twelve o’clock. Of course, my estimations on this could be out by up to an hour each way since I was unsure if I had crossed any international date lines when leaving Malaysia. The vehicle had been full with me as the only white passenger. Other than the driver, I was also the only male onboard. The women that travelled with me had all worn traditional Muslim headscarves. Having spent a month in Malaysia I was used to this attire, but what I failed to realise at the time was that Thailand is a predominately Buddhist country. There I was, sat on a bus close to the border, where every other passenger was a Muslim and I actually believed that I was headed towards what promised to be a Mecca of sand and sex for western tourists. With hindsight, I only had myself to blame.

  The first roadblock we passed did not come as too much of a surprise. I assumed that it signalled we were leaving the troubled Southern Provinces. Two more roadblocks quickly followed and it was to prove third time unlucky as this time we were not merely waved along by the on duty soldiers.

  They ordered the driver to open up the rear. I slunk back into my seat hoping not to be spotted amongst the dark skin and headscarves, whilst trying my best not to look at the soldiers as they conducted their search. Avoiding gazing at the large machine gun mount just metres to the right of our minivan proved much more difficult. Covered by a three foot high barricade of sandbags, to my mind it belonged on a battlefield not a civilian highway. Whatever the soldiers expected to find, they certainly had no shortage of firepower ready to deal with it.

  After an excruciating wait the driver was finally allowed to close the back of the van. He got back onboard and started up the engine. Since nobody had been pulled forcefully from the vehicle and then shot by the roadside, I assumed that the search had been satisfactory and no contraband found. The soldiers waved us on and we returned to the heavily fortified highway.

  By this time I had spent a combined total of nearly seven hours on the road. The whole way I had endured the unrelenting attention of the sun placing its spotlight directly upon me. Common sense dictated that I should have been shaded in the afternoon when it would be due to torment the poor soul sitting by the opposite window. The fact that it did not was a tell tale sign we were not travelling north as I expected, for if we were, it would suggest that the sun was setting in the East, which is impossible.

  As twilight approached, we entered a forlorn town that could not have been further from how I had expected the gateway to paradise to be. The most striking feature was the lack of colour. The buildings, the sky, even the grass were all gray. Everything seemed burned out and lifeless. My spirits sank when the minivan pulled to a halt indicating that this was the end of the line. The driver opened up the rear door and gestured for me to get out. The other passengers all remained seated.

  ‘Which way to the pier?’ I asked, as I took my bag from the back of the minivan.

  I knew that he did not understand English, but logic could deduce the only question that I was likely to be asking. He pointed over my shoulder. A thick mist obscured my vision beyond maybe eight to ten metres. I expected that at any minute the fog would peel away to reveal a waiting ferry, which would take me on to the islands. Instead, it gave way to a large line of refugees waiting to leave the country and a raft of armed border guards. Looking for assistance, I approached the nearest soldier, who could not have been any less than eighteen years of age. That was when I had found myself staring into the barrel of a gun for the second time. It would not be the last.

  ***

  ‘Tell again – just so I clear.’

  I raised my arm up toward the top of the map. The island of Koh Samui came closest to the mainland at a town named Donsak. This was a name that I could really have done with knowing five hours earlier.

  ‘I am supposed to be here,’ I told him. ‘The travel agent told me that my ticket would take me to Koh Samui.’

  The policeman stroked his chin, thoughtfully. It would have surprised me if those thoughts extended beyond thinking what a magnificent beard he had. If I were him, I would think of nothing else. Asians and Westerners generally differ when it comes to the facial hair department. They get it on the chin, but rarely the cheeks. I have never watched an Asian man shave so I could not say if this is down to fashion or genetics. This man, however, was an exception. His beard covered every inch of his face’s southern hemisphere. It truly was magnificent.

  ‘You are not in Koh Samui, are you?’

  ‘Evidently not,’ I replied, dryly.

  ‘Can you show me where you are?’

  This was the most ridiculous question I had ever been asked considering that he was the one who moments earlier had shown me where I now was. Regardless of the idiocy of the situation, I pointed down toward where my present position fell on the map.

