Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (44 page)

After we had repacked all our things, Cliff and I were escorted to Building 2. Being with another person made me feel a lot more secure than if I had been moved on my own. While I was in the other prisons, inmates often spoke about Bangkwang. It was said that if you had money you could procure almost anything.

There was one guard on duty, who was slouched in his chair with his feet propped on the table, and a Blue Shirt standing behind him massaging his neck. He seemed annoyed at first by the intrusion but he turned out to be quite friendly. It was late afternoon already, after lockdown, and close to the end of his shift. He didn’t bother to check our stuff, but he asked us, ‘
Khun mah jahk ny?
’ (Where do you come from, you?)

I told him Africa.

‘
Machai khun dum
,’ he said. At this stage I couldn’t really speak Thai, but I knew that
dum
was ‘black’ and
khun
was ‘person’. The man was fascinated by the fact that I was a white South African, believing that everybody from Africa should have a black skin.

The Blue Shirt escorted us to the office. We walked along a concrete pathway that stretched from one end of the building to the other, to the left of which was a small grass field with some trees and to the right an area where vegetables were grown. Running parallel to the pathway, along the east end wall, was a bakery. I later learnt that an American prisoner, in partnership with one of the guards, had paid for all the bakery equipment, which ran into thousands of dollars. Once the bakery was up and running, the unsuspecting American was transferred to another prison!

My luggage was heavy, and by now the rusty shackles had grazed the skin off the back of my heels, so I was taking strain while walking. After the vegetable patch there was a towel factory, and on the west side of the wall, near the office, was the shower area with the familiar horse troughs. The office area and dining hall were under one roof. In the dining hall I noticed there were these long, steel-framed wooden-topped tables, with benches attached to them. This was where some prisoners ate their meals and where others congregated to write letters, read books or nap on the benches. Just outside the office was a big tree with a cement bench built around it, and behind it was a small building containing the guards’ toilets. Further up was an open cemented courtyard with a basketball court in the centre. And finally, beyond that, was the double-storey building where the prisoners were housed.

Lockdown was at 3.30pm, so only a few inmates were still wandering around, mostly workers. The prisoner who was the secretary registered our names and allocated Cliff and me to cell number 45.

Just at that moment, a prisoner who was walking past stopped and introduced himself. His name was Mohammed and he was an Iranian. He welcomed us to Bangkwang. He also offered to keep our baggage for us in his ‘house’ till the morning and he helped me carry my things. We walked to the rear of the building where, about halfway up the wall, we could see an asbestos roof extending about 4m. The roof sheltered an area that was divided into sections where prisoners kept their lockers. Basically, they had made it into a place where they could hang out during the day. These places were called ‘houses’ and could be purchased at a price. Your house became your private property. Some of the long-sentence prisoners and the wealthier guys went as far as tiling the floor and even putting in ceilings. Owning such a place was limited to the more privileged prisoners.

Mohammed’s house was probably about 4m square. He had a small wooden table with matching stools and two deckchairs. Sitting in one of them was a Saudi Arabian guy, who turned out to be very friendly. The house next door, which was double the size of Mohammed’s, was where the Nigerians hung out. Many of them had already gone upstairs. Word had spread that two new foreigners had arrived, so those who were still mingling around wanted to meet us. Everybody was very friendly. It was almost time for everyone to be inside their cells, so they urged us to get a move on, but Cliff and I still wanted to shower. We quickly stripped down to our underwear – as quickly as taking off your shorts and slipping them through your chains will allow. Armed with our toiletries, shower bowl and towels, we made our way to the shower area. It had been a hectic day and I was exhausted. I was looking forward to freshening up with a nice shower. I also couldn’t wait to get to the cell so that I could remove the bullet from my rectum.

We placed our toiletries on the edge of the trough and prepared to freshen up. Once our eyes settled on the water, we were both struck speechless. We looked up simultaneously and stared at each other in utter shock. Then we looked back at the water. Besides being unpleasantly murky, stuck to the sides of the tank was a curtain of slimy green fungus and swimming in the water were dozens of small fish and tadpoles. I couldn’t believe it. This was polluted water, which was pumped to the prison from the Chao Phraya River across the road. The other prisons we’d been in had at least had clean water! One of the foreigners walked past, and I asked him whether we were expected to wash ourselves in this filthy muck. He told me not to worry, that tomorrow we could organise clean water. The only problem was that you had to pay for it. I wasn’t surprised about that part, as I knew by now that nothing in prison is for free. Fortunately, I had money and could live with that.

