Parked in

I lost it yesterday. My tolerance finally cracked and I ended up in an loud argument with the driver of a large car. I’d rushed up to Shop No 7 to buy some butter and cream so Marie could make a cake for the French guests we have coming tonight. I parked neatly in their generously sized parking area and entered the shop. When I came out a few minutes later, an obnoxious red 4WD was parked in the parking lot entrance.

It happens to us all the time. Once, early on, I went into a shop to pick up an item already paid for and when I came out less than a minute later, a similar 4WD had parked me in. I waited for 20 minutes for them to come back.

Almost everyone in our building now owns a car and there just isn’t enough space for them all in the compound, so most days we park inside, we find that someone has parked us in. Not knowing who owns which car or who lives in which flat, we have to sit on the horn until someone turns up to move the car. This is fine at 8:30 when people are awake and we have time to get where we’re going, but it’s not acceptable at 8:50 when Marie’s in a rush to get to work. It’s even worse at 4:20am when we have to go to the airport. We’ve taken to leaving the car on the street even if there are spaces available inside.

But this bloke yesterday was incredible. He could have left the car across the road and walked an extra 5m. He could have driven an extra 2m and parked properly. But he left the car right in the entrance, as if to show that he could. Probably a big shot or the son or wife of one. I went back into the shop and asked who’d parked me in. My tone wasn’t friendly. No answer. I went back out and checked that there was no way I could squeeze through. Not a chance. Back in the shop, I shouted out asking for the owner of the red 4WD. Someone pointed to a young bloke, not much over 20. He was just finished paying, looked up and said cockily, ‘yeah, that’s mine. What’s the problem?’ The last was said as he followed me out, as if he couldn’t see that he’d parked badly.

‘You’ve parked me in.’ I spoke as if talking to a halfwit, wondering if I was. I pointed at my car just in case he hadn’t noticed it.

‘How was I meant to know that was your car?’

Words almost failed me, but I managed a final coherent sentence before anger took over. ‘It doesn’t matter who’s car it is. Parked in. Move.’

‘You could be polite about it,’ he said, still not moving.

I should have said, ‘Is it polite to park the way you did?’ but all I could manage was a glare while I waited for him to move.

With the Bhutanese slow lifestyle and lack of experience with heavy traffic, it’s no real surprise that they don’t think of the trouble they cause with actions like this. To me, it’s rude and un-Buddhist, but to them it’s taking it easy.