bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1986) — Winter 1986 // Hiver 1986, pp. 25–27
Much like the weather, consular work in Thailand is typically hot and heavy. Complex, difficult cases, often punctuated by elements of the macabre or exotic, are frequent and exceptionally demanding, both personally and professionally. It was therefore with a profound sense of relief and unburdening that I headed one April morning towards Don Muang Airport on the outskirts of Bangkok to catch a flight to Phitsanulok in the North-East. There I was to link up with a team of Canadian toxicologists who were in Thailand in an attempt to determine, on behalf of the U.N., whether chemical or bacteriological weapons had been used in Laos. The media had recently been fixated on this question (was it mycotoxins or bee feces? Yellow Rain or Red Scare?) although, as I soon discovered, my newfound colleagues were far from sanguine as to the prospects for providing definitive proof either way. In the Pearsonian tradition I was to tag along as a “helpful fixer” who would provide an “embassy presence”. For someone who had grown accustomed to spending extended periods in teeming prisons, sweltering courthouses and an astonishing variety of police stations and morgues, the opportunity to spend some time on the road, far removed from the hustle and bustle of concurrent consular crises seemed almost too good to be true. It was.
The drive northward from Phitsanulok provided dramatic and somewhat depressing evidence of the deforestation which has ravaged Thailand’s interior. Nevertheless, the electric green of the paddy fields and shimmering elegance of the Buddhist temples made for compelling vistas. When we finally arrived in the dusty district capital of Loei sometime after dark, we decided to settle for a light meal and retire early in order to get a good start the next morning.
The following day was magnificent. While not gazing out over the Mekong river into the lush, mysterious hills of western Laos we busied ourselves among the string of military bases, police stations and refugee camps which dot the border. Our itinerary included a fascinating stop at Ban Vinai, the largest settlement of Hmong hilltribe people in South-East Asia (or, for that matter, anywhere else) and an unbelieveably fascinating crucible of human experience. For the Hmong, exile seemed a high price to pay for participating in the CIA’s secret war, although by this point economic migrants were outnumbering genuine political refugees. In any case, although we found no shortage of persons purporting to have experienced “yellow rain”, scientifically demonstrable evidence was scarce. As dusk approached we returned to Loei for the Following a pleasantly spicy meal punctuated by several bottles of Singha (a local brew with roughly the same alcoholic content per unit volume as wine) we elected to visit the town’s solitary nightclub where we hoped to experience some local culture. Alas, the best efforts of several crooning maidens were enough to convince us to move along. It had been a long day and we again returned early to our modest lodgings at the King’s Hotel.
As we entered I was handed a message requesting that I contact one of my embassy colleagues at home on an urgent, emergency basis. My impulse was to pretend that I didn’t understand, but placed the call and was informed that post management had found it necessary to re-order my immediate priorities. I was to comport myself ex post haste back to Phitsanulok (a fairly rough six hour drive during daylight) and then on, by air, to Chiang Mai, the capital of Thailand’s Golden Triangle. There I was to determine the whereabouts and well-being of a 29 year old Canadian who had disappeared from Suan Dok hospital, apparently without a trace, subsequent to his involvement in a serious motorcycle accident. With a sigh of resignation threw my things together, gave our driver the bad news, and headed down the tortuous road to Phitsanulok. We arrived sometime before dawn.
I was fortunate to be able to catch a few winks before the first flight departed for Chiang Mai. Upon arrival I proceeded immediately to the hospital to speak to the physician who had been charged with the care of my latest client, Dennis (Denny) Phelps. He explained that my client had been drinking with a friend in a town outside of Chiang Mai and had suffered a serious head injury as the result of an accident which occurred on his way back. It had been necessary to remove approximately 40 cc of damaged grey matter from his brain and accordingly he was currently sporting a rather short hair cut. Of particular prominence were the 27 stitches around the portion of his skull which had been temporarily removed to allow the operation. Apparently identification would not prove too difficult.
I asked the doctor for an analysis of his former patient’s medical prospects. The doctor was deeply concerned that in the absence of adequate care, the scalp could become infected and the infection might penetrate through the skill and into the brain. This, I was informed, would likely result in death. Furthermore, the probability of infection had been heightened by the fact that Denny had merely yanked out the various hoses and other assorted medical paraphernalia to which he had been connected. By all accounts, he had simply had enough and therefore departed, adorned only in his hospital smock and slippers. He had little money, no identification (this was being held by the police, pending their investigation of the accident) and, [ thought, a very bad headache. It didn’t seem likely that he could get far, and I expected that he would probably turn up at a local guesthouse. I started looking.
