Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (39 page)

Besides a couple of items of clothing and basic toiletries, all our belongings were tagged, bagged and taken away to be stored. I managed to hide the last of my US dollars under the cardboard lining of my sports bag. Trousers were not allowed in the prison, so I was forced to cut my Levi’s at the knees, and all long-sleeved jersey shirts had to have their sleeves cut off. I didn’t have much clothing anyway, as most of it had disappeared from my luggage between the airport and the holding cells. The police were apparently notorious for stealing the belongings of people they arrested, but there was nothing to be done about that. I also kept in my possession a blue beach towel Joan had lent me, and which she’d got as a tenth wedding anniversary gift, and thank goodness I did. That towel would become part of my bedding for the next six months. I had three pairs of underpants, a pair of swimming shorts, three T-shirts and some toiletries – shaving stuff, a toothbrush, dental floss.

Still naked, we stood around for hours before we were allowed to get dressed. Then we were marched round the side of the hospital building, where we were greeted by a well-built Thai prisoner (a trustee) who was responsible for fitting and attaching leg irons to the prisoners. These were thick steel rings with a chain attached to them. First we were put into a steel contraption rather like a vice, and then this lever was pulled down, tightening the steel ring over the bottom of your leg. Once it was in place, the trustee took a 10lb steel hammer and pounded the rings until they closed so tightly it was impossible to slip them off your feet. With every blow of the hammer, I visualised him missing and smashing the bones of my legs.

I was thousands of miles from home and every new stage of what had happened to me so far had seemed more bizarre than the next. But what impacted me most was having to wear shackles. Surely this was a violation of one’s rights? It was inhuman. I felt completely demoralised by this indignity, reduced to nothing.

After that, we were taken to Building 1, which was also the check-in point for all new prisoners. By now it was completely dark. We were taken to a cell upstairs, which already held about 50 Thai prisoners. None of us had bedding – there wasn’t enough space for everybody – and we all sat around, almost on top of one other. Those of us who wanted to sleep would have to do so in shifts, so, while some of us stood or sat around, others slept. I felt sorry for the American kid. I told him that he could sleep because there was no way I was going to be able to, and that I would keep an eye out in case something went down. We were the only two foreigners there and everybody seemed to be staring at us. In Western culture staring is rude; the Thais don’t have a problem with it. In the early part of the evening the American and I got chatting and he told me where he came from, about his family and how he got involved in being a drug mule.

Some time later, I noticed one of the new prisoners, a young boy who had been on the truck with us, being escorted to the toilet by about five Thais. The toilet was at the rear end of the cell, built up off the ground and in a very small enclosure. On each of the corners was a small steel pipe which ran about a metre off the wall. Material torn from plastic rice bags and tied around these pipes acted like a curtain, so you couldn’t see anything behind it, but you could hear everything that went on inside.

I thought to myself, this is where the raping starts, but the young boy didn’t seem to be protesting. He went inside and the Thais lined up. Then, one by one, they fucked him. There were no screams of protest, and after they were finished I heard splashing water. A minute or so later, the young boy exited the toilet and, looking shamefaced, went to a place at the far end of the cell where some of the other Thais seemed to befriend him. It seemed that everybody wanted a piece of his ass.

After that, a feminine-looking guy was subjected to the same sexual abuse. Without thinking, I made eye contact with one of the guys who had fucked him. He made a gesture to me, pulling his index finger from ear to ear across his throat. The meaning wasn’t lost on me and I looked away. Challenging him would be crazy. I was totally outnumbered here. The feminine-looking guy, I couldn’t help noticing, also had breasts. Still, I was not about to interfere. I stayed awake most of the night, dozing off from time to time. Everyone was sleeping on top of one another.

