A TRIP TO THE TAX OFFICE

by Steve Rhodes

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People living in Thailand up until around 1990 still wake up sweating after yet another nightmare brought on by their recollections of their trips to the Tax Office. Even now, I still vividly recall the feelings of dread and horror that were induced by even contemplating the event.

I was working (illegally of course) as a copy editor for "Feature Magazine", a very high quality publication fondly regarded by those who ran it as the "National Geographic Magazine of South East Asia". The company had been trying to get me a work permit from the day I started work there, but the Powers that Be were digging their heels in and holding out for a larger cash incentive.

With only a week to go, I accompanied Khun Supagarn Suvapat, the company's resident "expert" on such matters, to the Immigration Department for one last ditch attempt. She had armed herself with a big bundle of magazines, each one with a five hundred baht note protruding discreetly from within the pages. We entered a large room full of sullen looking people in brown uniforms. She began greeting them politely and dishing out copies of the magazine. Instantly their expressions changed when they spotted the tantalizing glimpse of purple peeping from the pages. Rubber stamps were applied vigorously to my application form and I was starting to feel quite optimistic about the outcome of the whole thing as we made our way along the line. Finally we reached the end of the row of desks where a very important looking fellow in a most impressive looking uniform applied the critical rubber stamp with a flourish. We eagerly craned forward to see the verdict only to read, with sinking hearts, "Application for extension refused. Applicant must leave the Kingdom within seven days."

"You didn't offer them enough money," one of my friends said as we commiserated over a couple of Singha beers down at The Crown Royal. He then went on to advise me that before I embarked on my visa run, I'd have to report to the Tax Office and get the vital yellow stamp put into my passport or I'd be prevented from leaving and would then start to be fined 100 baht a day for over staying my welcome. "Of course you can't tell them you've been working," he went on. "Just make up some cock and bull story about being here on holidays and remember to be there bright and early. And spruce yourself up a bit and put on a tie." Finally he divulged that: "If you want to have a hope in hell of being attended to promptly, and not be kept waiting for days on end, just go straight to the back of the foyer and give your passport and 300 baht to a large fat Chinese gentleman sitting in the corner. That way you'll be among the first twenty people called."

So I had an early night in order to be in fine fettle for the forth coming ordeal, and presented myself bright and early at the Tax Office, a forbidding looking building at Sanam Luang, just near the Democracy Monument. My friend had been right about looking presentable. Hordes of scruffy backpackers were lolling about looking as if they'd been camped there for weeks awaiting their destiny. In fact they probably had been. They were un shaven and their eyes had that sunken look associated with sleep deprivation and despair.

I marched boldly in and presented myself, passport, and 300 baht to the Obese Chinese fellow who was exactly where my friend had said that he'd be, and moments later heard the first twenty names being called. My name was last. I'd made it in the nick of time.

Under the envious glares of the scruffy backpackers, I was ushered into a rather sparsely furnished room where two eager young taxation investigators awaited me. "Good morning, Mr Rhodes," said the first one who looked like an Oriental version of a Gestapo officer. "And what brings you to Thailand?" He spoke very good English and I realised that I'd have to be on my mettle in order to get the better of this one. "I'm here on holidays," I replied. "Hmm, very long holiday," he responded, looking suspiciously at my passport. "Yes, well in Australia we have what's known as long service leave. When you work for a company for a long time, as I've done, they reward you with a long holiday."

He looked a bit stunned by this revelation but said:" Ah, very interesting. Do you have a Certificate of Holiday?" I informed him that we had no such thing. "When we go on holidays, we just go….it's as simple as that. There's no formal document issued such as a Certificate of Holiday"

"How much longer are you staying?"

"Probably another year or so," I replied and launched into a spiel about how I was completely besotted by the beautiful food, the culture, the picturesque countryside, etc.

"What do you think of Thai women?" he sniggered, but then suddenly remembered the presence of his female partner who was fixing him with a stern, disapproving glare. "Anyway," he said, collecting his scattered wits, "next time you come, I want to see your Certificate of Holiday."

Luckily this little faux pas had rattled him a bit so, rather than going into the tiresome issue of "Certificates of Holidays" again, I took my leave. All in all, the experience hadn't been as bad as I'd thought it would be. I dashed off a letter to a friend in Australia who was a high powered executive in a large company and asked him to write a "Certificate of Holiday" on a company letter head.

The next day I left for Penang where I spent the next 3 days being ripped off by everyone from rickshaw drivers to hotel keepers, but survived and returned to Bangkok for another fun packed three months at "Feature Magazine".

However the three months flashed past and there was still no work permit in sight. In fact, it looked as though it was never going to materialize. The company had just dumped it in the "too hard basket". So eventually it was back to the Tax Office again.

"Ah, good morning, Mr Rhodes" the same pair chorused in unison. "We see that you are still in Thailand." "Yes," I cheerfully replied, "and here is my certificate of holiday." My friend had excelled himself. The certificate was a literary gem and made a great impression. But bad news lay ahead. "Yes we see that you on holidays" the male officer said, " but we have a law that says that after you have been in the country for more than three months, you must pay tax on all the money that you have spent here."

The logic of this piece of legislation escaped me but, keeping up a brave face, I said:" No problem. I live very frugally down near Khao San Road, so I haven't spent much money at all"

"How much money have you spent?"

