Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (62 page)

I left my food and went to look for Okky. He was the Nigerians’ leader, and as such he had to take responsibility. By then the group of Nigerians that had congregated outside the office had dispersed. I saw Okky coming out of our coffee shop and I accosted him. ‘What the fuck was all that about?’ I demanded. ‘I never said what your friend quoted me saying.’ I then told him what I
had
said and I stuck by it. I also reminded him that we foreigners should settle our own problems and avoid involving the prison authorities. After saying my piece, as I turned around to walk away, Okky called me a fucking arsehole. I spun around to face him. ‘What did you say?’ I said. He repeated the words. In that instant I lost my cool and I went for him.

Ahmed, my Muslim Afghan friend, happened to be nearby and he grabbed my arm in an attempt to hold me back, but I wriggled free from his grip. I took a few steps towards Okky and lashed out with a kick to the groin, followed by two successive punches to his face. At the same time Okky swung wildly with both arms, missing me completely. We were pulled apart by other foreigners, but by then a large group of onlookers had gathered. Blood was coming out of Okky’s mouth and nose. The next thing I knew, he was holding this aluminium stool above his head and running towards me. He looked like he was out to kill.

I turned and ran into the paper bag factory, where Thai prisoners were sitting around folding bags. My eyes were darting all over the show, looking for a weapon. There was nothing I could see and Okky was still coming at me. There was no mistaking his intentions. I could see murder written all over his face. I thought his eyes were going to pop out. I slowed down to a fast walk, allowing him to get closer to me. As soon as he was within arm’s reach, I whirled around and leapt at him, grabbing his neck in an arm lock. He still managed to bring the aluminium stool down on the top of my head, opening a wound. I held onto his neck and punched him repeatedly in the face. It took five Blue Shirts to pull us apart. Blood was pouring down my face and my head hurt like hell. I imagined it was quite a deep cut.

I went to the first-aid centre to see whether I needed stitches. The prisoner who was also our resident doctor reassured me that it was only a deep scratch, nothing serious, and he cleaned me up. Relieved, I went to my locker, grabbed a bandana, and as I was tying it around my head, I saw a group of Nigerians, about eight of them, some of whom were the elders from their tribe, coming towards me. What the fuck now, I thought. I was still mad as hell. They indicated that they wanted to talk, but I had nothing to say. They pleaded with me to leave everything as it was and not to continue fighting. The guy who had misquoted me was among them. Pointing my finger at him, I said, ‘This was entirely your fault. I never said all that shit.’ The guy apologised. Okay, fuck it, I agreed, we’d leave it at that.

Meanwhile, I didn’t know it, but almost every guard had left the building in a hurry. I went off to the gym, which was around the corner from where the Nigerians hung out. While I was busy training, about an hour after the fight, Okky and I were called to come to the office immediately. Okky had an entourage of brothers escorting him. Ahmed, my Muslim brother, walked with me. One of the guards had two sets of documents with him. He said the words I dreaded: ‘
Song kun by dan sip
’ (The two of you are going to Building 10).

Actually, it was odd that we were being punished; usually when foreigners fought nothing happened. I wondered whether this was because of my petition or even my association with Arnut. Okky began to protest, but I knew I was guilty, so I just signed the papers and went to pack my things. There was no time to put money up my arse this time so I gave Mohammed 7 000 Thai baht in cash and asked him to send it to me in solitary. We were allowed to take a towel with us, a couple of items of clothing and toiletries. I also took a writing pad, envelope and stamps, my reading glasses, my ice cooler and my prayer books – one a book of psalms and another called
Jewish Thoughts
. I hid my Walkman and earphones among my clothes. I also packed some coffee, Coffee-mate and my mug. Okky and I were taken to have shackles fitted and then we were marched to the security section, where we should have been checked but weren’t. We were then escorted by two guards to the solitary confinement building, which was situated at the other end of the prison compound.

