I Love Thai Police (3). Never As Good As the Third Time.

As says the song, it is never as good as the third time, especially if you get it three times. The fine, I mean. After months of frustrations and failure to get fined for traffic rule breaking, I have been fulfilled beyond my wildest dreams on Thursday, 19th.
I was with my wife, Noo, on the road to Sisaket, in order to investigate the assassination of a local Red shirts leader. This was a long way and because of the excitement of the mission, I was driving fast. Then somewhere after Saraburi, the famed tamruat thanon luang, with their nice brown and yellow cars and their black beret, caught me.
I had already warned my wife. I won’t speak anything to the policemen. I will play the mute, as when I said I am a journalist they released me or even when I just argue in Thai they let me go (see previous episodes). So, complete silence this time, only smiles and gestures.
I pulled off the road and smiled at a slightly overweight black beret. Things were smooth. With no verbal reaction from me, they wrote the form and said “124 km/h”. Not bad. I duly paid the 200 bahts fine, and we hit the road again. Noo immortalized the event with the digital camera.
Then, barely 40 minutes later, another squad of black berets caught me again. “128 km/h”, said a policeman. I could not really hid my joy and he noticed it. I paid again the 200 bahts due and had my picture taken with my new friend, the highway policeman.
That was not the end of it, as, having arrived in Surin and visited the market there, I was surprised to find a white paper on the front windshield. “Wrong parking”, said the paper. Actually I could not really understand as I was correctly parked, and many cars around my Peugeot 406 had escaped the wrath of Surin’s keepers of the law. But in Surin, indeed, we don’t joke with the rule of law. And that was a third 200 bahts fine. But it had now become routine. I throw the paper in the back of the car and decided not to pay, and we fled speedily toward our Sisaket destination.

Arnaud Dubus

Claudio Sopranzetti : Moto taxis and Politics

Interesting article on the Politics of Motorcycle Taxis in Thailand on New Mandala website :
http://asiapacific.anu.edu.au/newmandala/

The Strange Case of Benny Moafi

From his mid-eastern origine, Benny Moafi has kept an inextinguable energy and deep blue, dreamy eyes. The man, with a passion for languages and for photocopies, is a Swedish Iranian businessman who lives in Thailand since 1994. And against all odds, he is still living in the country. This is despite having been arrested in 2000 on what he says were trumped accusations of holding a fake passport and robbery. Sentenced to 22 years in jail, he spent the next 10 years of his life behind bars of various Thai prison.
But this strong willed man decided not to be broken by Thai jail despite the harsh conditions and the beatings he endured. In his cell, he began to learn speaking, reading and writing proper Thai until becoming totally fluent. Then, he registered by letter at Sukhotai Thammatirat university and passed a bachelor degree in Thai law. Then, he simply became a lawyer for himself and his fellow prisonners. To this day, he has filed 206 cases against the police, the Department of Corrections and various government agencies. And he won several cases : his jailers were forced to take off the heavy chains he had permanently tied to his legs. In another case won, the Department of Corrections was forced to take off these chains from all prisonners on death row.
On Tuesday 13th of July, a few months after having been released after having spent the last ten years in jail, Benny Moafi got chained again. But this time, he did it to himself : he locked the chain attached to his legs to the gate of Government House. The scene was astounding. When Mr Moafi arrived, dressed in a prisoner outfit, the intelligence agents of the government (mixed admist Thai journalists) and the police of the control post watched passively. They seem totally overwhelmed by the speed of the events and unable to understand what was going on.
Brandishing a sign board “Double Standards of Justice” and with “Guilty of Innocence” written on his back, Mr Moafi began distributing documents on his case and giving interviews to Thais and Foreign journalists. It was very hot, and Mr Moafi, after an hour, open the lock to chain himself again to the gate in the shade of a tree. The police again was unable to react.
The substance of the discourse of Mr Moafi is that he has been a victim of the Double Standards of the Thai Justice system. According to him, he was wrongly accused and sentenced because of the nexus of collusion linking some policemen, some prosecutors and some judges. And what he is asking for is a re-trial by the Appeal court so that his reputation is cleared and justice is done. And he wanted to deliver a letter to Prime minister Abhisit Vejjajiva to explain his case. He was not able to deliver this letter to the Prime minister.
He considers his situation to be a small example of the issue of Double standards of Justice in Thailand, a topic emphasized by the recent Red shirts protest from March to May – protests who ended after a government ordered military crackdown. During the demonstrations, at least 90 people were killed according to the official figure : five military, two foreign journalists and 83 demonstrators.
So what will do Mr Moafi next ? In mid afternoon on that mid july tuesday, still sitting near the gate of Government House but without chains (the police had managed to cut them after a few hours of strenuous efforts), he said that he would bring his campaign to the United Nations. But Mr Moafi is a busy man. He has become an expert lawyer to help Foreign prisonners who are in difficult legal situations and his mobile phone is ringing every five minutes. With a wide smile and a spark in his eyes, he says “I have a job to do”.

