Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (43 page)

Joan went very pale and sank into her chair. I was in total shock. I asked Kun Paem to check with the lawyer. It can’t be the death sentence, I said. She walked over to the lawyer and I watched them exchange some words. I saw him nodding. When she came back to us, she explained that, yes, I had got the death penalty, but, because I had pleaded guilty, it had been commuted to life, which in Thailand is a sentence of 100 years. I thought to myself: Fuck, that is a death sentence in itself! How am I going to survive 100 years? By now Joan had broken down completely and was mumbling ‘It can’t be, it can’t be, I can’t believe it’ over and over again.

I was on the verge of tears now myself, but there was no way I was going to break down here. I tried to be strong, to be cheerful and to put up a brave front. I told Joan that there was some way we’d get out of this. There
had
to be a way.

By now our police escorts had informed us that we would have to go downstairs and be put back into the monkey cage. We all went downstairs together for the transfer to Bangkwang. I kept trying to reassure Joan, saying that she shouldn’t be too upset, that I had been expecting a life sentence, and that, somehow or sometime, I would get out before the 100 years was up. In spite of my internal torment, I tried to make her smile. She didn’t seem very convinced, but I could see she was a bit more relaxed by the fact that I seemed relatively composed.

We stayed in the cages until about lunchtime, and on my return to Klong Prem prison, I was given half an hour to get my stuff together. As soon as they saw me enter the building with my shackles on, all my friends knew I’d got 100 years. If anyone returned to prison still in shackles, it meant death or a life sentence. Anything less and the shackles would have been removed immediately. My things were already packed. I collected my bullet, went to the toilet and stuck my money, covered with Nivea cream, up my arse.

I was moved to Building 5, where my things were searched. They didn’t find the money concealed in the flask. After checking in at the office – normal procedure – I was thrown into a small cell with two Nigerians.

One of my new cellmates attempted to talk to me, but talking was the last thing I felt like doing. All I wanted to do was crawl into a corner and cry. In prison, loneliness is like a cancer. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of inmates, at the end of the day you are alone. I was often amazed at how easily complete strangers would share their whole life story with you. I wasn’t interested in how they’d got to prison, what crimes they had committed or what sentences they’d received. And at this particular point, I had my own shit to deal with. The Nigerian guy put his hand on my shoulder, saying that he understood what I was going through, adding, by way of comfort perhaps, that he had been in prison for over six years. I had no doubt that he could empathise with my situation, but
fuck
it, man, all I wanted was to be left alone. Over time, I would learn that there exists an understanding between prisoners that reaches beyond the bond of normal friendships.

I felt despondent, lonely and without hope. My thoughts kept turning to where my life had gone so wrong, all the way back to school. Surely schools were places where children got educated? Why had there been no programmes at my school to warn us kids of the consequences of drug use? I had so many questions. And now it seemed I was going to have a lot of time to search for the answers.

While I was waiting to be transferred, my sister managed to organise a contact visit every day. I hated every moment I spent behind bars, and having her there made a world of difference. Joan also had a lot of questions she wanted answers to. For one, she wanted to know how, when I was supposed to be taking a holiday, I had managed to get involved in smuggling drugs across continents. I maintained the lie I had told to the embassy, but for one reason only: to protect my family. If I told Joan the truth, that I had known what I was doing and had smuggled the heroin willingly, I thought she might abandon me.

My problem with drugs more than likely stretched back to when I was in my mother’s womb, but no matter how much I wanted to find somewhere else to place the blame, I kept arriving at the same conclusion, namely, that I had only myself to blame. I thought of my father Fritz, and I wished I could blame him for the way I was. After all, he was no better than a criminal himself for neglecting us as children. But I couldn’t blame him. We are all gifted with the ability to make our own choices; the rest we leave to fate. So far, I had made one wrong choice after the other, which led me to becoming who I was – a good-for-nothing drug addict and dealer. I knew then, just as I would take a stand when I believed I should, that I needed to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take the bull by the horns and acknowledge who I was and the path I had chosen that had brought me to this point. How I had managed to get away with my former lifestyle for so long had been pure luck. Now I was going to pay the price. When we commit a crime, generally we are aware of the repercussions if we get caught. The question was: how to do the time? I had two choices that I could see: I could either do good time or I could do bad time.

When I was a free man, back home in Joburg, one of my friends had received an 18-month stretch for housebreaking, and I remember thinking, fuck, 18 months is really a long time to be in prison. I heard of somebody else who had done six months, and even
that
had seemed long. Now here I was with this ridiculously long sentence, so disproportionate to the crime I had committed it was laughable, only it wasn’t funny. I mean, it wasn’t like I had
killed
someone. It just didn’t make sense.

It was at dark moments like this that I would feel the urge to get high, to push aside the painful memories, as well as everything that was going on around me, but for some reason things were different now. Somehow it was more important for me first to understand how I had come to be in prison, and then to make a decision as to how I was going to get to where I needed to go. Perhaps G-d could help me answer these questions, or perhaps I had to find the answers on my own. Whichever one it was, right then I needed to feel pain. I needed to
feel
the pain of losing my freedom because this pain made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before. This was the beginning of something I instinctively knew I still had to learn about.

That first night after my sentencing, I didn’t sleep, never even shut my eyes. In the cold light of day, it started to dawn on me. I began to understand that this was my retribution. After years and years of ruining the lives of those people I’d sold drugs to, this was my punishment. Surely this was poetic justice! I couldn’t cry about the situation. Hard as it was to admit it, I deserved what I got. By accepting that this was my karma, I was going to get through this. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. I am still alive, I told myself. I must never forget that.