[ had some “wanted” posters printed and toured the traveller’s haunts in Chiang Mai, sticking the notices to posts, billboards, walls and any other place that they might attract some attention. I also placed ads in the local newspaper and arranged for announcements to be made at hourly intervals on the local radio and television stations. Soon the town was buzzing with talk of the “Farang” (the colloquial Thai expression for a Westerner) who had escaped from hospital.
The following morning I received a call from the doctor who had performed the operation. He had been contacted by someone from Thai Airways who, in response to our identification campaign, recalled having been approached by someone resembling Mr. Phelps who wished to purchase a plane ticket to Singapore for 400 baht (about $20.) and had no identification. He had been advised to try the bus station. The doctor and I hopped in a cab and started visiting the offices of all bus lines with regular service to Bangkok and points south. A few hours later we found what we were looking for — our client’s name on a passenger list. Much to my chagrin, we discovered that he had left Chiang Mai the night of his departure from hospital. I packed my bags and reserved a seat on the next flight back to Bangkok.
Arriving at the embassy around seven a.m. (due less to my devotion to the work then to the imperatives of Bangkok traffic) I skimmed quickly through the several cubic feet of paper which had accumulated in my absence. tried to arrange it according to the relative priority of individual cases, but in no time it was nine o’clock and Thai government offices were beginning to open.] shoved the papers aside and began the laborious task of informing the police and immigration authorities to be on the lookout for my client, particularly at border crossings. This process was completed shortly before lunch and I gathered my strength to dive into the burgeoning accumulation of sedimentary matter which was again threatening to overwhelm the last clear patch on my desk.
At that point the phone rang.
I was informed by the receptionist that a rather peculiar looking gentleman wanted to see me regarding the issuance of a passport and the acquisition of a ticket home — a description which fit the profile of a sizeable percentage of my customers. I approached the waiting room and was thunderstruck by the appearance of a tall, gaunt fellow with a stubble-covered shaved head and dirty clothes. What luck! I invited him into my office and much to his surprise, addressed him by name and enquired how and where he had travelled since leaving Chiang Mai. He replied that he had negotiated “standing room” with several different bus companies and had managed to get all the way down to the Malaysian border, only to be turned back because he had neither travel documents nor funds. He was now tired and wished assistance in returning to Canada. I gathered the details necessary for the issuance of an emergency passport, and felt certain that I was well on the way to wrapping up the case. I was wrong.
My client’s scalp looked fierce – adorned as it was with stitches and scar tissue – and I felt it imperative that he check into a nearby hospital while arrange. ments were being made for his repatriation. It was necessary to exert a considerable effort in order to persuade him that his interests would best be served by this course of action, but he finally relented After delivering Denny to the hospital, I returned to the embassy in order to organize the evacuation. Those who have shared this experience know that it is a time consuming exercise involving airlines, medical escorts, immigration clearances, insurance agencies, copious paperwork, and the prior arrangement of assistance both in Canada and at stops along the way.
By the end of the day most of the essentials were in place, and I was beginning to look forward to a modest dinner party which I had planned for that evening. I arrived home shortly past seven o’clock with just enough time to prepare for the arrival of my guests. It would be an understatement to suggest that I felt ready for some relaxation.
We had had a few apertifs, the conversation was easy, and we were sitting down to begin eating when I heard the telephone. On the other end was a staff doctor from the hospital that had accommodated my client. He explained, in rather agitated prose, that my client was demanding immediate transportation to the Honey Hotel, a local hostelry of dubious repute. To emphasize his enthusiasm, he was holding a nurse hostage at knife point. The doctor asked if I wouldn’t mind dropping by. excused myself, asked the forgiveness of my guests, and sped – to the extent this is possible in Bangkok – back downtown.
By sheer good luck the consular clerk and his wife had stopped by the hospital to enquire into my client’s care and well-being, and they had arrived on the scene shortly after the doctor had contacted me. In the interim they had convinced Denny to put down his weapon and release the nurse. He was still, however, adamant about being discharged. After conferring with the doctors, we tried patiently to convince him to stay, explaining that he was still in an elevated state of medical jeopardy as a result of his head injury. If he left the hospital the doctors could not be responsible for his health. Unfortunately, my client did not find any of this in the least persuasive. He insisted that he felt fine and, indeed, was in the mood for partying. He demanded immediate release.