Eventually it was morning. All the new arrivals were taken downstairs and again we waited around doing nothing. Finally, we were lined up for haircuts. I wanted to cry when my long ponytail was chopped off and it was back to army style. Since being arrested and held at the police station, I had started growing a moustache. I thought it would make me look different. After the haircut we lined up again at the office, where we were given medical tests, which consisted of our heart rate being listened to, followed by a medic (who was also a prisoner) shoving a wooden spatula into our mouths and looking down our throats. What the fuck he expected to see, I don’t know. We also had our eyes tested and then filled out more papers asking whether we had tattoos, any major deformities or any previously broken bones.

At about ten o’clock food arrived in giant aluminium pots. I was starving. I didn’t know what kind of food to expect, but I joined the queue anyway. As I got near to the front I was hit by this stinky odour. On close examination, I saw that one of the pots had small pieces of dried fish in it. To me, the smell was disgusting, but the Thais were almost fighting one another to get to it. All it did was make me feel nauseous. In the other pots there was red rice, which looked like it was full of weevils. Hungry as I was, I simply couldn’t bring myself to eat. I guessed I wouldn’t be having breakfast.

I decided to walk around and familiarise myself with the terrain. What really shocked me were the communal toilets. These were housed in an open shed, and consisted of two rows of ten sunken-in toilets, the back and front rows separated by a low wall, not even a metre high, so you could easily see the person behind you. The toilets themselves were divided by even lower walls. I tried to imagine ten prisoners all taking a crap at the same time, so close they could touch each other, and it made me feel more nauseous than the dried fish had done.

At the rear of the building was the shower area. It looked like a horse trough, about 2m wide and 25m long, and about a metre deep. Running close to the outside wall was an open sewerage system. (I would learn that whatever was flushed down the toilets would work its way along the wall to a vault.) In front of the toilets, where the steps were, was a tank filled with water. Using the plastic bowl the prison provided, each person would manually scoop water to flush his shit and wash his bum. While in a squatting position, you’d use your right hand to scoop the water and your left to wash your ass. Some prisoners used the same bowl to shower, to brush their teeth and to put their food in.

The prisoners who were dressed in blue uniforms were trustees, and they worked for the guards. Actually, most of the work was done by them. The prisoners referred to them as Blue Shirts. In my eyes they were motherfuckers.

Just after midday, we had our fingerprints and our photographs taken and we were each given a prison number. Mine was 562/37. Once all the new prisoners were registered, we were moved to different buildings. I was sent to Building 5 and my American friend to Building 4. We didn’t want to get split up, so I went to the guards and asked if we couldn’t be together. Earlier in the day, I had befriended another foreigner who had reported sick to the hospital, and through talking to him I’d learnt that Building 4 was full of Westerners. Unfortunately, the guards weren’t very accommodating.

Although I had been ordered to go to Building 5, I thought I’d chance it, and so I walked to Building 4 instead. A couple of foreigners came up to greet me, asking where I was from. It really warmed my heart to see that I wasn’t entirely alone. I couldn’t believe that there were so many Westerners in this Thai jail. It was a real culture shock. The trustee at the gate started shouting at me, insisting that I was supposed to have gone to Building 5 – not that I understood a word he said, but I got the idea. I would have preferred to be with the American kid because I instinctively felt that two were stronger than one. Once again, I experienced that childhood fear of the unknown when changing schools and having to make new friends. I was already a stranger in a strange land. I felt lost and abandoned. And now it felt like I was going to lose my only friend.

I was escorted to Building 5 by the Blue Shirt, and was greeted at the gate by one of Building 5’s trustees, and then taken to the Building Chief. The chief was a good-looking man in his early fifties, and by Thai standards relatively tall. He was well groomed and light in complexion. He was also friendly and seemed to show a little understanding towards the prisoners. He welcomed me and put out his hand, which I shook warily. I have always been suspicious of anyone in a position of authority.

The Building Chief wore the standard beige uniform, with stars and a crown on his shoulder straps. The staff of most government departments in Thailand wear uniform, as do bus drivers, conductors and ambulance drivers. In South Africa, prison guards were considered to be on one of the lowest rungs of society’s ladder, so I was surprised to see that being a prison guard in Thailand carried some prestige. I was later to learn that the guards were well educated and that some even had university degrees. But they could also pay money, hard cash, for a promotion. It was a very corrupt system.

