My boyfriend and I awoke
early on our first official day in Bangkok with the sole purpose
of getting out of it. We hailed a tuk-tuk on Khao San Road, Bangkok’s
famous haven for backpackers on their way from one exotic location
to another.
“To Hualamphong train station, please,”
we asked the driver.
“Where you go?”
“Chiang Mai.”
“Ahhh, my home,” he said proudly while
pointing at his chest with a grimy thumb. “I take you to travel
agency.” He plucked a piece of paper from a massive stack
of brochures secured with rubber bands to the vehicle’s visor.
Handwritten letters spelling TAT were scrawled across the paper.
As newcomers to SE Asia, and first time backpackers,
we had done our homework. The Lonely Planet guidebook said that
travel agencies in Bangkok were not authorized to sell train tickets
unless TAT, the Tourism Authority of Bangkok, officially certified
them to do so… and there were very few certified agencies.
We also knew that tuk-tuk drivers were infamous for making commissions
off wide-eyed tourists by taking them to fly-by-night travel agencies
or on long silk and gem shopping tours. We considered ourselves
to be travelers, not tourists (such a dirty word), and had assumed
the roles of seasoned global adventurers the moment we stepped off
the plane. Not wanting to act like nervous sightseers expecting
to get ripped-off, we agreed to go to the travel agency.
I was anxious as we wound through a maze of sepia-toned,
wet alleyways. Benjamin and I exchanged glances. “This place
is really far away,” I remarked trying to sound nonchalant.
“Do you have the map?”
“It’s right here,” he said while
tapping his bag for reassurance.
“Do you think you could find this microscopic
tangle of streets on it?” I inquired with feigned indifference.
“No,” he replied with confidence.
Just as I began to doubt the true intentions of our
driver, he came to a halt – ironically, within sight of the
train station. We’d arrived at our destination, complete with
a TAT sign in the window and a young woman in a neatly pressed uniform
waiting to greet us at the curb. Seated in the luxurious, arctic
chill of the air-con office, we explained to a fatherly-like gentleman
that we wanted tickets to Chiang Mai. We were informed, with a sympathetic
smile, that there were, in fact, no train tickets to Chiang Mai
that day.
“Tomorrow morning?” I inquired.
“No tickets for tomorrow morning,” he
replied.
“Well, then… can you check availability
for tomorrow evening? Or the day after?”
“No tickets for the next few days.”
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