I’m not sure what was going through my mind. Being a prisoner within the prison was not a good thing, but, then again, how could I claim accurately to be able to explain prison life without having been in solitary? It was almost 3pm by then and close to the end of a prison day. Normally at this time the guards were tired and lazy, and when we arrived they didn’t even bother to check our stuff. I was taken upstairs to the second floor and Okky to the third. My cell was dark and dingy. It smelled of damp and dirt. It was about 3m in length and 1.5m in width, with a small wall just under a metre high dividing the toilet area from where I would sleep. The door was of solid steel, with a small square gap just below the centre where things could be passed through. Next to the door was a set of bars covered with a dusty mosquito net that stretched halfway down from the ceiling. There was no light or fan in my cell. The only light was what filtered through from the passage. The cockroaches were the size of my thumb. The key-boy was normally the last to be locked up, so I asked him to get me a rag, as I needed to clean the cell. There was dust everywhere. What a task it was to clean.

When I was finished, I took a shower in the filthy water. Back at the other building I always wore my underpants when I showered. Now, for the first time in four years, I was entirely on my own and could shower naked. I had forgotten what it was like to have privacy, to be completely alone. In a strange way it felt liberating. Perhaps I would enjoy my solitude. After all, being on your own is not necessarily about being alone, but about how you spend the time with yourself. I slipped on my boxers under my shackles, spread out my towel and lay down. It was hot and virtually airless in the cell. I found the awful mouldy stench suffocating and I could taste dust in my throat. There were spider’s webs in the corner of the ceiling and all over the bars. I was sweating profusely, and so I tore off the thin cardboard from the back of my writing pad and used it as a fan. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing.

Just as it was growing dark, I heard the security gate at the end of the corridor being opened and footsteps coming towards my cell. To my surprise it was one of the guards from Building 2. ‘
Aleksanda
,’ he said.

‘
Sa-wat-dee kraup
,’ I said excitedly. He passed me a brown envelope through the hole in the door and mentioned Mohammed’s name. ‘
Kap kun kap
,’ I repeated. ‘
Kap kun kap
.’

It was my money! Gee, that was fast! I also had money on my prison card. Among my stationery I had another brown envelope in which I kept my stamps, envelopes, letters and some photos. And, bound in packaging tape, I had also made a hidden compartment there, where I kept my cash. I placed the 7 000 Thai baht inside the compartment. So far, whenever there had been searches, they had never found my money.

That night was a long one. I prayed with all my heart for G-d to give me strength to endure the days ahead. I recited the
Shema Yisrael
in Hebrew, which I knew off by heart. I couldn’t sleep. It had been some time since I had last slept on such a hard concrete surface. I got up and paced the length of my cell, up and down. It was a short walk. None the less, after a few hours I was tired and eventually I fell into a light sleep, only to be woken by a huge cockroach running across my face. Fuck, I nearly jumped out of my skin! Cockroaches are such creepy insects, I never could stand them. It was hard to go back to sleep after that, as I was expecting cockroaches to come out of every crack in the wall. The little fuckers were everywhere. Around 5am I relieved myself, brushed my teeth and proceeded to clean the cell properly. Then I paced up and down again. My head was hurting. I sat around until, at about 7.30, I heard the gates at the end of the corridor being opened. The key-boy opened some of the other cells, which I thought was strange as we were all supposed to be locked up, but then I realised that the people who were being let out were the workers who maintained the building. I called the key-boy and asked him to organise, firstly, hot water for me and, secondly, somebody who could do my laundry. Thirty minutes later, a young boy called Sau, meaning ‘tiger’, came to my cell. His real name was Tanpong. He was from Laos, spoke good Thai and also reasonable English. We agreed that he would be my wash boy and I gave him the clothes I had slept in. I also asked him if there was anybody who could cook my meals. He called Joodt, who was the Building Chief’s boy and who also prepared meals for the guards. For a fee of 2 000 Thai baht, Joodt agreed to help me.

While I was waiting and hoping for a visit from Jai, a couple of Nigerians who knew me and had heard I was in Building 10 came and sat outside my cell. I learnt that there were 89 prisoners in the building. The Nigerians couldn’t believe that I was in trouble. It felt great to be among friends. I was not so alone after all.

