Andrew Biggs of The Nation went undercover as a tourist to discover the latest methods Bangkok gem and jewelry touts are using to separate naïve visitors from their hard-earned cash.

            It’s 1 pm on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. I’m in a bright yellow Reebok cap, dark sunglasses and a red T-shirt. Around my waist is a money belt, and over my shoulder is my new Minolta camera. I look like I am straight from Khaosan Road (a local backpacker’s hangout)—or even Don Muang Airport.

            I am at the corner of Sanam Luang and the Grand Palace, holding a map deliberately upside down, when a tall, gook-looking man dressed in gook clothes and a very thick gold necklace approaches me. He speaks excellent English.

            His name is Chana, and he’s from Koh Samui. “I have a cow farm there,” he says. “I’m up in Bangkok just for a few days on business. Then I fly down to Singapore tomorrow to make some money. I do this tem times or so a year.”

            It takes Chana about ten minutes of friendly conversation before he mentions jewelry.

            “I’m doing a little business in Singapore,” he says. “Jewelry. Haven’t you heard? The government has a special Promote Thailand Week. It’s been in the Thai newspapers and television for the last four of five days. As a tourist during this time, you can buy jewelry without having to pay the 30 per cent tax! But it ends today. If buy a ruby set for $1,250 here, I can sell it for $2,700 in Singapore. As a Thai, I’m only allowed to buy one set, but a tourist can buy up to three. My one set pays for my trip to Singapore!”

            Chana is now appealing to my greed. I pretend to be interested.

            “Have you got your map? I’II show you where the factory is.”

            I ask if this is a government factory and Chana says yes. On my map, he points to a place on Arun Amarin Road, Thonburi side, right next to the Pinklao Bridge. He writes “PANIT” in English there. “There is a factory. That’s where you get the jewels,” he said.

            I thank Chana, but I tell him I want to take pictures in the Grand Palace. “No, the Grand Palace closes at 2 pm. You won’t be able to enter after that. You should go tomorrow instead. Better to go to the jewelry factory today. It’s the last day of the sale. Everybody knows about it.”

            Twenty minutes later, outside Thammasat University next to a crowded bus stop, I run into Mongkol.

            “That’s my university,” comes a voice from behind me. I turn around and find a rather big Thai man in his early twenties. He introduces himself as Mongkol, a graduate of Thammasat.

            He quickly establishes that it’s my first visit to Thailand. He’s very excited that I’m from Australia. “I’m going to Australia this Saturday! I got a scholarship from Thammasat. I’m going to do a Master’s Degree in International Law!”

            I ask which university he is studying at, and he says: “A & N University in Canberra.”

            Poor Mongkol. He is confusing hamburger restaurants (A&W) with an Australian university in Canberra (ANU).

            “Come with me,” he says. “I want to show you my university.”

            He takes me across the road. Mongkol refuses to have his photo taken. “Thai people believe that if you take their photo, they will die,” he says.

            Finally, I ask him a question he has been waiting for me to ask. “How have you got the money to live in Australia:”

            “Because you’re a nice guy, I’ll tell you,” says Mongkol. He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket.

            Coincidence! It’s a bill from Panit, the same place Chana had talked about. I look at the bill. He has bought a few thousand American dollars worth of jewelry. “As a student, I’m allowed to buy three sets of jewelry without paying the 30 per cent tax,” he says. “It’s a special three-day sale for Thai students. And tourists too. You see? I have to show them my student card.” Mongkol pulls out a very dirty ID card [not a student card] to show me.

            “But don’t tell anybody! It’s a secret otherwise everybody will do it and then you won’t be able to make such a big profit!”

            Mongkol now has lost interest in the idea of showing me around Thammasat. “Let’s of to the jewelry factory,” He says. “There’s nothing to see here.”

            Mongkol takes me to a tuk tuk and for Bt50 ($2), I am on a taxi ride with a conman over the Pinklao Bridge.

            How do I know Mongkol is a con? When he showed me his ID card, I could read his name in Thai”

            We go over the bridge and turn left into Arun Amarin Road. In a matter of five minutes, we are at the Panit store.

            “Now remember,” Mongkol says, “Don’t tell anybody else. It’s a secret between us.”           I am left alone in front of Panit. The windows are all black. From the inside they can see me for sure. From the outside I can see nothing. It’s not a factory at all, just a tarted-up shop house.

            As I enter, I come face to face with a fat, middle –aged balding man. He is very good natured and friendly, but I can see a tired look in his eyes. He is either hung over or he’s had a bad sales day.

            He introduces himself as Boonchoo. Again, I get the same questions. Boonchoo is even more questioning. Am I taking pictures for a magazine? Am I a journalist? No, I’m an English teacher, I say.

            In fact, there’s nothing on the ground floor except a few boxes of rings and the same set of necklaces and jewelry sets repeated over and over. Boonchoo explains to me that this is the last day of a three-day promotion. Tomorrow, tourists aren’t allowed in the store and it’s back to selling wholesale, so it’s lucky I’m here when I am.

            Boonchoo then takes me on a guided tour of the empty place. The “factory” is on the second floor—a room with three people on gem-cutting machines. As we enter the room, one of them quietly asks in Thai: “Dai reu yung?” (Have you made a sale yet or not?) Bonnchoo, under his breath, answers: “Yung… kamlung ngor yoo.” (Not yet..I’m in the process of soft-selling.)

            One of the other workers asks him in Thai: “How has it been today?” Only three sets,” answers Boonchoo flatly. “I don’t know if I’II get one out of this guy or not.” I now have the feeling I’m on a stage with actors.

            Two maps are on the wall. One is of the world and one is of Thailand. Kanchanaburi is highlighted. “That’s where our mine is,” says Boonchoo. “The reasons rubies are more expensive than sapphires is because you have to dig deeper for rubies, and many people die in the process. The gems come out of the earth a transparent color and after firing them at high temperature, they gain their color.”

            “Your English is good,” I say to Boonchoo. “Where did you learn?”

            “Oh, I went to university in Australia,” says Boonchoo.

            “Really? Which one?”

            This question confuses Boonchoo for a moment. “I went to –arai wa—chew aria wa [what the hell is its name?]—ANI University,” he finally says. Well, at least he got two out of three initials right, more than Mongkol did. “It was a long time ago,” he says, almost apol-ogetically.

            When we get downstairs, Boonchoo introduces me to his sales manager, a very small woman. She turns to her friend and mutters in Thai about me: “Na klua chip heng” (This guy’s big and ugly) to which Boonchoo quickly says: “She said you are very smart.”

            Her job is the hard sell. One set of gems costs me Bt31,000 ($1,240), down from the normal price of Bt45,000 ($1,800). That 30 percent discount expires today. It’s now 3 pm and I have until 4 before the sale ends.

            She runs through every doubt I have. “We are licensed by the Thai Commercial Association,” she says. “Tell him he can put it on his Visa card today and then think about it later,” volunteers one of the bored women behind me in Thai, referring to me as “it” rather than “him”.

            Now she guarantees that I will make a Bt25,000 ($1,000) profit by selling these back home. If I don’t, I can return them and get all my money back.

            That’s an amazing guarantee to make. I wonder why she herself isn’t out touring the world on profits made from selling jewels. Why is fat Boonchoo chained to this sad job, in this tiny little shop house store, with three workers at the factory?

            The final sell: “we’re doing this to promote Thailand. We want Thailand to have good image overseas,” Now the future of Thailand rests in the palm of my hand. She opens up a book of EMS dockets of other customers as proof that they send around the world. I am shocked at all the names—Japan, Australia, Sweden. All these tourists having paid Tb30,000($1,200) plus for jewels that later turn out to be virtually worthless.

            When I finally say no, it is a big anti-climax. Boonchoo doesn’t even bother to get up to say goodbye. He sits, sullen and sad, in the corner of the room, and it is the sad sight of Boonchoo that I am left with as a memory of this sad place.

            Back at Sanam Luang, As I am preparing to go home, two Thai men approach me in very friendly fashion. “Hello” Welcome to Thailand! Where are you going?”

            “The Grand Palace,” I say.

            “Oh! Bad luck! It’s the Princess’ birthday today and it’s closed. Why don’t you come with us to see the Royal barges, then go and see some jewelry cutting?”

            “That’s a good idea!” I say, having had enough. “Today’s the last day of a three-day government sale and you can get a 30 percent discount on any jewelry that you buy!”

            They know that I know. “Bye bye!” they say, and simply walk away very quickly.