Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (48 page)

One morning, a few of the foreigners were congregated around the office in our building. I couldn’t quite make out what the fuss was about, but on closer investigation I worked out that there were some new foreigners – four Nigerians and two Britons – who had been sent to our building from Building 10. One of the British guys was Ryan, the other Peter, and both of them had been arrested on drug-related charges and had been in prison for at least two years. The reason they had gone to solitary confinement was that they had tested positive for heroin in a urine test. Ryan had been living in Thailand for over ten years and had run his own guest house. It makes you wonder why so many foreigners who live in Thailand, and who know that the Thai government imposes the death penalty for drug trafficking, still get involved in smuggling. Had I known the consequences, I would never have come to the damn country.

In room 45 we were already up to 20 inmates. There was no space for more bodies. Ryan and the other guys were put into a Thai room downstairs. The average Thai is smaller than a
farang
and the Thai rooms could have anything up to 26 people to a cell. Having their beds overlapping or sleeping almost on top of each other never seemed to bother them. Thais are affectionate people, too, and for two guys to be walking around holding hands was not suggestive of anything but friendship. One other problem about staying in a Thai room was that a lot of these guys had tuberculosis. Many of the prisoners who had no money smoked a cheap tobacco called
yatung
, which they rolled in regular paper. Each cell had one or two ceiling fans, and, as the air circulated, particles of burning paper would fly around the cell, often landing on your bed and burning holes in your bedsheet. And of course you would breathe the microscopic particles into your lungs.

Ryan wasn’t at all happy with his new accommodation. He approached the prison authorities to buy a room, which he wanted to limit to 18 occupants, Western foreigners only. He went about choosing his new roommates. He offered me a place in the cell, which would cost me a one-off payment of 2 000 Thai baht. The money would be put towards buying a new 72cm TV. The prospect of staying only with Western foreigners was enticing. The only problem for me was that more than half of the guys who would be in the room were on heroin. I had a difficult decision to make. Either I remained in an overcrowded cell with Asian foreigners and Jimmy endlessly scratching the sores off his skin, or I could move into a private cell with a room full of junkies. It was still early days, and the threat of relapsing and becoming a heroin addict was a very real one for me. I didn’t think I would be able to resist the temptation, so I declined the offer.

Back in Johannesburg, my sister had been forced to get a job so that she could continue to send me money. Without money in a Thai prison, my chances of survival were slim to nil, but all she could afford to send me was R900 a month. In 1995 this would have been about 4 000 Thai baht. One meal a day cost me 1 200 Thai baht, clean shower water was 500, drinking water was 150, cigarettes about 700 for the month, laundry 150, and the remainder went towards odds and ends like the cleaning of the room and the occasional hiring of a video. The money Joan sent me was wired through the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pretoria, and then to the South African embassy in Bangkok, who then either deposited it in my prison account or bought the equivalent in cigarettes. They were always late with these payments, which meant I was forever in debt to my Iranian friend Mohammed. Although he was a good guy, and I always settled my debts, he capitalised on the fact that he helped me: whenever I got a parcel from home I would let him choose something. That was just how things worked in prison.

In the middle of February 1995, the footballers were informed by an official notice that in March the prison would be hosting the annual inter-building tournament. There was great excitement among the sportsmen. Training would begin from 9am next day. This comprised running for at least seven minutes, after which we would loosen up, stretch and do some military-style exercises. I took charge of the exercises. At the time I was still smoking cigarettes, and it was only a year since I had subjected my body to all that drug abuse. Even though I’d been jogging and playing football most days, that first day the training was so intense that later, in the confines of my cell, I broke out in a cold sweat. My body began to shake and ache all over; I covered myself with the towel that I used as a blanket. Once you were locked in your cell, you were on your own. There was no such thing as calling the guards if you got sick.

One of my cellmates noticed that I wasn’t well and he gave me two paracetamol tablets. Whenever an inmate was sick and would report to the hospital, it didn’t matter what your problem was; the doctor, who was an old retired Chinese man, who I doubted had ever got his medical degree, prescribed paracetamol for everything. It was a joke. Generally, prisoners feared being admitted to the hospital, where at least one patient died every week. It was also believed they performed euthanasia on patients who required expensive medication. Another rumour was that medicines donated by embassies were stolen and sold to private hospitals outside the prisons. I survived the night, but I’d never experienced such a fever in my entire life. Although I’d not slept much, my temperature in the morning seemed to be normal.