"I wouldn't have a clue. Noodle shop owners don't give receipts. But I know that it's not a lot."

"Oh well, no problem then. But the Tax Office has worked out a rough average of how much money a farang spends and must pay tax on, after being in the country for over three months. It's 7,000 baht," he announced triumphantly.

"No problem at all," I countered. "I don't have 7,000 baht".

"Do you have a Master Card?" asked the wily female officer in a silky seductive tone.

"Yes" I replied, then mentally kicked myself for being so stupid and blowing it, when I still had a very faint chance of wriggling out of the whole thing.

"Ah well, no problem," they chorused gleefully." You know the Thai Farmers Bank on Khao San Road? Well just take your card there and ask them for 7,000 baht for the Tax Office. They'll cheerfully oblige. Then you can bring the money back here, give it to us, and we'll give you a yellow stamp so that you can leave the country for your next extension of visa."

What followed is almost too painful to recall. Suffice to say that I just followed instructions, knowing that all further attempts to defraud them would be fruitless. So, after getting my yellow stamp, it was off to Ripoffsville again for another three days.

Upon my return I had a stroke of luck. An American Zoologist had contributed an article to the magazine on the dwindling tiger and leopard population in Kao Yai National Park. He'd asked the company for a few copies of the magazine for his records and I was chosen to meet him and deliver the fruits of his labour. I rang him and arranged to meet at The Blue Jeans Bar, the tiniest bar in Pat Pong.

Over drinks I told him of the trials and tribulations that I'd endured at the hands of the Tax Office.

"Good God," he exclaimed. "You don't have to go through all that nonsense. Next time you have to leave, just give your passport to Old Gene over there behind the bar. He'll give it to a friend of his who'll send it off to the Thai Consulate in Hawaii. He'll stamp a triple
re entry visa into it and the whole deal will only cost you 300 baht and you won't even have to leave the country."

What a Godsend. When the time came, I went down to Blue Jeans where a rather sleazy looking American who introduced himself as David Hughes, was collecting passports from a lot of similarly sleazy looking individuals. After a momentary twinge of anxiety, I parted up with my passport and 300 baht and waited with breathless anticipation for the outcome. But, sure enough, within a few days, back it came, complete with the promised triple re entry visa.

Flushed with triumph, I rang up my friend Leonie to tell her what I'd just achieved. "Are you stark raving mad?" she shrieked. "What you've just done could land you in jail. Don't you realize that that visa is a forgery. Just have look at it. There are no entry or exit dates stamped into it because it's come in through the mail, and not through Immigration. Burn the passport immediately and then go down to the Australian Embassy and ask for a new one."

While I was sitting gloomily contemplating her words of wisdom, the phone suddenly rang. It was Leonie again." I've discussed your situation with my old friend Police Colonel Laksanaphichit Sorat," she said. "He wants you to call him immediately."

Police Colonel Sorat turned out to be a congenial old fellow who was second in command of the high profile Crime Suppression Unit. " You're not going to throw me in jail I hope?' "No problem," he laughed. "Just come down to my office straight away with your passport and we'll sort this problem right out."

When I arrived at the police station he had been joined by a young, hot shot un corruptible under cover agent, Pol Lt Chadchai Liamsangguan.

"We will nail this David Hughes guy," said Chadchai eagerly. "Here's the plan. You ring him up and tell him that you have another couple of passports belonging to a couple of your friends. Arrange to meet him in Pat Pong. When you hand the passports over to him, our plain clothes officers will arrest him and that will be the end of him and his flourishing trade in forged visas."

"But surely he and his associates are going to be pretty cheesed off if that happens," I said dubiously. "What if they send a hit man round to do me in?"

"Ah, no problem," they both reassured me. "We'll provide a twenty four hour guard at your apartment. But first we'll do some forensic tests on the visa. Then we'll set up the arrest. You just go home and wait for our phone call "

So I returned home and started to pack my bags, knowing that my " Certificate of Holiday" in Thailand had just expired. With all the best will in the world, I couldn't see the police having the enthusiasm to maintain their twenty four hour vigil of my apartment. But just as I was about to check out and head for Don Muang Airport, I received an anguished phone call from Colonel Sorat. To their horror, the forensic tests had revealed the visa to be authentic. Obviously the tentacles of corruption had snaked their way to Hawaii and the Consul there was up to his eyeballs in a lucrative little racket with David Hughes.

The case was now too big for the Crime Suppression Unit to tackle so it was passed on up the line to an even higher authority. However Colonel Sorat arranged for one of his friends at the Immigration Department to doctor up my visa to make it all legitimate.

Mopping my brow with relief, I went back to "Feature Magazine". Meanwhile someone in high places must have had a quiet word with the Consul in Hawaii as that very weekend, a small item appeared in Trink's column in the "Bangkok Post". It simply said: "For all those people who subscribed to the Hawaiian Passport Service, we wish to advise that the service is no longer available". Shortly afterwards the Tax Office abolished their draconian tax laws citing the reason as "Being unfair to foreigners". A remarkably enlightened piece of legislation.

Sadly Blue Jeans Bar has disappeared from Pat Pong. Whether it was a casualty of the passport scam or just fell on hard times, I don't know. But one thing's for sure. Visa runs have never be the same again.

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