Scam Sagas: Buying a TV Without Its Remote
Buying a major appliance or gadget in Lebanon can be a
telling lesson in both ethics and the treatment of women as second-class
citizens, as I recently unearthed.
Unlock other stories in the Scam Sagas:
Falling Victim to a Company's Lack of Business Ethics
Social Media Gone Wrong: Can You Relate?
Lebanese Restaurant Wars: Scam or Not?
Next in Beirut Scam Line-up: Al Falamanki
Scam Slam
We were shopping around for a Smart TV. You know the sort: Ultra High Definition broadcast, 4K resolution,
65-inch screen. In short, state-of-the-art technology. Blame my husband’s Netflix fetish and occasional PlayStation dabbles
– these pastimes can command a pretty penny!
After comparing prices at the big retailers like Khoury Home
and Agha Sarkissian, we were directed to a discount liquidator in Zouk Mosbeh
who has apparently been thriving for years. Lo and behold, our TV of preference listed at 10% off published prices
elsewhere. A one-year manufacturer’s warranty was also guaranteed.
Done. Bought. We were thrilled at the savings.
In fact, we left the shop with close to US$ 4,500 in
purchases to equip our new flat in Greater Beirut. The tally included a refrigerator,
washer, dryer, microwave, and two UHD TVs.
A couple of days later, a duo of servicemen arrived
to our home to install the items. I oversaw their work.
One dealt with the kitchen appliances, while the other took to mounting the TVs
on the walls.
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| Photo source |
There were inevitably a few hiccups – the need to introduce
a separate outlet for the dryer, positioned just above the washer; a faucet to feed
into the washer; an adapter to accommodate the fridge's British three-pronged plug.
Everything we managed within reason, except the electricity shortfall which
left us unable to test any appliance. Our subscription to the neighborhood
generator, alternatively known as “moteur,” hadn’t yet kicked in.
Expectedly, things took a little longer than the technicians
had allotted for, and toward the end they were hasty. So hasty in fact that
they almost threw out one of the warranty slips, which I had to retrieve as
they were dragging out the cardboard boxes for disposal.
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| The boxes were ushered out before I had a chance to scour them |
One thing they did succeed to discard was the Magic Remote
of the 65” LG UHD 4K TV (mouthful of acronyms there!).
Unfortunately, the realization didn’t set in until the next day, when I
returned to the house to test for proper functionality of all the items.
As soon as I made the startling discovery, I dialed one of
the servicemen.
“I left it on the table, Miss,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“No,” I refuted. “It’s not here. It’s nowhere to be found.”
It hadn’t taken me long to search the vacant house, which
heretofore had only been outfitted with appliances and beds. Seeing as I wasn’t
making any progress with the technician, I contacted the shop owner.
“But didn’t you test out the TV after it was installed?” he
asked sensibly.
Only in Lebanon can the electricity be employed as a valid
scapegoat for many predicaments.
I relayed to him how the technicians had been impetuous and had thus swept out the boxes before I could account for all the
warranties. The remote and user guide must have remained in the TV box, which
was likely being buried in a landfill by now.
As in seemingly much disbelief as I found myself in, the
owner promised to order me a replacement remote the following Monday. How long
would it take for its arrival, I queried? Just a day or two, he insisted.
A day or two elapsed, and still no word, naturally. So I rang
him.
It rang and rang until on the seventh ring, a feisty lady
picked up. “He’s out to lunch,” she growled. At 3:30 PM? “Call him back after
5.”
This wasn’t the time to channel ego, so I dialed back at 5:15.
The owner answered and said to come fetch the remote Thursday at 3 PM.
With German-like punctuality, I pulled up to the shop at the
appointed time, bumping into the salesman who’d so persuasively sold us the TVs
and appliances.
I explained the situation to him, and suspicion crept across
his face as he pulled out his phone to call the owner. He retreated to a corner
of the shop and spoke in huddled whispers before hanging up and instructing
another employee to go upstairs and bring me the remote control.
Minutes later, the wrong remote was pressed into my hands. “This
can’t be it,” I sighed in exasperation. “It looks identical to the remote for
the 43”-TV we purchased, and I’m sure it’s not the same one.”
“Oh, but it is,” the salesman smiled wryly. “All the
televisions in the UHD 4K series share the same remote.”
“Where did you get this?” I prompted.
“I pulled it out of the 55”-TV box, because I didn’t want to
keep you waiting. The one we ordered for you hasn’t come in yet.”
“So you haven’t ordered it then.”
“We have, and it’s due to arrive today. It
could be any minute now. Or it could linger until evening. And we don’t want to
inconvenience you further.”
“Sir, I’ve waited a solid week without a remote. I can wait
a few more hours. Here’s my mobile number. Call me. I’ll be circling the area.”