By the time we finished showering, all the other inmates were already in their cells. I still felt dirty, and in fact my skin was really itchy. Carrying our blankets and toiletries, we made our way upstairs to Room 45, which was also known as the foreigner room. It was about four rooms away from the stairway. The room chief allocated me a spot near the toilet. This toilet was raised off the ground, with a cement wall. When squatting, you were visible from your chest up. Rice bags sewn together were used as a curtain and offered a degree of privacy. There were approximately 21 inmates in this cell, and we had the standard-size beds made from blankets sewn together. Our beds would often overlap. We had no option but to sleep shoulder to shoulder, all crammed together. Sometimes, when inmates changed rooms or someone was moved to another building or transferred to another prison, more space would open up and you could manage a few centimetres between beds.

On my right was a British guy and on my left was an old man of about 65, who was a French Israeli. Sleeping directly opposite me was a Nepalese, next to him were two Singaporeans, and in the corner opposite was an Iranian. Next to him was a Liberian. There were also Burmese, Malaysians, Japanese, Germans, Spanish, Americans and one Chinese guy. Most of these men were drug offenders. Being so far from home, it was of tremendous comfort to me being among people who spoke English. You didn’t actually need to speak Thai, in fact, as there were many Thais there who also spoke reasonable English.

Out of a total of 900 prisoners, I was one of almost 200
farang
s (foreigners), including the Asians.

Through the steel bars of our cell, we could see into the corridor and to the cells opposite ours. Because of overcrowding, prisoners also slept in the corridor, but this privilege was mainly afforded to the Blue Shirts. Then there were also the Thai Big Legs, and some of the Chinese, who had a lot more space. Some of them had beds double the size of those of the people in the cells. They even had foam mattresses that were about two inches thick.

The corridor was noisy as hell. There was a TV outside almost every second cell. I don’t know why, but they all turned the volume up high, and each one was on a different channel. Some of the inmates ran businesses in the corridor, one selling coffee, another selling noodle soup with vegetables, and so on; others offered a sort of sweet jelly which they sold cold.

Once I had settled in, I went to the toilet. Getting the bullet out of my arse was extremely unpleasant, as I discovered it had lodged itself sideways. After sticking my finger up and manoeuvring the bullet into an upright position I finally managed to force it out. I then washed the shit off my hands and the bullet, dried it on my towel, unwrapped it and placed the money safely in my pocket. The plastic and the insulation tape I flushed away.

Down the centre of our cell there was enough space to walk to the bars at the front. One of the Chinese guys who slept next to the bars in the corridor asked me in English if I wanted something. I told him I was starving. I wanted two noodle soups, one for me and one for Cliff. He said, no problem, he would order for me. He asked if I had money to pay and I said I did. He seemed surprised, as we all knew money in prison was illegal. When changing prisons, it was extremely risky to smuggle money as the chances of being caught were very high. Bangkwang was the third prison I’d been in and I had learnt the system very fast: if you had money, you had power. Borrowing was also an option, and there were loan sharks in prison, some of whom charged interest, but lending gave them leverage over you. This practice was best avoided, if possible. Anything for free in prison was really very expensive.

A Thai prisoner came to our cell with a tray. He slipped an empty metal bowl through the bars and used a cup to ladle noodles, vegetables and a few fish balls into the bowl. Then, holding the metal bowl against the bar, he poured boiling water over the mixture from a flask, and then placed a lid on top, allowing the noodles a few minutes to soften in the water. He also passed me some chopsticks, a spoon and a small bowl of fresh chillies in soy sauce. It was amazing. A 24-hour takeaway service. The soup was not very filling, but it was tasty. I could feel its warmth lining my stomach.

After my little snack I returned to my space and sat there for a while, familiarising myself with the people who would now become my roommates. There’s something very similar about prisoners’ eyes. You can see their suffering in the way they look; it’s like there’s a deep emptiness. I suppose that isn’t unexpected. Being so far from home in a foreign prison is really tough, and not having any support or being able to see your families sometimes for years on end is hard. I felt sad. This was how I would look in years to come, I thought. I would get this lost look in my eyes, too.

