First Drunken Taxi Driver

My usually infallible taxi-suitability radar failed utterly a couple of Tuesday nights ago on a desolate and dusty stretch of Rama IV near Chua Pleung and the Expressway.

From afar I could tell by the shape of the headlights that the oncoming taxi was a newish model. The rooftop Taxi-Meter sign was turned on, the headlights functioned, and the driver wasn't out to set any Daytona Speedway records. My admittedly subjective exterior criteria having been met, I hailed it (arm held out at waist level, palm facing down, wrist moving slowing up and down). As the car approached, I peered into the cab to determine whether the driver looked like a reckless teenager or a catatonic septuagenarian. (My equally subjective interior criteria.) The driver's face looked ordinary enough and as always, I climbed in the front seat.

The driver immediately began asking why the beautiful younger woman waiting on the sidewalk with me hadn't come along too. I muttered that he could turn around and pick her up if he wanted only gorgeous creatures in his cab. And on a dangerous six-lane road near the onramp to a flyover he prepared to do just that!

"Are you drunk or what?" I screamed at him.

"Oh just a little," he replied with a lopsided I-could-give-a-shit grin.

My heart started pounding. "You pull over and stop this car immediately!"

He made no move to do so. "You pay first," he sneered.

Though I had no intention of paying him, I fumbled inside my pack in a show of doing so. He slowed down, pulled over and came to a rolling stop. But as I opened the door and tried to jump out, he sped up. Nobody who's had four hip replacement surgeries in the past three years and could finally walk normally again would be stupid enough to try exiting a moving vehicle. I put my left leg back in the car.

"OK, OK, here's your money." I threw two 20-baht bills at him. "Now you stop!"

I've only been that terrified in a taxi once before; when a sober but erratic idiot tried to force me out of his car in the middle of a freeway.


2. Insane Public Transport Security Checks Continue
Little's changed since last May when I whinged about the form-without-function bag checks at the entrances to the MRT stations. I bet nobody in the upper echelons of the MRT even remembers the original raison d'etre of this inane exercise, if indeed one ever existed. In any case, whatever the obviously bored to distraction security "guards" are looking for--or more aptly NOT looking for--could never be found during the millisecond of scrutiny they devote to the bag "checking" procedure.
Yet woe betide anyone who attempts to bypass the bag check for the sake of convenience. On the days I'm schlepping a computer-laden daypack I've tried striding purposefully past the "guard" rather than wasting time and energy offloading my heavy pack. But then I end up feeling guilty because my blatant violation of protocol utterly discomfits the poor guy whose job depends on casting a glance in the direction of whatever zipped pocked I choose to open. (Of course he'd no more rifle through my bag than I'd carry anything illegal.) So I play along with his futile charade.
I really love the approach to passenger security adopted by the BTS Skytrain pooh bahs. At each station they've set up an umanned table marked with a "Security Check" sign near the ticket machines. Like a surreal art installation, the white-topped table honestly exemplifies the true Thai attitude toward transportation security.