That morning, all the footballers, Thais and foreigners, were called to a meeting. We needed to raise at least 20 000 Thai baht to be able to purchase football uniforms for two full teams. Each player was asked to pledge a donation. Alternatively, we could collect and raise money from other prisoners. I was not happy about doing this. It was like borrowing money. One of my Taiwanese friends happily gave me 1 000 Thai baht, and in return he asked me to please make sure his name would be on the list to go to the football field on the opening day. Before I accepted, I thought it would be prudent to check with FIFA, the name of the committee that was arranging everything. I was assured it would be no problem, and so I gave my word. In prison, all you have is your word. Once you fuck somebody over, everybody gets to know about it and your reputation is ruined. The guys avoid you like the plague.

Even though I had confirmed it the day before, my friend’s name was not on the list on opening day. What made things worse was that he was all dressed and ready to go. He was really pissed off with me. The chairman of the committee, a fellow foreigner, had let me down, but there was nothing I could do. It ruined my friendship and I ended up giving the guy back his donation.

With the help of the Building Chief, who was a football fanatic, enough funds were raised from the prisoners to support two teams, and the big day arrived. Many of the players had already been wearing their uniforms since the night before. Besides the 22 sportsmen who would go to Building 14, each team was allowed to take 20 spectators along. Those guys who hadn’t given a donation towards the uniforms had to pay 100 Thai baht for the day’s outing. This money was used to pay for the guards to escort us to the field, for the referee and also for the refreshments for the players. I found it hard to accept that the prisoners had to pay for everything, but that was just the way it was.

Most of the buildings had entered two teams in the competition. There were over 300 Nigerians in Bangkwang at that time, and most of them were keen footballers. Everyone converged on the football field. All the teams marched onto the field in single file, each building’s flag held high, and lined up. It was a huge event. A podium had been erected and a microphone set up where the vice-commander of Bangkwang gave his speech. ‘
Awk kumlekai
’ (exercise) and ‘
sookarpad di
’ (health) were the few words I recognised. Obviously he was emphasising how important exercise was in maintaining one’s health in prison. The words ‘
yar septic
’ (drugs) also popped up here and there. I kind of chuckled to myself at the hypocrisy of it all. The prison was flooded with drugs, and it was mainly the guards who were were bringing them in! And praising the benefits of exercise and sports was all very well, but it was the prisoners who had to cough up for everything – this grand event included.

Despite the double standards, the system worked. Corruption served its purpose: the guards put money in their pockets and the prisoners enjoyed a better quality of life. Or rather, those who could afford it reaped the benefits of a corrupt system.

Sporting events such as this football tournament were a welcome distraction from the boring daily routine of prison life. It also gave us the opportunity to meet foreigners from other buildings. For the drug dealers, the tournament was an excellent opportunity to distribute their wares and to collect outstanding debts. There were numerous addicts among the foreigners, who would take drugs on credit, promising to pay when their money arrived or their families visited. These debts often ran into the thousands, resulting in their being unable to pay. To avoid being beaten or stabbed, they would secretly get their embassies to request the prison authorities to move them to another building. There were other, more desperate situations where a prisoner who owed money would stab somebody and get himself thrown into solitary confinement in order to get out of paying his debt.

The football competition turned out to be more of an eye-opener for me than anything else. In the quarter-finals there were some irregularities, with teams bribing the referee and resulting in the Building Chief withdrawing both of our teams.

Back home, in the December issue of
You
and
Huisgenoot
magazines an article had appeared about me and the circumstances surrounding my arrest. My sister Joan, who still believed wholeheartedly in my innocence, had earnestly embarked on her mission to campaign for my release. Letters were written to Amnesty International and the International Committee of the Red Cross about the inhumane conditions in Thai jails. Articles had appeared in several newspapers, not only about me, but also about a few South African women who had been arrested around the same time as me. A former Miss South Africa contestant was one of them; another had given birth in the women’s prison. In late January and early February, letters from people who had read these articles started pouring in. I received more than 3 000 letters. It was unbelievable. My closest friends would huddle around in a group and help me sort and read through them. My popularity in the building shot up immediately and my status grew to that of celebrity prisoner.

In many of the letters, the majority of which were from women, there were photographs enclosed, some of them showing the letter-writer topless! A few even enclosed their underwear. I soon began to realise that some women on the outside are fascinated by prisoners. Perhaps it was that implied element of danger that was so alluring, but suddenly I was attracting women to me in hordes. A relationship by correspondence was something new for me, although many of the guys had pen pals in different parts of the world. Before prison, the only letters I ever wrote were love letters to my girlfriends. In prison, everything was different, and letters were a lifeline. Who could believe that written words had the power of evoking such intense emotions between two, or several, complete strangers? This was a whole new ball game for me, and something I was only too keen to explore. If nothing else, I decided corresponding by letter would become a pastime, a hobby.