Did he call back?
Of course not.
I let 24 hours elapse before I zipped back to Zouk Mosbeh the next day, Friday.
To my horror, the remote had still not
materialized. You’d think the LG warehouse were in Arsal or, better yet,
war-torn Syria, that it needed more than a week to deliver. The drive from Nahr
el Mot to Zouk Mosbeh didn’t merit more than an hour during peak traffic, so
what the hell was going on?
Again, rather condescendingly, both salesman and owner
attempted to reassure me that this was the very same remote, and that I was
being unjustifiably obstinate.
I finally acquiesced and took the spare remote home.
Did the TV recognize it?
Of course not.
By this time, it was clear that only minced words and a masculine
display of aggression would resolve the debacle.
So my husband and I drove up
to Zouk Mosbeh early Saturday morning. I waited for Jimmy in the car as he went
inside and communicated his point.
He returned the defunct remote to the owner and told him to
come collect the TV, that we no longer wanted it and that we’d made a sore
mistake shopping at his outlet to begin with. When the owner, near hysterics, promised
Jimmy that the original remote would reach our possession the coming Monday or
Tuesday, Jimmy lashed out that it had better be Monday.
We drove down to the LG showroom to seek clarity. One of the
salesman was amused by our story, which screamed nonsense every time we
recounted it. He carefully cut open a box housing the same TV we’d acquired and
brandished the remote so that we could discern the difference between the sham
and the original.
Then in a moment of eureka, he handed us the portable phone
and told us to dial the shop owner. We were to explain that we were visiting
the LG showroom and could pick up the remote he’d ordered, sparing him from the
so-called wait time he had claimed was beyond his control.
Bizarrely enough, one of his employees had been
dispatched on our heels to the warehouse to obtain the remote, and we intercepted him
on-site. Finally, the correct Magic Remote surfaced, and we took it home. That was effortless.
Moral of the story? Doing the right thing only takes a
second. Had the shop owner been honest and genuine, we would have had the
original remote the same or next day after ordering it. Instead, he elected to
defer, particularly because it was a gullible, patient woman, i.e., me, playing
gofer. As soon as my husband flexed some muscle, action was taken and the
remote was transferred to our custody.
Second moral of the story? Ladies, we have a long way to go
around here before we attain real clout.
Falling Victim to a Company's Lack of Business Ethics
Social Media Gone Wrong: Can You Relate?
Lebanese Restaurant Wars: Scam or Not?
Next in Beirut Scam Line-up: Al Falamanki
Scam Slam
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Before I tell you about my own sob story, I wish you had named the store so we all knew about it. (I know, I know, that could be problematic. But what the hell, do it!)
ReplyDeleteSome ten years ago, on one of my frequent visits to Lebanon, I decided to finally purchase a TV set for my mother who, like most old people, had fought the idea of acquiring a new set every time I brought up the subject. Back then, I had no knowledge of Khoury Home or Abed Tahan or the other big retailers. All I knew there was no Best Buy or Circuit City. However, there was a nicely decorated independent electronics store two blocks from her house. I went in, saw a 50-inch Sony, liked it, and, even though I knew the price was too high, I forked out the thousand dollars, brought the TV home, installed it and showed my skeptical mother how to use it. In a few days, after seeing the difference in picture and sound, my mom’s frown lines were gone. She was glad to have the new TV.
On my subsequent visit one year later, I noticed at the bottom of the screen that the letter S was peeling off and the letter Y had already been gone. All that was left from S O N Y was - O N - . Additionally, I discovered that you had to raise your arm high up and twist your wrist several times before the remote could command the TV set to turn on or change channels. (That explained my mother’s bursitis and her subsequent ulcer, due to the anti-inflammatory drug she had to take. No joke.)
I will make the rest of the story short. The shop gave me the typical Lebanese song and dance. I had no stomach for that. I took the TV set to the SONY dealer in Beirut (My mother lives in Tripoli). The technician duly compared the serial number to the list on his computer screen. The room got quiet. I heard a whimper followed by a gulp, and I saw a simultaneous wince on his face, much like what your LG guy probably had. The TV set had been smuggled into the country, I found out. It wasn’t even a Sony.
Merchants in Lebanon (OK, most, not all, merchants in Lebanon), just like drivers (OK, most, not all, drivers) in Lebanon, are bala akhla2! They are like vultures. Vultures don’t care whether their prey is female or male. Similarly, Lebanese merchants would lie to you as effortlessly as greet you; they screw you over without one twinge of conscience, whether you’re a man, a woman, or transsexual.
So the moral of my sob story: Go to big retailers and pay a little more. That would reduce the chances of getting duped by those SOBs and feeling remorse over a remote.