Never Trust a Bus Driver- Part One

"It would save us..." I made a scrunched up I'm-a-human-calculator face, "190 baht. That's a night’s stay somewhere!"

Erik and I had been to three different travel agencies to compare the price of getting to Phuket, a southern island halfway down the Malay Peninsula, from Chiang Mai, a mountainous city close to the Burmese border in the northwest of Thailand. We had discussed all possible routes and explored combination avenues of van + bus + train, but this seemed to be the best bet with the least amount of stress. With our pockets a lot lighter than planned, we settled on a 900 baht (US$24.51 each) bus trip.

The agency of choice consisted of a nice Thai couple who were more than happy to show us pictures of the “V.I.P.” air-conditioned bus and explain the actual process of getting to Phuket in full. Their broken English was a sing-song cadence of firm instruction mixed with light-hearted jokes.

"But do you trust them? Should we just go through the guest house?" a concerned Erik asked.

"And pay 80 baht more each? They all showed us the same picture of the bus. It's all the same deal. It just depends on where you are picked up," I assured, determined in my frugality.

As we exchanged money for tickets we were instructed about the pickup: "Be here. Sik o'clock. Here. Sik o'clock. Okay? Sik o’clock? (sic)” The agent told us so many times that I was afraid I would get a tardy slip if we were five minutes late.

We turned up at six o’clock and waited in the fluorescent-lit room, its polished linoleum floor reflecting the white strips of light. A sick-sweet smell of pork buns and fish sauce added to the early morning ambience in the one-room office and home.

Erik nervously paced up and down the room past posters depicting smiling tourists atop elephants, white-water rafting, and trekking, while I hunkered down in one of three available folding metal chairs — the kind you take out from the basement for family gatherings, careful to wipe off the spider webs and dust — offered to waiting guests. Across from me sat a worn wooden desk piled with folders, brochures and an archaic computer. The owner-wife sat playing a computer game as her young daughter slept underneath a delicate mosquito net of lace.

After 45 minutes, a rusty grey songthaew (pick-up truck with a covered bed and two benches for passengers) arrived and zoomed us, packed knee to knee with other travelers, to our bus that waited for us at a gas station. The driver hurried us off the songthaew and tossed our bags into the lower compartment of the idling bus while Erik and I scurried on to find a seat. On board we were lucky enough to get two comfy, reclining chairs with blankets right in front of a large television that played such classic movies as Con Air, featuring a jacked Nicholas Cage.

The ride itself was fine. We floated in and out of sleep to adjust body positions and to stretch cramped legs. It was a decent night until we were jolted awake by our fragrantly gnarly bus driver calling, "Bangkok, Bangkok. Wake up. Wake up. Bangkok," as he went by tapping people’s shoulders.

We stretched and wiped the sleep out of our eyes. Half-glancing out of the window I saw the bus driver and staff start to toss our bags and others onto the street. Snapping awake with the threat of losing my bag, we rushed into the 5 a.m. Bangkok air to rescue them from harm. By the time we cinched up — a matter of seconds — the bus was taking off, a thick cloud of black fumes trailing behind.

"They're sure in a rush,” Erik scoffed.

I grumbled in agreement, trying to conceal my morning breath. I stood in the heavy, sticky air, blinking my eyes into coherence and my body into functionality. We stood in the middle of Bangkok at a roundabout deemed Democracy Monument. The sky was still a dark haze of bluish black with only a slight pink hint of morning peeking through the sharp cityscape.

The other passengers fanned out in varying directions around the monument. Erik and I were supposed to go to “KS Guesthouse” to confirm our seats on the next bus, so we hiked through the eerily silent streets of Bangkok, passing benches with sleeping Thais and displaced tourists from the night before.

We rolled into the guesthouse in our rumpled clothes and backpacks and found the deskman.

"We just got off the bus from Chiang Mai. We are supposed to confirm our seats to Phuket."

"Yeah, okay. Is confirmed," the unusually awake looking attendant assured us.

"Great. Here at six o'clock?" We knew the drill.

"Yeah, yeah. Here at sik o'clock (sic). Okay."

"Can we leave a bag here?" I hoped to be able to walk around Bangkok without having to lug the enormous weight around and besides, my shoulders were already hurting from the walk here.

"Okay. Bags. Yeah. In room," he said pointing to a locked gate halfway down a flight of stairs. He handed Erik the key to store my pack, and having decided to take his along with us, he unloaded some heavy objects and unnecessary weight into my bag as I waited upstairs watching Thai television with the attendant.

Sitting in the guesthouse was about as interesting as flicking boogers on the wall so, we decided to make the best of the few hours we had and walked. Our meandering lead us to Khao San Road (known as the backpackers rendezvous) as people were just beginning to set up shop for the day, and those still running from the night before were beginning to settle down. We chose a quiet café with cozy chairs, ordered two coffees and I began to read as Erik went through his bag.

"Do you have my camera?" he asked.

A rush of dread came over me. God, did I have his camera? I rifled through my little day bag. "No, I have mine. It's not in there?" I asked as he sat elbow deep into his bag, trying to conceal the panic that we both were starting to feel wash over us.

"Do you want me to look?" I asked as he sat replaying the last time he had his camera in his mind’s eye. I began looking through his bag-thoroughly. It had to be in here. It just had to be.

"My bag was disheveled when I got it from the bus,” he said wearily. “I noticed it."

Surely it couldn’t have been stolen. “Did you put it in my bag at the guest house?"

"No. I would have remembered," he answered, the anger of helplessness welling up.

"Let's check my bag. Come on," I soothed him, not knowing how exactly to fix the situation. In times of mini-crisis like these, all one can do is to try to be positive.

Back at the guesthouse, our fears were confirmed. Realistically, what could we do? We could call the guesthouse and tell them. We could call the Tourist police and make a statement but we couldn't find the bus or get the camera back. We had to come to terms with the fact that Erik's camera was stolen. The pictures from half our trip were gone — and part of me also worried about finding my digital head pasted on an illicit body on the internet or worse… someone else finding it and thinking it real.

It was a major downer. A tragic loss and a financial, spiritual, and cultural bummer.