When West meets East…

I would like you to read the following paragraphs from “Bangkok Eight” by John Burdett as they represent the culture shock that any Westerner experiences when meeting Thais in such a humoristic, but still so realistic way. All Westerners residing in Thailand should have this feeling of déjà-vu when reading this.

The story goes about a Thai cop, Songchai, who needs to investigate on a murder of US marine sergeant who got killed in a Mercedes. As the victim is American, an FBI-agent, Kimberley Jones, assists him in solving the case. They have been working for three weeks together when Kimberley Jones decides to inspect the car…

The Royal Thai Police tow stolen, impounded, illegal and wrecked vehicles to a fenced and guarded wasteland on the river not more than a couple of miles from my housing projects. Over the years small satellite business-metal stamps, scrap iron dealers, car repair shops have grown up around the compound so that anyone ignorant of Thai ways might think it a well-planned industrial zone; A stranger might even be impressed by the dedication of the police guards who patrol the perimeter with M16s at the ready, protecting citizens’ property until due legal process has determined true ownership.

The FBI has brought along her own kit for lifting prints, poking behind and under upholstery, which she has dragged into the small prefabricated office. Catching sight of a door which leads to a toilet, she takes out her coveralls and disappears, returning a few minutes later alight with luminescence.

Sergeant Suriya has reigned in this riverside kingdom for longer than I can remember; he is famous for the dexterity of his paperwork, the discipline of his men and the accuracy of his memory. He is enormously popular and generally considered one of those selfless individuals who live only to help others. His face possesses an extraordinary mobility as he decks ans rechecks my own.

‘Mercedes E-class hatchback, you say?’ I nod miserably. ‘Impounded I think 2 weeks ago?’
‘About that.’
‘Number?’ I tell him the registration number in a stilted voice, like a character in a pantomime.
‘And you want to inspect it this morning? Has it not already been inspected by a forensic team?’
‘I believe so, but the FBI wanted to look themselves. Their forensic equipment is so much more advanced than ours.’
‘I see. The thing is, the forensic team moved it around a bit, you’ll have to look for it.’

I explain this to Jones, who shrugs while Suriya studies her face. ‘OK, let’s go look for it. How difficult can it be to find a new Mercedes hatchback in a police compound?’
‘It’s hot.’
‘I know. I might have to take of the coveralls and get all dirty. That’s OK.’
‘You don’t want to come back when it’s cooler?’
‘You mean in the middle of the night? I’ve been here more than three weeks now, and I haven’t seen a cool day yet. It’s always hot. You want to stay here in the air-conditioning? That’s OK. Just lead me to the car, then I’ll check it on my own.’

Suriya has no English and waits for me to translate. He has seen Jones’ professionalism, her kit and her coveralls and her unbeding intent, and therefore understands my problem. He is a sensitive, intelligent man and I feel the depth of his compassion, which only makes me the more wretched. I look helplessly into his eyes.
‘You have no idea where it might be, roughly?’
He bites his lower lip in concentration. ‘Maybe over there,’ pointing towards the river, ‘or there,’ pointing north, ‘or there’, now the south is indicated, ‘but now that I think of it perhaps there,’ pointing west. Jones has followed his hand signals easily enough and is smiling indulgently.
‘You know, I really think I’m making progress. Two weeks ago I would have just lost it if someone wasn’t doing their work properly, but now I see your point. I mean, what the heck if we have to spend twenty minutes searching for it? It’s not as if anyone’s life depends on it. It’s not a perfect world and Westerners like me should stop acting as if it ought to be. How about that, am I improving or what? So, let’s go do this guy’s job for him and find the car.4 She gives Suriya a glittering smile, which he returns. Outside in the heat, she takes my arm for a moment.
‘And you know something, your system works better than ours, at least on the psychological level. Be nice to incompetents and they’ll be nice back. Be nasty and they’ll still be incompetent, so what do you gain by making an enemy?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Right. It even has a Buddhist right to it, doesn’t it? I feel like you’ve put me on some kind of spiritual learning curve. So how do you want to do this, intuitively or systematically?’
‘Up to you.’
‘Well, since I don’t have any intuition to speak of, I’ll have to suggest we use a system. How about we strt at the river, n ear the jetty, and work slowly west till we fin it?’
The jetty is unexpectedly robust and modern-looking, with tubular steel piles more than two feet in diameter, a smooth reinforced concrete surface and a squat, powerful-looking gantry at the end with a heavy-duty sling. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the scenery, as if visitors from the future built it on a whim, then left it for us to use. Jones doesn’t pay it any mind as she turns her back to it, stretches out both arms to establish longitude and outlines the modus operandi.

I try to follow Jones’ instructions to the letter, walking slowly between wrecks of cars and trucks which have been stripped to their bare rusting bones, carefully scrutinizing the lines to left and right so as not to miss a late-model Mercedes Estate. About halfway through the task Jones throws me a black look down a narrow lane between the wrecks, but we don’t stop until we reach the far western en of the compound. Sweat is pouring from Jones’ hairline and she is blinking from the salt. She has undone the zip on the front of her coveralls and rolled up the sleeves. She avoids my gaze while she squats against the wire fence and I squat beside her. I say: ‘I’m sorry Kimberley.’

A deep breath. ‘ You know, back in my country I’m accustomed to thinking of myself as a pretty bright person. Then for a few days over her I wondered if I’d been deceiving myself, and maybe I was a pretty dumb person. I got over that when I realized I was just suffering from culture shock, that everyone is dumb outside their own frame of references. So I set myself to learn patience and even a little Buddhist compassion and for a moment I was stupid enough to be pleased with my own progress. Reality has a way of kicking us in the balls, doesn’t it? Especially in Thailand, or so it seems to me.’
I feel worse than ever and am unable to reply. I look at the ground instead.
‘At least tell me if I have correctly understood why you’ve been such a foul mood all morning.’
‘Yes, you have understood.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase. What I’ve understood is that in Bangkok’s only police car compound all the vehicles look as if they died from vehicle plague about twenty years ago. I know the standard of living is not particularly high in your country, but there are quite a few luxury cars on the roads of Bangkok, a quite surprising number of Mercedes, high-end Toyotas, Lexuses, that sort of thing. Statistically, one would expect them to be represented at least by one or two models in the car compound belonging to the Royal Thai Police Force, wouldn’t one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And oddly enough, the only new-looking, late-model, intact vehicles I’ve seen are two BMWs parked very close to that jetty.’
‘That’s true, Kimberley.’
‘That’s true, isn’t it, Sonchai? Sonchai, you have done many things to my mind since I’ve teamed up with you, but I have always forgiven you because I never caught you being dishonest. I never thought you would deceive me. Why did you let us come on this wild-goose chase when you knew all along they already sold the fucking car?’
‘There are cultures of guilt and cultures of shame. Yours is a culture of guilt, mine is one of shame.’
‘Meaning you always wait to see if the shit is really going to hit the fan?’
‘That’s not a bad way of putting it. The car could have been here.’
‘I don’t think so. That sergeant in there sold it, didn’t he, that Mercedes which constituted a major piece of forensic evidence in our little murder investigation?’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Oh, it’s not his fault. Are we doing the karma again, or did a tree spirit build that magnificent jetty and force the sergeant to use it to whisk away every damn car worth more than a thousand dollars, on one of those barges I bet, all the way to wherever cars go in Bangkok to experience rebirth, maybe a Buddhist monastery?’
‘It’s hard to explain to you, but it really is a good system.’

 (p.241-246, Bangkok Eight, by John Burdett)

Sylvie