I decided to take the BTS last weekend. I have an old Rabbit card which I found and took along with me.
"Passport," barked the lady behind the counter at BTS Bearing.
"I'm not going overseas," I barked back. "I only want to go to Phrom Phong station."
She pointed at a sign in front of me. Had I blinked, I would have missed her hand action. It wasn't so much a point as a quick zap. It was a sticker with a picture of money, a plus sign, and the word "PASSPORT".
"Kheu yang nee …," she began and instantly I took a deep, deep breath.
I have a phrase to teach you, dear reader. This is a phrase you absolutely must know if you wish to penetrate the psyche of Thais and live here in relative inner peace.
Kheu yang nee roughly translates directly as "Well it's like this …" but its meaning is way, way more sinister than that. It's an idiom. It looks like a simple transition into a story or explanation but the true meaning is: "The next thing I'm about to say is going to really, really frustrate and upset you."
"Kheu yang nee … you need your passport to top up your Rabbit card," she said.
"In the past I never had to."
"You do now. It's a new rule," she said, as she bumped my shoulder sending me toppling, helplessly, into a ravine of red tape.
I wonder which one of our elected representatives thought that idea up. Was it a pre- or post-coup politician? There are important differences between the two. Having to whip out a passport every time one wishes to top up a train pass doesn't really have a whiff of democratically-elected-Member-of-Parliament about it. It sounds like it belongs more in the file containing military coups and firing squads.
When I complained about this to my Thai staff last Monday -- remembering the glorious olden days of Thailand when one could simply purchase a mass transit ticket with good old-fashioned coins -- I was greeted with scorn.
"Ah, Khun Andrew, you do not understand," said my general manager. This is a sentence that is often thrown at me by my staff. It usually follows a confused observation of mine, after which my Thai staff smile and say that because I am a farang I could not possibly understand the Thai way of doing things.
"Sometimes we have terrorist situations in Thailand," she continued.
"Especially over the holiday season," said my accountant with a knowing nod of the head.
"It's a measure to ensure we can track down people who have ill intentions," said my senior sales executive.
Is that what it is? Well of course, how foolish of me, and yes, as a farang I would never have thought of that. It's a measure to stop terrorism or, at least, identifying the terrorist after the event.
I nod my head and thank my staff for that explanation. Long gone are the days when I would think to argue with them. Instead, I thank them and keep to myself my initial reaction -- that is, if I were a terrorist and knowing they were now asking for passports for top-ups, I would lug my backpack of high-powered explosives straight over to the machine that dispenses anonymous BTS tickets using good old-fashioned coins.
I got hit with another kheu yang nee later on the same day at my local supermarket. Apparently I have accumulated so many points over the past year I am entitled to all sorts of exciting free products over at the redemption counter.
No, I don't know what the "points" are either, and no, I don't get excited by such news. Redemption counters are black holes of cheap plastic kitchenware one would only dare to bring out if the noodle vendor was coming for dinner.
Nevertheless, the cashier is impressed with my point collection and thus I am obliged to wander over there, like a cow being herded along to the electric zapper at the abattoir entrance.
And there they are! Take your pick! I have myriad products to choose from, such as coffee mugs (have a million already), shampoo (no use for it), back packs (ugly), foldable canvas chairs (would split upon third use) and mouthwash. Not a Lindt chocolate or Absolut bottle in sight -- I've got 10,000 bonus points and I'm staring down the barrel of a bottle of Listerine.
"I'll take the mouthwash."
"Oh, but you can take more than one! You have enough points to get five of them." If only I could muster up so much joie de vivre over free mouthwash, I would probably be a much happier person.
"Then I'll take five," I replied, defeated.
She grabbed five of the bottles and plonked herself down behind a PC at the counter.
"The incredible thing is, you still have points left over for other things."
"Yes, that truly is incredible. We might save those for another visit."
"Your ID number please," she says.
"My what?"
"Your ID card number."
"I'm a foreigner. I don't have an ID number."
This requires her to call over another staff member, and together they engage in a clandestine discussion with their backs turned. Clearly it is a matter of national importance -- otherwise they'd have included me in the conversation, right? Finally they turn back.
"Kheu yang nee …," the first lady says, and I melt into my Doc Martens.
There it is again. I brace myself for what dreadful news is going to ensue.
"It's like this … we need an ID card to process the exchange."
"But I don't have an ID card number."
"Do you have a passport?"
Of all the nerve! I wanted to place my hands on my offended hips and ask this young lady if I looked like a Burmese fishing boat-hand or Cambodian rubber tapper. Of course I had a passport! It's just I don't make a habit of carrying it to the supermarket.
I do know the passport number off by heart. I recite it and this makes the young lady happy. She types it in, then her face clouds over.
"Kheu yang nee …"
Noooooooooo.
" … the computer will only accept numbers. It has rejected your passport number."
Of course it has. I stand accused of having a passport number that includes the letter N. Remind me to point this transgression out to the Australian ambassador the next time I see him.
"You know what? Forget it," I said, albeit nicely.
"No! Wait!" the lady said. She got excited. Again, two of them turned their back. It took them five minutes, but they did it. There was some devious way of being able to enter the information into the computer, but that's OK. I walked away with five bottles of Listerine and eight minutes of time I will never, ever get back.
The moral of today's column is this: Whenever you hear kheu yang nee, don't fret. Take a deep breath, and slowly exhale as you listen to whatever bad news follows.
And let it wash over you. Sometimes we have to jump through hoops to get what we want, such as a top-up of my old BTS card. In Thailand, one also has to jump through hoops to get what one doesn't want, such as five bottles of mouthwash.
But let's not be too curmudgeonly at this time of the year. Come anywhere near me this festive season and you'll be impressed by my oral hygiene. Merry Christmas, dear reader, and if you are a regular reader of this column then do not, under any circumstances, miss it next week. I have some big, big news to reveal.