My surroundings became a constant reminder of my reality, but the five dreary days and nights I spent in Building 5, with rusty leg irons attached to my ankles, went by relatively fast. Seeing my sister every day broke the monotony, too. She bought me everything I needed, from clothing and toiletries to luxury items such as chocolates and more chocolates. Everything that enters the prison gets thoroughly checked. The guards use a Stanley knife, cutting food items open, often breaking things. It’s really irritating, as it’s impossible to eat everything you might have been brought in a single day and food would go stale or off. What pissed me off the most, though, was when one of the guards cut the soles of a pair of Nike running shoes this way! There was nothing anyone could do about this. Respect for prisoners or their property was simply nonexistent.

I was sentenced the same day as the young American who had also been arrested at the airport. He had been carrying 4.5kg of heroin; I had been apprehended with 2.4kg. He received a 25-year jail sentence, while I got 100 years. The difference was that he had cooperated, while I hadn’t. The United States also has a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand, which means that if you are handed down a life sentence, you serve only eight years in a Thai jail and then you are transferred to a prison in your own country. If sentenced to anything less, you have to stay for a minimum period of four years before being transferred. In 1994, over 21 American citizens were arrested in Thailand on drug-related charges. The majority of them received 30-year sentences or less. While the US government finances the war on drugs in Thailand, they go to great lengths to ensure that their nationals are treated with leniency when they get arrested. They even grant their citizens a monthly allowance in the form of a loan.

Day six was when I was due to be transferred to the notorious Bangkwang prison, which is considered among the ten worst prisons in the world.

Besides the money I was carrying in my arse, I also still had the other 7 000 Thai baht hidden in my flask. Having cash on you in a Thai prison is illegal, and if you are caught not only is the money confiscated but also you are shackled and thrown into solitary confinement for a minimum of three to six months. Also, your class is reduced, which affects your chances of a sentence reduction when amnesties are granted. I knew what I was risking, but there was no way I was arriving at a new prison without cash. In this way, I wouldn’t have to depend on anyone for anything, and could get organised that much quicker. It was common knowledge that the cost of living in Bangkwang was very high. Not only was I street-smart by then, but I was a quick learner, too.

Another American guy, Cliff, was being moved to Bankwang the same day as me. He was about 1.8m tall, roughly my age, and the spitting image of Burt Reynolds – the actor, not my client back in Johannesburg. It was only the two of us in the prison transport vehicle this time, and about six armed guards. The vehicle had regular plastic-covered seats, like those on an ordinary bus, but the windows had steel bars on them and wire mesh covering the panes. You could still see outside, though, and there was something magical about the streets of Bangkok – from the many street vendors selling their freshly prepared food, the constant flow of pedestrians and the slow-moving traffic to the litter-strewn pavements. It was a world I was no longer part of, and might never get to see again. As we drove through the streets I was overwhelmed by a feeling of great sadness.

It was almost seven months since I was last in civilisation. It felt like years.

Adapt or Die

We arrived at the Big Tiger – Bangkwang Central Prison, my new home, also known as the Bangkok Hilton.

The driver pulled up in front of the now-familiar steel doors. The guards, armed with their rifles, stood around the truck as we disembarked. I thought it strange that they needed so many guards to prevent two prisoners, shackled
and
handcuffed, from escaping.

The gates opened into a driveway, with administration offices and a waiting room to one side. From there we were led through another set of double steel gates and into an open courtyard with rows of well-trimmed bushes and flowers. The road, on either side of which were the prison visit areas, extended for another 60m or so. Looming over us at the end was the infamous Bangkwang prison tower, where there was another checkpoint with more double steel gates. The security was unbelievable. Once inside, we came to a sort of crossroads: there was a road to the left, a road to the right, and a road straight ahead. On the right, in a fenced-in area, was the section where prisoners received parcels and mail; to the left was the security building; and in between the two there was a sliding gate through which deliveries to the prison were made. Beyond that was the actual prison compound.

We were taken to the security centre, where our things were checked by a couple of Blue Shirts. These trustees, motherfuckers, searched you more thoroughly than the guards did. I had all my stuff packed in two big plastic canvas bags. Our so-called beds, which comprised only blankets anyway, were ripped apart. They went through almost everything, opened my letters, tore open cigarette packets. Among my things were two
takraw
balls. When the Blue Shirt saw them, he smiled and asked me in Thai, ‘
Khun len dai
?’ (Do you play?)

I nodded, and said yes in English.

He seemed pretty impressed and his attitude towards me changed. Then, what I had dreaded most happened: he picked up the flask in which I had hidden my money. He started shaking it and holding it up to the light, examining it closely. Fuck, my heart started beating rapidly. I thought, oh no – I’m definitely going to get bust. At this stage all my things were scattered on the tarmac. I had five cartons of Marlboro cigarettes that Joan had bought for me. Cigarettes are a form of currency in prison, and many inmates have their visitors buy them cigarettes for this reason. Often the price in prison is much higher than the price outside, although sometimes it is lower, depending on supply and demand. Quickly, I bent over, tore open one of my cartons and passed the Blue Shirt two packets. His face lit up. The flask forgotten, he tossed it to one side, where it landed among all my other stuff, and thanked me. Shit, that was a close shave. I was sweating.