Cash Cow
I am now in Chiang Mai, Thailand's second city and so far my favourite place. It's still full of people like me, travelling around a cheap country, trying to see as much as possible but it also feels like it has a centre too, a Thai centre that is. The old moated city is so full of temples that after three or four I decided to do something else and hired a driver to take me out of town to see elephants, botanic gardens and yes, well, another temple. That might sound rather grand but since every taxi and tuktuk driver in town offers such a tour it was a bit like catching a bus, though one without a smelly toilet or polyester curtains. His real name was Sanam but he told me to call him Mr Kee (which unfortunately sounded like Mr Whee when pronounced in Thai).
I almost always regret involving someone or something 'official' in my travels because I end up being shepherded in a predictable direction. Sadly it is quite difficult to avoid this in Thailand. The language is one problem but the fact that thousands and millions of other farangs (foreigners) like me have carved out a path leads everyone to believe you want to follow it. And, hopefully, pay as much as possible since, after all, you are white, Western and therefore, as Michel Houellebecq put it a 'wallet on legs'.
The day started badly. As we set out I broke out into a feverish sweat, my first such experience. For some reason I didn't recognise the symptoms of very little sleep and no breakfast and thought 'oh my god I've got malaria!' (ever the optimist me). We were driving past the local hospital, and since it looked positively Dickensian, I scanned my brain to try and remember where the British consulate was on the map. So, for the first hour or two I didn't hear much of what Mr Whee said and concentrated on the question of whether I was more likely to reach a Bangkok hospital than Sydney airport. An iced coffee and a walk later I felt, of course, much better... Once I'd recovered, I asked Mr Whee if, after the main sights, we could drive into the countryside simply to see it since, unless I risked my life on the road, I was unable to do so. I was hoping to get some pictures of the paddy fields, which I had glimpsed in all their luminous green glory in Cambodia. Where did he take me? To a buffalo 'camp' where I could see demonstrations of how Thais work in a rice field. I had pointed to the road north on the map; he had seen the picture of a buffalo.
I gave up trying to see anything different at this point and said where next? 'Ah, handicraft village' he said. Most guidebooks and reliable maps cite these as quite interesting so I thought 'oh well, why not'. However, after about five minutes we stopped next to a very plain looking building. 'Can you just go in here for me?' 'What for?' I asked, suspicious. 'Just look, five minutes.' I'm not sure why but I followed his instructions. Of course, inside I was offered several pashminas at only hundred or so pounds by a very determined Kashmiri gentleman and I said 'no thanks', despite being offered such fabulous discounts and left. Now I liked Mr Whee (despite his rather odd beard) and was more amused than cross. 'So, how much is your cut' I asked, not thinking he would tell me. 'Fifty baht for my gasoline' he said, without embarrassment. 'Two shops only pay.' 'Even if your customer doesn't buy anything?' 'Just look, advertising. Bus driver get 2000 baht. Car, gasoline cost 350 baht a day so this my tip.' I advised him to put his prices up if he wasn't charging enough to earn an income. 'Not speak English well, tourists want better.' I was just about to argue that tourists would much rather avoid the hard sell when he said cheerily 'One more?' 'How much is this one?' 'Fifty baht.' 'Okay, well I want a cut this time.' He laughed but I don't think he understood. The experience was exactly the same, albeit with higher prices, though that was probably because a security guard opened the door for me and saluted. I decided to ask this salesperson, also from Kashmir, about how he he and his family had been affected by the earthquake. He seemed perplexed that I should be interested and said 'My family is well, thank you.'
'Handicraft village?' I asked as I got back in the car. 'Yes, yes, no more.' The 'village' was more of a strip mall, selling wood carvings, silk ties, handmade bamboo umbrellas and all sorts of things that no one actually needs or, in most cases, wants. In the silk warehouse I was told that I could browse as much as I liked 'to start with' and then the salesperson followed me round, only stopping when I used their bathrooms. I'd had enough. We had planned a trip round a few guesthouses and hotels later that afternoon (being serenaded by a group of German teenagers had rather put me off my previous choice) and I suggested we go there first then to the temple for sunset. 'Okay, okay.' But instead of heading back into town he drove straight across the road into a large white building, with tinted windows. 'Why is he taking me to the bank?', I thought then I spotted the man in a white suit and peaked cap. Now I was annoyed. It's amazing how rude you can be to a complete stranger. 'You said no more?' 'This one a hundred.' So much for being able to count to two. I sighed and got out; he wasn't going anywhere till I did.
