READ THE smaller print
Three weeks away in southeast Asia, and already the rice paddies are waning in the mind’s eye, quicker than the tropical suntan. Thoese fugitive words of Laos and Vietnamese are also working loose: sayanora Sabadi, ciao xin jow.
But one keepsake that’s proving harder to shake is my insurance policy, all 29 pages of it. While our whirlwind assault on the Siamese peninsula was mostly hassle-free, we did strike one hiccup in the shape of a national rail strike. The Bangkok Post showed four Buddhist monks lolling on the platform, seeking deliverance, the same while us four flew Air Thai to Chiang-Mai, adding to unforeseen expenses.
Hoping to lodge the claim today, offsetting the bottom line by degrees, but first I need to navigate the policy’s glossary. Yes, that’s right, there exists even smaller print behind the small print. Just when you thought Home meant the roof over your head, or Journey was a trip from A to B, the hidden lexicon spells it like it is.
Words With Special Meanings, runs the heading. We, say, or Us, or Our, refers to Acme Insurers. (Not their real name, but I’m sure Wile E Coyote copped the same weasel words.)
You in this case is me, and the people(s) listed as adults on the accompanying document, while Accompanied Children is a different enchilada.
My two favourites are Limb: “means a hand at or above the wrist or a foot at or above the ankle.” And the even more sinister Permanent: “means a period of time lastin 12 consecuive months after the expiry of which We consider there is no prospect of improvement.”
So a caveat fellow traveller. Before you set nib to policy, ensure what your insurer [that is They] precisely understands by such terms as Stolen, Death, Train Strike and Bon Voyage. Or you may be getting home fresh from the land of Xin loy and tuk-tuk only to encounter even more alien semantics.