Luckily, Building 10 and Building 2 had the same visit days. Of course Jai had no idea I had been in a fight and had been shackled and thrown into solitary confinement, and she was shocked when she saw me. I tried to reassure her that solitary wasn’t as bad as people said. However, I told her, I did need some things urgently. I gave her a list of things to send me in a parcel, among them ankle guards and football socks (to protect my shins and heels from the chafing of the chains) and, most importantly, a hand fan, lots of tobacco and some soap. She had already brought my weekly supplies with her, and after the visit she promised to go to the prison canteen and buy me a whole lot of fruit. She also promised to fax my sister and let her know what had happened.

When I returned to my cell, Tiger, my new wash boy, was waiting at the gate and he helped carry my things upstairs. Every building has its own system of operating, and Building 10 was no exception. A lot of the guys, although they were in punishment, moved around freely during the day, and for the drug dealers it was business as usual. I knew many of the guys in the building from football. Apparently, you could pay to be let out of your cell, but the only problem was that the Building Chief was away on a course for a month, so for the moment I had to return to my cell, where I was locked up. I shared the fruit Jai had brought me with the key-boy and arranged that he would bring me boiled water in the morning for my coffee. If he obliged, I told him, he could join me. I was getting myself organised.

There was no doubt in my mind that the weeks and months ahead – I would be there for at least six months, possibly longer – would be a true test of my physical and mental strength. I also needed to make a plan to get back to Building 2 after serving my punishment because all my things were there. There was very little theft among the inmates, though, so at least I had peace of mind that my stuff would be safe.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that solitary was a place that could drive you crazy. My second night was as bad as my first. The heat was intolerable. The lack of air made me feel claustrophobic. I would build up a sweat from trying to fan myself to keep cool. I wanted to cry. Back in the other building I had thought my bed was uncomfortable, but this was so much worse. Memories of my first days in prison came to mind and I found myself reliving those early horrors all over again.

As darkness descended around me, a flicker of light shone through the bars, enabling me to read psalms. It felt like I was conversing with G-d. Here was a lesson waiting to be learnt. It was no longer just about survival. Between 4 and 6pm you could hear the echoing of chains from all over the building. My own rusty shackles had already grazed the skin behind my heels.

Rusty chains reflected your standard of personal hygiene. At the halfway point there was a nylon string attached to the chains, and to clean them you would sit in your shower area, feet slightly apart, and shake your chains back and forth so that they rubbed against each other. After a few days your chains would shine like silver jewellery. To keep them clean, you would do this procedure twice a day. Your chains became an extension of you. Some guys were so obsessive that they added silver rings, so that when they walked, and the chains rubbed against each, they made a distinctive sound.

In the morning, the key-boy arrived with a flask of hot water and his own mug. At the edge of the entrance to my cell, with me on the inside and he on the outside, we drank our coffee and engaged in idle chat as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Boiling water in solitary was a luxury. In appreciation, my new friend would leave my cell door open during the day so that I could at least move freely in the corridor. I was not allowed beyond the steel gates at the end of the corridor, however, but it was better than nothing. Deep down I felt uneasy, almost to the point of being paranoid, thinking about the events that had led me to being here. Why had all the guards left the building straight after my fight with Okky? Now more than ever, I realised, I would have to be extra-vigilant. Prisoners had been known to die in mysterious circumstances, and this was the perfect place for somebody to meet with an accident.

During the course of the morning, several foreigners in the building who knew me came to say hello. One of my good Nigerian friends, a guy by the name of Lawal, a great footballer, was also there, and there was an American I knew, as well as a British guy, both of whom were junkies, and both of whom had the same first name. They were amazed to discover that I had organised to have my cell door left open.

On the same floor as me, but at the opposite end of the corridor, was a Thai prisoner, a white-collar criminal, who had apparently embezzled millions on the stock exchange. The man lived like a king, but he kept very much to himself. He had actually paid money to stay in solitary confinement, for his own protection. The guy had a TV set, a portable fan, lights and even a foam mattress. He was only in his mid-twenties but he was fat, and he had a pasty-white complexion and an air of superiority about him. He treated the other Thai prisoners badly, and even disrespected the prison authorities. Actually, I was quite shocked by his behaviour and also how he seemed to get away with it. We spoke on occasion, and from what I gathered he was part of a syndicate and was the one who had taken the rap.