Accidental tourist: A receipt for disaster in Bangkok

I was in Bangkok, Thailand, on an assignment that involved spending protracted periods of time in taxis in some of the worst traffic congestion I'd ever experienced. This meant mounting costs, but it was work so I could claim. As long as I had a receipt, writes Shelly Seid.

"Receipt please," I said to the driver as he stopped outside the MBK building, seven-odd storeys of fake handbags, watches, gems and electronics.

"No receipt. 160 baht."

Not only was I loath to sponsor my employer, but I'd been warned about Thai taxi drivers. In a country exemplified by courtesy and consideration, the taxi drivers could be notorious scammers. I would, I decided, stand my ground.

"I can't pay until I get a receipt."

"No receipt," he repeated.

"I'm not getting out until I get a receipt."

The traffic was gathering behind us. He was forced to move back into the relentless gridlock. "You pay," he said.

"Give me receipt and then I pay."

He fired off a volley of Thai. I remained calm and pleasant, as advised in the guide books. He wailed loudly and stopped the car again. "176 baht. You pay. You get out." I smiled determinedly and crossed my legs. Without my receipt, I was going nowhere.

"We go police," he shrieked. We inched through the traffic, stopping only to get directions from a tuk-tuk driver and a fruit vendor. With the meter at 193 baht, we found the station. The charge office was enormous, furnished with old-fashioned desks, wooden benches and a photo of the king. The most notable feature, though, was the 60-inch HD television positioned like a room divider and tuned, very loudly, to a local soap opera. On screen, an old man in a hospital bed was slowly passing away; a middle-aged woman, clearly his daughter, knelt by his side. She was in a terrible state. Everyone in the office was riveted, apart from the policeman snoring gently at a desk in the corner.

My driver managed to harangue enough officers to get the attention of the top brass, a dapper-looking senior official who emerged from a back office and, without even a glance at the screen, came across to address our problem.

As it turns out, inner-city taxi drivers are not obliged to give receipts. The official understood, however, that I would not be able to claim my expense of 193 baht with an Instagram of the meter.

With nothing less than the wisdom of Solomon, he suggested we open a docket, that we make a statement about the incident, that the 193 baht be recorded within the statement, and that the statement could then serve as a receipt.

I handed my driver 200 baht (the guide book says you are expected to round up the fare), he stopped weeping, and the woman on screen began comforting a new visitor to the bedside, a portly man in a state of acute distress.

The statement was particularly comprehensive. It included my passport details, my age, my address in South Africa and in Thailand, the place and time I got into the taxi, its licence number, the driver's registration number, the time we arrived at the police station and a detailed narrative of events.

Somewhere on the full page of tiny Thai script appears the number "193".

There was a short delay while a constable was sent to search for the official rubber stamp but I was in no hurry - the elderly patient had coded and I was keen to see if the attractive nurse would manage to resuscitate him.

All problems resolved, my driver and I walked out of the station. I had absolutely no idea where I was. "Where is MBK building?" I asked him.

"Straight one kilometre then left 500 metre and left again," he said.

I went off to look for a taxi.