This was the poshest of them all. Walls hung with beautiful carpets greeted me and the man offered to explain how they were made. At least we weren't straight into the pashminas. Fascinating as the warp and weft was, I was mortified to see that the assistant was busy throwing beautiful and very expensive carpets onto the wooden floor for my examination. It was a big big floor. There I was in my cheap Vietnamese trousers and t-shirt, with my backpack and hat, a bit sweaty and obviously (at least to me) not in the market for a handwoven silk rug but somehow the colour of my skin and the language I speak is enough to remove all the other visual clues. 'Which size would you like?' The assumptive close is the speciality of such places. I tried to explain that I wasn't going to buy one but he asked again. I pointed at the smallest, the one that wasn't four times the size of my living room. 'This one is only 800 pounds and we can ship it anywhere you like.' There went my travelling excuse. The only way out was to repeat over and over that I wasn't interested. 'You must come and look at my handicrafts then.' I felt like I was on a conveyor belt and he was just waiting for me to fall off.
He threw several down onto a table. 'These beautiful Kashmiri ones only 15 pounds or two for 28. You will support the people who make them.' I was starting to feel a bit guilty now - his country has just suffered one of the worst earthquakes in history - and since neither money nor travels had any effect I tried something a little, or so I thought, more persuasive. 'They're beautiful but I don't need them. I'm sure it would be more useful if I sent money to your country for the relief effort.' Like the previous salesman, he looked at me bemused and then smiled like the Child-Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. 'Ah yes but they were only Pakistani Kashmiris.' I looked at him for a minute, unable to believe what he had just said then turned and left. Mr Whee was standing by his white Toyota and he waved his flask at me. Suddenly his attempts to make a bit more money out of someone, frankly, richer than he will ever be seemed completely justified and worthwhile and I wished we could simply drive in and out of the car park all day long, so that he could make as much as possible out of this odious man as well.
I almost always regret involving someone or something 'official' in my travels because I end up being shepherded in a predictable direction. Sadly it is quite difficult to avoid this in Thailand. The language is one problem but the fact that thousands and millions of other farangs (foreigners) like me have carved out a path leads everyone to believe you want to follow it. And, hopefully, pay as much as possible since, after all, you are white, Western and therefore, as Michel Houellebecq put it a 'wallet on legs'.
The day started badly. As we set out I broke out into a feverish sweat, my first such experience. For some reason I didn't recognise the symptoms of very little sleep and no breakfast and thought 'oh my god I've got malaria!' (ever the optimist me). We were driving past the local hospital, and since it looked positively Dickensian, I scanned my brain to try and remember where the British consulate was on the map. So, for the first hour or two I didn't hear much of what Mr Whee said and concentrated on the question of whether I was more likely to reach a Bangkok hospital than Sydney airport. An iced coffee and a walk later I felt, of course, much better... Once I'd recovered, I asked Mr Whee if, after the main sights, we could drive into the countryside simply to see it since, unless I risked my life on the road, I was unable to do so. I was hoping to get some pictures of the paddy fields, which I had glimpsed in all their luminous green glory in Cambodia. Where did he take me? To a buffalo 'camp' where I could see demonstrations of how Thais work in a rice field. I had pointed to the road north on the map; he had seen the picture of a buffalo.