No rule of law for Thai Police, However Hard You Try

Cette fois ci, j'étais bien décidé à tout faire pour avoir une contravention. Pas question de dire que je suis journaliste, ce qui, inévitablement entrainerait les policiers du poste de contrôle à me laisser partir sans sanction. Sur Rama IV, j'aperçois le barrage à environ 200 mètres, et, gêné par des voitures en stationnement illégal sur la voie de gauche, je m'engage, au guidon de ma Platinum 150 cc (nouveau carburateur et lumières de cylindre élargies), sur la voie du milieu. Tout va bien : un policier, masque anti-pollution sur le visage et vêtu de ces étonnants costumes caca d'oie cintrés qui leur moulent le thorax et les fesses, me fait signe de me ranger.
Je suis nerveux, je sais que cette fois ci il faudra aller plus loin que la fois précédente pour atteindre mon objectif, lequel n'est d'ailleurs pas très clair dans ma tête. Mes mains tremblent légèrement. "Permis !", me lance le policier. Je fais face et rétorque : "Nom, prénom, unité !". L'agent de l'Etat ne comprend pas. Il répéte "License, license", comme s'il me prenait pour un demeuré. Je lis son nom sur son badge que je saisis de la main. "Pas question de donner mon permis, agent Prasong Jampapeeng. Je veux connaître le nom de votre unité d'abord". Puis je dis, me dévoilant sans doute un peu trop tôt : "et je vous colle un procès au tribunal administratif". La notion de juridiction admnistrative semble planer très au dessus de l'agent Prasong, qui répéte : "ton permis !". De fureur, je jette mon casque dans la petite haie de troënne jaune vert qui borde Rama IV.
Il refuse de me donner le nom de son unité. Un officier vient à sa rescousse mais ne parvient pas à débloquer la situation. "Je ne donnerais pas mon permis tant que je n'aurais pas le nom de votre unité. J'en ai besoin pour vous intenter un procès", je persiste. Finalement, le second officier m'emméne voir son supérieur. Celui-ci, penché sur une table de camping établie sur le trottoir, note conscieusement sur un carnet les recettes de la journée. Avec le respect du à l'autorité, je lui dis : "Mr l'officier. Vos collègues m'ont arrêté car j'étais sur la voie du milieu. Mais je ne pouvais pas être sur la voie de gauche, car des voitures étaient en stationnement illégal". L'officier lance un regard perspicace. Il sent qu'il y a anguille sous roche. Il lâche tout de même : "la voie du milieu, c'est une infraction". Je triomphe. "Oui, je dis, c'est une infraction. Je suis parfaitement d'accord avec vous et je veux payer la contravention. Mais je veux le nom de votre unité, pour vous intenter un procès au tribunal administratif". Je me tourne vers l'agent Prasong : "De quoi as tu peur ? Pourquoi tu ne veux pas donner le nom de ton unité ? T'as honte ou quoi ?". Prasong est ngong. Dépassé. Ses capacités d'analyse saturées. Le processeur ne tourne pas assez vite.
L'officier supérieur calme le jeu. "Nous sommes de la police de la circulation, quartier central, Rama IV. Montrez votre permis". Je le montre et, comme je le craignais, il me dit : "c'est en régle, vous pouvez y aller". Cette fois je suis décidé à me battre pour avoir ma contravention. "Non, pas question. J'ai fait une infraction, vous devez me sanctionner. C'est votre devoir. Si la police ne fait pas son travail, que va-t-il advenir de la Nation ?". Je sens que l'affaire est perdue. L'officier commence à sourire. "Allez y. Je voulais juste contrôler votre permis. Tout est en règle". Je me bats avec l'énergie du désespoir. "Mr l'officier. S'il y a un gouvernement chemise rouge, tout le monde fera des infractions et, si la police ne fait pas son travail, ce sera la catastrophe. Le Premier ministre l'a dit : il faut suivre la loi. Strictement". C'est foutu. Mon jeu est définitivement dévoilé. Je suis le farang qui en sait trop. Je pars. L'agent Prasong est vexé, mais ne sait pas comment réagir. Je sers la main de l'officier, qui est maintenant très cordial. "Merci, je dis. C'était juste pour m'amuser".

Arnaud Dubus