Eventually I lay down to try and take a little nap, but, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep in such close proximity to somebody else. It felt like my airspace was being invaded. I stretched out my legs, closed my eyes and allowed my mind to wander. What I really felt like was getting high. While at Klong Prem I had managed to score some hashish, which I didn’t really enjoy smoking because it invariably gave me a headache. I preferred to eat it, allowing it to dissolve in my mouth, and it was a far better high that way.

The old French Israeli man on my left had his back facing me. I was just beginning to doze off when he let out the loudest fart you ever heard. Boom! And then another! Fuck, I could feel the heat from his arse, not to mention the disgusting smell that made me want to throw up. I sat up so fast! I tapped him on the shoulder, pointing towards the toilet, and said, ‘Go into the toilet if you want to fart.’ The old man sat up, too. He was so angry he even lifted his hand to slap me. I couldn’t believe his audacity. I put my finger in his face and said, ‘Take it easy, old man, you’re going to get hurt.’ By this time the whole room’s attention was on us. He muttered something in Hebrew, no doubt cursing me, but then he rolled over, facing away from me, and went back to sleep. A lot of the guys, specially the non-smokers, used to wear these surgical masks. I thought to myself: tomorrow, at the top of my list of things to do, I have to get some masks made or I will never survive sleeping next to this old man.

It was impossible to get a good night’s sleep. I was still not used to the light being on all night in our room, and the hard concrete was very uncomfortable. As always, I tossed and turned the whole night and didn’t really sleep much. At 5am the room chief woke us all up. Across the corridor I noticed everybody else was still asleep. The extra early rising was obviously part of our room chief’s personal routine. We had to roll up our blankets, push them against the wall, and then, using a straw broom, the chief proceeded to sweep the floors. The guys who smoked used small bottles with lids for ashtrays, and these they emptied in the dustbin, which was next to the steps to the toilet.

By 6am the room chief was finished cleaning and dusting, and we all sat around like idiots until 6.40 when the cell doors were opened. I was not happy about having a prisoner telling me what time to wake up in the morning and then having to sit around idly with no particular purpose before the doors were opened. This was another problem I would have to solve really soon.

At the end of the corridor, by the stairway, was a security gate that was locked every night. Downstairs, at the entrance to the building, was another security gate that was padlocked with chains and a heavy metal bar. Escape would be rather difficult, although I contemplated this many times. It would be pretty much impossible to escape without outside help, I reckoned. In the morning a guard would open the two sets of security gates, then a Blue Shirt, known as a key-boy, would open each cell – first, one on the left, then on the right, then on the left again, and so forth. The prisoners always rushed to get downstairs to start their daily activities. Those prisoners who didn’t have any visitors to bring them stuff, or have any financial support, had to work. These were mainly the Thais and the other Asians. They worked as cleaners, dishwashers, laundry boys, ice collectors, water carriers and masseurs. The Thais were also required to work in the factories. They were paid ridiculous wages, which I don’t think exceeded more than R30 a month, which wasn’t even US$4 in 1994. Some of the wealthier Thais could pay the guard in charge of that particular factory to get out of working.

After being caught in the flow of human traffic to get out of the building, Cliff and I made our way to Mohammed’s house, where we had coffee and he offered us breakfast. First on my agenda was organising a locker to keep my stuff in. Second was clean water for drinking and showering. As it turned out, Mohammed, who had been in Bangkwang for about three years already, and was about ten years my junior, was highly resourceful and he had the respect of the guards and prisoners alike. I got talking to the Nigerian guys, Mohammed’s neighbours, across the waist-high wooden fence that separated the houses. As fellow Africans, the Nigerians were most welcoming towards me. There were about 40 of them living there. By the time I’d finished my coffee, I had struck up friendships with almost all of them. The first thing they wanted to know was whether I played football. I have to say they were a good bunch of guys. One or two whispered in my ear that there was plenty of heroin if I was so inclined, and credit was no problem. It was hard to resist. I had just received a life sentence. To be honest, I would have loved to have got fucked out of my head. An inner voice was guiding me, however, and I simply said, ‘No, thanks, but I wouldn’t mind some hashish.’