Travel essay: Wary tourist arouses suspicions in Bangkok

By Tim Farrell
Special to The Seattle Times

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Editor's note: The Travel Essay is written by our readers about a travel adventure or insight.

I arrived in Thailand anonymously on a typically balmy and hazy night. I left as Bangkok's most hated man. This, you must believe me, was not my aim.

Two years removed from college, I had been teaching English in Korea for six months and went to Bangkok on vacation — well-prepared, buying three guidebooks for the occasion. I've never fancied buying souvenirs for people, so I promised myself I'd do it first and get it out of the way.

One of my books suggested an amulet market across town. It also advised against asking to go to a particular shopping destination because you can put yourself at risk if the cabbie happens to be one of Bangkok's more, er, "entrepreneurial." If you want to go to a particular market or restaurant they may try to railroad you into going somewhere else where they're likely to obtain a commission. It's better to find your destination on a map beforehand and then locate a nearby hotel or other such landmark and ask to go there, walking the rest of the way.

So I chose a hotel nearest to the market and I asked the concierge at the hotel where I was staying if he would write it in Thai so I could avoid any confusion with the cab driver. He put his pen to a slip of paper — and then stopped abruptly as if called by a voice only he could hear. His smile vanished.

Where, he asked, leering at me under acutely raised eyebrows with poorly veiled contempt? Taken aback, I thought about telling him about the amulet market and the advice from my book, but I passed and affirmed the location. I wanted to get my trip under way, not argue with a snobby concierge.

The trip to the market was uneventful. I spent better than two hours exploring the winding labyrinth of street vendors peddling everything from gaudy medallions to phallic carvings, colorful talismans and chintzy plastic elephants. Shopping completed, I returned to my hotel, pleased, if not fairly sweaty and tired from the unrelenting Southeast Asian humidity. I made eye contact with the concierge, immediately regretting it. I also caught an unwelcoming glance from the woman at the foreign-exchange desk despite having shared a pleasant banter with her just hours before. Ditto from the front desk. Alienated — and a wee bit paranoid — I went to my room, fetched my books and found the hotel bar posthaste.

I thumbed through the books over a cold beer looking for references to my hotel. The first listed it only as one of countless midrange choices. The second didn't list it at all. The third unlocked the door. Midranger, yes, but also a notorious gathering spot for Western men wanting to meet Thais who dealt in the underage flesh trade. I looked up in horror and grunted something profane under my breath. I relived the concierge's look of disgust. Who's this guy? A single, free-spending Westerner anxious to get to this hotel on the first morning of his visit only to return a couple of hours later disheveled, perspiring and happy. My stomach clenched with nausea. The bartender looked over to me and smiled. Perhaps he hadn't heard the rumor about me yet. Or worse, perhaps he had.
 
My mind raced. Damage control was in order. My most ambitious idea was to fly my girlfriend down from Seoul as a character witness, but that, sadly, was just not practical. My bid to win the staff back had me smiling frequently and bowing even lower than local custom demanded when I needed to express gratitude. I even tried to buy them back by tipping heavily in a land where tipping isn't expected. My efforts failed, and I learned this harsh truth:

Once people get it in their head that you're a pedophile, there's simply no talking them out of it.

Upon returning to Seoul, I was quizzed by my roommate about my trip — all the standard touristy questions before getting to: "So, what'd you think of the locals?"

I grabbed two beers from the fridge, tossed him one and cracked open the other ... and told him instead what the locals had thought of me.

(Tim Farrell lives in Seattle.)

The Travel Essay runs each Sunday in The Seattle Times and also online at seattletimes.com. To submit an essay for consideration, make sure it's typed and no longer than 700 words. Essays, which are unpaid, may be edited for content and length. E-mail to travel@seattletimes.com or send to Travel, The Seattle Times, P.O. Box 70, Seattle, WA 98111. Because of the volume of submissions, individual replies are not always possible.