I gave up trying to see anything different at this point and said where next? 'Ah, handicraft village' he said. Most guidebooks and reliable maps cite these as quite interesting so I thought 'oh well, why not'. However, after about five minutes we stopped next to a very plain looking building. 'Can you just go in here for me?' 'What for?' I asked, suspicious. 'Just look, five minutes.' I'm not sure why but I followed his instructions. Of course, inside I was offered several pashminas at only hundred or so pounds by a very determined Kashmiri gentleman and I said 'no thanks', despite being offered such fabulous discounts and left. Now I liked Mr Whee (despite his rather odd beard) and was more amused than cross. 'So, how much is your cut' I asked, not thinking he would tell me. 'Fifty baht for my gasoline' he said, without embarrassment. 'Two shops only pay.' 'Even if your customer doesn't buy anything?' 'Just look, advertising. Bus driver get 2000 baht. Car, gasoline cost 350 baht a day so this my tip.' I advised him to put his prices up if he wasn't charging enough to earn an income. 'Not speak English well, tourists want better.' I was just about to argue that tourists would much rather avoid the hard sell when he said cheerily 'One more?' 'How much is this one?' 'Fifty baht.' 'Okay, well I want a cut this time.' He laughed but I don't think he understood. The experience was exactly the same, albeit with higher prices, though that was probably because a security guard opened the door for me and saluted. I decided to ask this salesperson, also from Kashmir, about how he he and his family had been affected by the earthquake. He seemed perplexed that I should be interested and said 'My family is well, thank you.'
'Handicraft village?' I asked as I got back in the car. 'Yes, yes, no more.' The 'village' was more of a strip mall, selling wood carvings, silk ties, handmade bamboo umbrellas and all sorts of things that no one actually needs or, in most cases, wants. In the silk warehouse I was told that I could browse as much as I liked 'to start with' and then the salesperson followed me round, only stopping when I used their bathrooms. I'd had enough. We had planned a trip round a few guesthouses and hotels later that afternoon (being serenaded by a group of German teenagers had rather put me off my previous choice) and I suggested we go there first then to the temple for sunset. 'Okay, okay.' But instead of heading back into town he drove straight across the road into a large white building, with tinted windows. 'Why is he taking me to the bank?', I thought then I spotted the man in a white suit and peaked cap. Now I was annoyed. It's amazing how rude you can be to a complete stranger. 'You said no more?' 'This one a hundred.' So much for being able to count to two. I sighed and got out; he wasn't going anywhere till I did.
This was the poshest of them all. Walls hung with beautiful carpets greeted me and the man offered to explain how they were made. At least we weren't straight into the pashminas. Fascinating as the warp and weft was, I was mortified to see that the assistant was busy throwing beautiful and very expensive carpets onto the wooden floor for my examination. It was a big big floor. There I was in my cheap Vietnamese trousers and t-shirt, with my backpack and hat, a bit sweaty and obviously (at least to me) not in the market for a handwoven silk rug but somehow the colour of my skin and the language I speak is enough to remove all the other visual clues. 'Which size would you like?' The assumptive close is the speciality of such places. I tried to explain that I wasn't going to buy one but he asked again. I pointed at the smallest, the one that wasn't four times the size of my living room. 'This one is only 800 pounds and we can ship it anywhere you like.' There went my travelling excuse. The only way out was to repeat over and over that I wasn't interested. 'You must come and look at my handicrafts then.' I felt like I was on a conveyor belt and he was just waiting for me to fall off.
He threw several down onto a table. 'These beautiful Kashmiri ones only 15 pounds or two for 28. You will support the people who make them.' I was starting to feel a bit guilty now - his country has just suffered one of the worst earthquakes in history - and since neither money nor travels had any effect I tried something a little, or so I thought, more persuasive. 'They're beautiful but I don't need them. I'm sure it would be more useful if I sent money to your country for the relief effort.' Like the previous salesman, he looked at me bemused and then smiled like the Child-Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. 'Ah yes but they were only Pakistani Kashmiris.' I looked at him for a minute, unable to believe what he had just said then turned and left. Mr Whee was standing by his white Toyota and he waved his flask at me. Suddenly his attempts to make a bit more money out of someone, frankly, richer than he will ever be seemed completely justified and worthwhile and I wished we could simply drive in and out of the car park all day long, so that he could make as much as possible out of this odious man as well.
posted by Louise at 6:35 AM
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