We excused ourselves to discuss our next move with hospital staff. The doctors advised that sedation seemed the best course of action and therefore began slipping the appropriate medication into the seemingly endless cups of coffee which Denny drained with remarkable frequency.
Much to my dismay, three cups of coffee and an hour and half later we were still at it — exploring the outer limits of small talk -yet our client was, if anything, more agitated than ever. It was now quite late and the wiser part of the Embassy team departed. I again conferred with the medical advisors, who suggested switching to a more potent drug which, they believed, would ensure Denny’s immediate repose. They discussed the issue among themselves and a few moments later produced two large and entirely intimidating tablets. With a faint smile the doctor informed me that if I could convince my client to take the tablets we would have. no further difficulty until sometime tomorrow morning. My spirits soared
I returned to Denny’s room and explained that the doctors had finally consented to his release, on condition that he take the two tablets. He then snatched the tablets, tossed them into his mouth, washed them down with a gulp of water, stood up and announced he was ready to hit the Honey Hotel. He loaded his baggage into the trunk of my car and proceeded to drive.
And drive we did. Around and around ever-larger city blocks, I watched in amazement as Denny stared left, right and centre with eyes wide open at the Bangkok city lights. Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes. After half an hour, with some relief, I noted that he appeared to be nodding off. Just as I was wheeling the car around, however, to plot a return course to the hospital, he snapped his head into the upright position and demanded to know why we had not yet arrived at the Honey Hotel. I responded that despite heavy traffic and a number of unavoidable detours we were nearing our destination and would certainly be there shortly. A moment later his head again went down, this time, I hoped, for more than a few moments. With great trepidation I again set a course for the hospital.
I had now spent almost one hour navigating in circles. It was past midnight and raining heavily. The gaudy, flashing lights of the bars and massage parlours refracted off the wet pavement. I thought of Saigon in the Sixties, of Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter, and even, briefly, of my dinner guests, whom I hoped had been suitably sated and would by now be sleeping soundly. I was barely conscious, mesmerized by the motion of the wipers, and beginning to drift into a netherworld of strange themes and images … Reality suddenly intruded when the hospital entrance came into view, and I tried to clear my head in order to face the immediate task at hand. I pulled up to the front door and squinted at the bright, white light which spilled out into the wet, steamy darkness.
With the assistance of several orderlies we carried my client from the car to his room, placed him on the bed, closed the door and retreated down the hall, satisfied that the evening’s travail was finally at an end. It seemed almost anticlimactic. Without warning, the stillness was pierced by the sound of screaming and breaking glass. We raced back to Denny’s room. Through a small observation window, we were able to determine that he had regained consciousness, realized the ruse, and was expressing his displeasure with a vengeance. He had thrown a chair through the window, smashed the mirror, flipped over the bed, stamped on his eye glasses, and was throwing the rest of the furniture around the room with furious abandon. What next?
I was then witness to divine — or perhaps merely chemical – intervention. Denny suddenly lay down on the mattress, which was now sprawled amidst the debris on the floor, and passed mercifully into sleep. I waited another 15 minutes, just to make sure that this time he would stay down. Finally, somewhat the worse for wear, I trudged off towards home.
When I stopped at the hospital on my way to work a few hours later Denny was feeling much better. I apologized to the hospital administrator over the matter of the destroyed room, and then left to pick up my client’s air ticket and some clean clothes for him to wear on the flight back. Shortly before noon we travelled to the airport, where I escorted him though customs and immigration and on to the waiting aircraft. Moments later I watched as the great steel bird slowly gained altitude, and I felt as if a certain weight was being lifted from my shoulders …
Several months later I received a phone call from Edmonton. It was my former client, fully employed and in fine form. He wished to thank me for the assistance. I told him that I was pleased to have been able to help and joked that he would have to return under more favourable circumstances for his “night in Bangkok”. He assured me that as soon as he had acquired the necessary savings he would be back. I shuddered, smiled and said good-bye.
I was about to start vetting a large pile of passport and citizenship applications when the phone rang. I listened in disbelief as the color drained from my face and the pen slipped from my fingers. The afternoon was off to a great start. But that’s another story.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1986) — Winter 1986 // Hiver 1986, pp. 25–27. Read the rest of this issue →
