Buying coke Phuket

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Buying coke Phuket

So I went to Thailand for a week with mom and my brother, Daniel. Eight months of doing nothing save drink pissy lager in the company of musty Canadian proto-humans had left me keen to enjoy some herbal remedies. Daniel, a veteran of several previous trips to Thailand, assured me they would be freely available. My mother and brother strolled down the main drag of Patong, with myself a few steps behind. Daniel ignored him and carried on. The Thai dude was wearing the red waistcoat of a licensed taxi operator. I motioned with my head to a small alley off the main street. I made the international sign of the spliff — forefinger and thumb clenched into a circle, lips pursed into a wrinkled pout. It looked good — but as with Hungry Man TV dinners, tempting looks are not always a guarantee of quality. He looked at me. I tapped my left index finger against my nostril. No, no — I want to smell the weed. We both paused for a second as he tried to work out exactly what I wanted. Then a Thai police officer, mounted on a motorbike, zoomed into the alley. The officer was blowing his whistle. Surely he was operating outside his realm? Would a court throw out my conviction on the grounds that the arresting officer had been out of his jurisdiction? I doubted it. Stay calm, I thought. Raising my eyebrows, I motioned with my head: Can I go? He pointed at the ground: Stay there. It was worth a try. I also knew that things were very, very different in Thailand. The officer kept alternating between searching the dealer and stepping out into the main road, blowing his whistle and trying to attract other officers. He searched my pockets, not particularly thoroughly. I had nothing in them, literally nothing. Three other police officers — also traffic cops —- eventually gathered around. My mom and brother had come back to see what was taking me. Outwardly, I was calm. I tried to affect the air of a man who has been temporarily mixed-up in some sort of administrative blunder. Inconvenienced, but understanding — after all, the police have their job to do as well. If we could just get this sorted out as quickly as possible…? The air of an innocent man who has nothing to fear. I walked away and then the police came over. A measure of just how stupid I am is the fact that I would have had to go and get some money from my mum or brother. Who goes out for the evening without any money? I had a sudden memory of buying a coat with her at the age of 11 or 12 and feeling hugely embarrassed as she took a gum-chewing shop girl to task. He has nothing. Can we go? Calm down, mom. She started to cry. She told me to step away from him in case he planted something on me. The whole scene was oddly casual. Could they shoot me if I tried to run away? My son. I spoke to the officer, repeating my lame version of events: I was looking for a taxi, this guy called me over and showed me some drugs. I was walking away and you came over. No drugs, no money. By now a small crowd had gathered round. Someone took a photo. A large ex-pat — clearly someone who had been in Thailand for some time — asked me in deep, mocking English:. I hoped that he would turn out to be some local Svengali, a natural fixer, someone with intimate knowledge of dealing with Thai police. The original detaining officer rode off on his bike with the dealer. Is no problem. No problem. Come police station. And who knew what the police could do if they felt like it. He told a taxi driver where we were going. We climbed into a tuk-tuk, an open-backed van-like vehicle. I briefly considered making some sort of getaway. A terrible idea. I said a prayer. We arrived at the station and I was relieved to see it was a kind of police booth, rather than the huge prison. Approaching the box, I could see the officer who had arrested me posing for a picture with five Italian tourists. I remember thinking that I would give anything, literally anything, to swap places with those people right now. Two plainclothes police men rode up on a motorbike. The dealer bowed deeply to them. The original officer stepped forward, holding a single brick of weed in his hand. For a single crazy instant I thought he was offering me the weed, that the whole thing was some sort of hugely elaborate joint operation between police and dealers. This was stupid, of course. I stepped back from him and flung my hands up. No money, no drugs, I said. My mantra. His eyes sparkled. I was sweating bullets. He pronounced marijuana with an h rather than an w, like marihuana. You go to jail. My mom broke down. Daniel embraced her. I stood my ground. I was walking along. That guy showed me some drugs. Then you came along. Understood most of it and believed none of it, I suspect. If he had waited five minutes more he would have caught me red-handed and I think he was annoyed that I had some wiggle room. He turned away. The captain spoke to my sobbing mother. Or did they take pity on a mother who was clearly buckling under the strain of dealing with an imbecile of an adult son? The drugs are probably just oregano and table salt, and the whole thing is based around getting the hapless foreigner to pay big money for a speedy release. Archives Email Instagram Twitter. I was shitting my fucking pants. My mom demanded to know what was going on. He chuckled and walked away. Had I messed up? Yes, I had. I really fucking had. I was about to climb on his bike. TAGS: drugs travel wall of text 33 notes Date: