It happened in broad daylight, in the heart of Bangkok’s busiest district. I was crossing the road near the Erawan Shrine, dodging motorcycles and tuk-tuks, when a sleek black Mercedes suddenly screeched to a halt beside me. The passenger window rolled down, and two strikingly beautiful women leaned out, their faces framed by perfectly styled hair and designer sunglasses. “Hey! Wei!” one called out in Mandarin, her voice sharp and urgent. “Get in! We know you—hurry!”
Let me rewind. I’m a Singaporean who travels to Bangkok regularly, but nothing prepared me for this. Earlier that day, I’d visited the Erawan Shrine to pray, weaving through crowds of tourists and locals clutching marigold garlands. As I stepped off the shrine’s marble steps, I noticed a black Mercedes circling the area slowly, like a shark. I didn’t think much of it—luxury cars are common here.
But moments later, as I crossed the intersection toward CentralWorld mall, the Mercedes cut through traffic and stopped inches from me. The driver, a stone-faced man in a black polo shirt, glared ahead while the women beckoned. Their accents were unmistakably mainland Chinese, their Mandarin laced with a northeastern twang. “Kuai shang che!” (“Get in the car quickly!”) the one in the passenger seat insisted, waving a manicured hand. “Don’t you remember us? We met at the Marina Bay Sands event last year!”
My blood ran cold. Marina Bay Sands? I’d never attended any event there. Their lies were brazen, almost laughable—except for the sinister context. Recent news reports flooded my mind: Chinese-speaking tourists kidnapped in Bangkok, smuggled to Myanmar, and forced to work in scam call center.
“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person,” I said firmly in English, switching languages to disrupt their script. But they doubled down. “Bie zhuang le!” (“Stop pretending!”) the driver-side woman snapped, her sweet facade cracking. “We’re your friends! Get in NOW!” Her shrill tone drew stares from pedestrians. I noticed the Mercedes had no license plate—just a temporary dealer tag.
I turned and power-walked toward a 7-Eleven, my heart pounding. Behind me, the car idled for a few seconds before speeding off, tires screeching. A street vendor selling mango sticky rice shook his head. “Mai bpen rai,” he muttered. “Those seuhk muhn [scammers] here every day. Last week, a Malaysian man got in their car… never saw him again.”
I believe these are syndicates that want to capture Mandarin speaking people to work in Myanmar scam call centers.