  ‘I am here, in Sungai Kolok.’

  He stepped forward and took a moment to contemplate the chart, which hung on the wall of the police station.

  ‘So you expect be here in Koh Samui?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered with a sigh.

  ‘And you actually all way down here in Sungai Kolok?’

  This time I simply nodded. I had zoned out of the conversation long ago.

  ‘It seems to me you not where you want be.’

  I shook my head. His logic was as basic as his English.

  ‘Do you think that this was some sort of scam?’ I asked him. ‘Or have I just been unlucky?’

  The policeman walked away from the map and took a seat behind his desk. It was glass-topped and appeared ornamental rather than functional. Filled with travel brochures and charts, it gave me the impression that the bulk of his work did not involve actual crime.

  ‘It not uncommon as you think for tourist cross border here. You certain you clear when name destination?’

  I reached into my pocket to pull out the ticket that I had been given in Hat Yai and passed it to him. It was written on a headed receipt giving the address and contact details of the travel agency along the top edge.

  ‘This is my ticket,’ I told him. ‘It’s written in Thai, but I had an interpreter with me when I bought it. Some thief tried to snatch my bag and this man had kindly offered to help me out. He was the one who recommended the travel agent to me and even led me to the minivan that brought me here.’

  The policeman flicked the top of the receipt with his middle finger.

  ‘This make things easy,’ he said. ‘I call agent - find out wha’ happen.’

  There was a telephone on his desk. It was black with an old fashioned circular dial mechanism. He picked up the receiver and keyed in the digits from the receipt. He then proceeded to have a conversation in Thai with whoever was on the other end of the line. Every now and then he would glance up and offer me a reassuring smile to show that he had it all under control. After about three minutes he replaced the handset.

  ‘Good news,’ he said.

  ‘So it was a misunderstanding,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh no, you scammed. The travel agent, he paid five thousand Baht to put you on wrong bus. For that money - who blame him?’

  He finished with a small chuckle as if he was expecting me to see the funny side.

  ‘Exactly how is this good news?’ I asked.

  ‘It means we solve case. Surely, this good - no?’

  ‘How is the case solved? We need to find out who paid the travel agent to do this to me.’

  The policeman’s smile disappeared. I hoped this meant that he was starting to take me seriously.

  ‘Perhaps, I drive Hat Yai and crack skulls as American say. Kick some ass until find Mr Bigshot criminal.’

  ‘If that helps, yes. I want to know why anybody would want to send me to this God awful place.’

  The policeman laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, nor was it condescending. It was merely an expression of knowingness. Much to my annoyance it was becoming a familiar sound.

&nb
sp; ‘Maybe they not send you here, so much as stop you go where you want to go. Can you think reason why they not want you to go island?’

  There was none. The only person who knew where I was headed was Asia and she was the last person that would want to stop me from getting there. All I could think was that I was a victim of mistaken identity. At the very worst there could have maybe been a plan to rob me at the other side of the border. If that was the case, I was at least now safe with the policeman.

  He opened a drawer and pulled out a black ledger, which he then handed to me. It was a guestbook. The columns were designed to record a name, date and brief comment only. I skipped to the first blank page.

  ‘What do you want me to write?’ I asked with a sigh.

  ‘Just name and how you find service today.’

  I quickly scribbled my name and under the comments I simply wrote educational. After finishing, I put the ledger down onto the table. The policeman picked it up, eager to see what I had written. He nodded approvingly as he read my words.

  ‘Perhaps what you learn is not be so dumb next time; am right?’

  I simply shrugged and waited to find out what would happen to me next. The policeman stood and put his hat on.

  ‘There is bus at 5 o’clock,’ he said. ‘I give you lift to station.’

  I glanced up at a clock on the wall; it read five minutes to five. I hoped that he was a fast driver.

  He led me outside to where his police car was parked. It was painted in the classic black and white of seventies American cop movies. In fact, it looked like it might very well have been a seventies police car. Still; I could certainly think of worse ways to travel. I sat in the back where there were no handles on the doors and a mesh barrier had been put in place to separate suspects from the front of the vehicle.