The Blue Shirt who took me to the Building Chief’s office looked healthier than most of the other prisoners, I thought. He had a dark complexion and I noticed he had a dragon tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The man looked rugged, like he had been in prison for a long time. His eyes showed no emotion and his manner was cold and distant. When Thais are in positions of authority, they often display anger and hostility towards foreigners.

‘
Phut Thai dai my
?’ (Speak Thai, do you?) the Building Chief asked. Having heard the same words about a thousand times by now, I answered, ‘I no speak Thai, I speak English.’ I don’t know why he expected I could speak the language. He instructed the trustee to call a translator, who was there in a matter of minutes. The translator was a prisoner serving a 25-year sentence for smuggling cocaine into Thailand. His name was Tom-Li, and when he introduced himself I was surprised to hear him speak English with an American accent. He seemed to be well educated and he told me he had lived for many years in America. I took an instant liking to him. It felt good to know that there was someone who spoke both English and Thai, because I’d realised that the language barrier was going to be a serious impediment. Things were starting to look up a little. Maybe I wasn’t so lost after all. I thought Tom-Li could be my new best friend; that was until I discovered, like a day later, that he was an informer for the DEA. Isn’t life just full of surprises? Just when you think things are looking up, you discover you need to look elsewhere.

I didn’t know this yet, of course, and as Tom-Li translated for him, the Building Chief took down some notes. He asked which country I was from, asked about my case, what quantity of drugs I had been caught with, my age. He told me he wanted no trouble from me and that I must follow the rules. He didn’t like drugs. If I was unhappy about anything I should come and see him. With that, he gestured to us to get out of his office.

After that, I was taken to another office, where there was a prisoner in charge of administration. Again I was asked my name, country, case, how much heroin I’d been caught with, my home address, family details etc. Once I was finished, Tom-Li explained a few things to me. I was then given my cell number, and told that I’d been registered to the paper factory, where I would be required to fill a quota of 50 paper bags a day.

I asked Tom-Li if there were any other foreigners in Building 5. He said there were two Nigerians, an Indian, three Singaporeans and two or three guys from Hong Kong. This information gave me some comfort. He pointed me in the direction where I would find the Nigerian guys, and said he would be available if I needed anything.

As foreign prisoners were ‘free’ to do what they liked until afternoon lockdown, I thought I might as well get to know my new environment, so I took a walk around. All the buildings in Bombat prison were L-shaped, designed and constructed identically. At the entrance on the right was a small open temple, with four pillars and a terracotta-tiled roof. Inside was a statue of Buddha. To the left was a concrete parade ground with white lines painted on it, demarcating the boundaries of what I thought might be a badminton court.

As I walked further, I passed beneath the first floor of the building, which was on concrete stilts. This was where the guards’ office was, and also a first-aid room. Just through the other side to the right was the shower area, with its horse trough. There were a number of factories within the prison, and I would get to know which was which in time. The clothing factory had about 50 sewing machines – old Singers, the ones with the wooden surface. The hum and buzz from the machines going all day was quite irritating. The paper bag factory was just in front of the temple. All foreigners were registered to work there. If you didn’t want to work, you could pay a Thai a couple of cigarettes to do your quota for you. Behind the clothing factory, to the left of the back of the building was a small factory where prisoners made the gold paper that the Chinese use for burning at funerals. To prepare the gold paper they used a chemical that was highly toxic.

There was nowhere to sit in the paper bag factory, no chairs, whereas in the gold paper factory they had these wooden benches, which made the place far more comfortable. Shortly after I arrived at the prison, I joined this factory as well as the paper bag one. I thought if I kept my mind occupied I wouldn’t think so much about my dire situation. I hated every minute of it, every hour of every day. I probably worked there for three or four weeks before I realised that the other foreigners weren’t happy about this. One of them approached me and explained that I was setting a precedent for the prison authorities. Next thing, all foreigners would have to work. So I resigned and my days of therapeutic hard labour came to an abrupt end.