Last Summer I rented a car from Uan at Buffalo Bar for the drive north to visit my ex-wife and loving daughter.
At Chonburi I decided to cut through Bangkok instead of wrapping around the megatropolis on the outer ring. It was the weekend. The cityscape was clear under a peerless sky. Traffic was minimal. The direct route saved gas and time. The downside was that it was the end of the month and several traffic police were parked after the toll booth searching for tea money or sin bon.
Their eyes sought out-of-town license plates and farang drivers.
I filled both those categories and a smiling cop in brown motioned for me to pull over to the curb. He approached the driver’s side of the car, saying something was wrong with the license.
Nothing was wrong with the license and I dialed Charlee to explain the matter, however when the cop started to write a ticket. No way it would cost less than 1000 baht. I wai-ed the officer and spoke in Thai with a Boston accent, “Kor-thot gap-dtan, but I have no money. Only 300 baht.”
“Farang mai mi taeng?” My admission of insolvency stayed the officer’s pen.
“Chai, I gave my money to my wife. She’s waiting for me in Chai-nat. Sorry.” I had told him the truth. I had spent 1300 baht at the gas station. Only 300 baht remained in my pocket. “Farang mii mia Thai, mai mii taeng.”
“Kao-jai.” As a Thai man he understood how fast a wife can suck money out of a man’s wallet and he waved for me to proceed without getting a single baht for the Highway Policeman Fund.
Arriving in Ban Nok west of Chai-nat I related the encounter to the family gathering. The men all laughed with relief, since I had another 1000 baht for beer, and the women frowned, thinking that I had only escaped a bribe by blaming my empty pockets on my ex-wife instead of drinking beer with my friends.
Then again women are not men.
Once in Paris I was riding a Vespa on the sidewalk down a one-way street. I ran a red light only to be stopped by an irate gendarme who wanted to know where was the fire.
“Pas de feu, Capitain.” I always promoted officers at moments like this and rapidly explained in French with a Boston accent. “I think my wife is having an affair with a German. I am going back to the apartment to give him a beating.”
The gendarme understood my mission’s urgency and dispatched me with a salute.
“Bon courage, Mssr.”
Cops or dtam-ruat are human too.
I am not so sure about women.