Trust in Allah But Tie Up Your Camel

This is a story about suspicion.

It takes place on a Saturday morning in Bangkok. Thai post offices close at noon on Saturdays. I show up with five minutes to spare. My fat manila envelope is addressed to a nice couple in Seattle. These folks have told me in past letters that they’re stamp collectors.

I ask the guy at the window not to use the postage meter like they usually do these days. “My friends like to see the Thai stamps,” I say. He weighs the envelope and lets me know how much. His colleague stands near the door, waiting to lock up.

“All set,” he says, handing me my change. Only problem is, he hasn’t put on the stamps yet. Paying for stamps in Thailand isn’t a guarantee of getting stamps. Somebody told me once that you shouldn’t leave the counter until you see the postmark applied.

I’m thinking: should I stall?... nobody is behind me in line… I’m the last customer… If I hang around, it’s going to look pretty obvious that I don’t believe this guy is honest… yet I should verify... I want my friends to get this package, which took a while to put together… and the price wasn’t cheap.

I bend down and reach into my backpack, pretending to look for something, hoping he’ll start reaching in his drawer for the stamps. Instead he gets up, walks over to another window, and starts talking to the guy who’s totaling up that till. Now I’m sure I’m being cheated. They’re probably all in on the scam. The one near the door signals that the office is getting ready to close.

Next I fumble with my reading glasses, as if I need to get them sorted out before I move along. The stamp seller returns to his window and fumbles with something I can’t see, as if he needs to tidy up his desk before he moves along. Nobody says anything. I feel like all eyes are on me. The word in Thai for “postmark” escapes me, so I don’t ask.

Just as I’m about to stand up and demand to see my package, he holds it up. Every square inch, except the places where I wrote the addresses, is covered with stamps. All of the denominations are different. There are no duplicates. It suddenly hits me that the guy had gone over to his buddy’s window to get a few different issues to add to the diversity.

I’m standing there feeling like dog crap as I look at his artwork. It’s a beautiful gift from a Thai civil servant to a couple he has never met on the other side of the planet. We both smile really wide. No hard feelings.