Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (81 page)

By now we had about 40 Thai Bad Boys among us. These gangsters had committed offences such as being caught with drugs, being found with mobiles, and being involved in stabbings. Building 10 was at capacity, and there was a waiting list to get into solitary, so they would be moved around from building to building until such time as a cell became available. Some Building Chiefs simply wouldn’t accept them in their buildings. Adun, our Building Chief, never discriminated. He accepted anyone, no matter what their record.

Most of these guys were avid footballers. I discovered that, except for not valuing life the way we Westerners do, they were really no different to me, and we definitely had football in common. They, too, were warriors, and they wore dragon tattoos proudly all over their bodies. By this stage I had more than 15 tattoos and planned on covering both my arms. The only problem was that the tattoo artist never stayed in the building for more than a month or two. The guy who did the ‘Skull with Bandana’ on my right shoulder died of TB.

The gym ran pretty smoothly, though, but with all the Bad Boys it was inevitable that there would be trouble sooner or later. Six of them started hanging out there, just sitting around smoking and using the weights and making a nuisance of themselves. One day I had no choice but to confront them, and they left reluctantly. The next morning, they were back. This was an outright challenge. I had to bear in mind that these guys were dangerous, unpredictable and couldn’t give a fuck, so, instead of confronting them for a second time, I never said a word, but the next morning I kept the gym closed. When the gym was closed, the exercise benches, the bars and weights were piled in a heap, chained together and covered with a tarpaulin. The gym was an open area and also a throughway to the houses next to the
soy
or punishment room. In front of the gym was a concrete water storage pool, which was used to breed catfish. The pool was enclosed by a thick concrete wall roughly half a metre high, which prisoners could sit on. I couldn’t stop them from sitting there.

Four Bad Boys arrived at the gym. It was still pretty early, and, seeing that the weights were locked up, they started sparring with each other. Then I arrived. I explained the membership story once again. One of them threw a punch at me, which I blocked, at the same time delivering a kick to his groin, stopping just millimetres from impact. Surprised, he made some remark about me knowing Thai boxing. I told him in Thai that I didn’t want any problems and asked them politely to leave. The Bad Boys left, and from then on they never bothered me. I guessed they’d asked around about me.

Weekends were holidays, and this meant a couple of days of relaxation for the guards. They didn’t bother the prisoners; they’d be sleeping or getting a massage. One of guards who used to work in death row in Building 1 was transferred to Building 2. His name was Veesarnou and he was a real motherfucker. His first Saturday on duty, the Frenchman and I were sitting quietly in my house drinking our home-brew from Coke cans. Usually we would drop an envelope to the guard who sat near our section and ask him to ‘
peet tar
’ (close your eyes). So the Frenchman and I were on our second can of wine, but, because we were wary of Veesarnou, we would hold the cans under the table out of sight. Veesarnou sneaked up on us through the Nigerian house and must have seen something to arouse his suspicion, or else he just thought we were up to something. The wall separating our houses was just over a metre high, and pushed up on the Nigerian side were wooden lockers, so it was difficult for him to lean over completely. He wasn’t tall, either. Anyway, he popped his head over and asked, ‘
Khun tum aria
?’ (What are you doing?)

I don’t know what possessed me – I don’t think I realised how strong the wine was – but I told him that today was a holiday. ‘
Won ni won jud
,’ I said. ‘
Kun ropkoen tummai.
’ (You’re disturbing us, why?)

He was taken aback by my cheek, but before he could answer, I asked him, ‘
Ar yu torai?
(How old are you?)
Pom cisiep qua
’ (I’m forty plus).

He didn’t answer. With every word that came out of my mouth, I got braver. I told Veesarnou that I’d been there for almost ten years and did he have any idea how we foreigners suffered in a Thai prison.

In the end he just walked away. He’d probably heard quite enough. The Frenchman was beside himself; he had no idea where such balls came from. I was drunk, that was where. The guardhouse where Veesarnou sat was opposite the Nigerian house, and in full view of mine. He summoned a few Thais to his office and asked them who I was. I was known as being one of the Big Legs. I wasn’t too concerned about the Thais, as I was known as the leader of the foreigners. Not long afterwards, one of the Thais who was close to me came to warn me that Veesarnou hadn’t been impressed by my behavioiur and there was a good chance I would be reported to the Building Chief on Monday. This also wasn’t a problem for me, as the chief was deeply corrupt. The prison authorities are strange: if you are doing something that’s illegal and you don’t bring it to their attention, they will close their eyes to it, but once they actually see what’s going on, then you are likely to be punished for it. Why make unnecessary trouble, I thought, so I went to Veesarnou and apologised, admitting that I’d been drinking. He waffled something or other, but respected the fact that I had come forward, and so the matter was dropped.

It became apparent that Ling, who had been on death row while Veesarnou was in Building 1, was working with the guards. Ling had also established a strong friendship with Pedro from our cell. As a rule, I was suspicious of everybody, but for some reason Ling acted more like a foreigner than a Thai, and generally the foreigners never informed.

Around this time, after visits and while waiting in the area where prisoners received foodstuffs from their visitors, a Western foreigner who was on death row in Building 1, and who knew Ling well, enlightened me about him. He told me that Ling was a rat and that he had been transferred to Building 2 because his life was in danger in Building 1. I shared this information with the ‘dog handlers’ in our cell. We would have to be extra-vigilant. Ling was the only death row prisoner who was allowed to move around freely during the day and mingle with the lifers. He spent time in the house next door to mine with my Chinese chef, and he also hung out for hours with Veesarnou. I definitely smelt a rat, and from then on I started to dislike Ling.

Our new office clerk was a Thai prisoner by the name of Keng. He spoke English and he was part of my fast-growing new circle of drinking friends. Keng controlled all the administration and day-to-day running of the building, and this included the prison cells. Every time I made wine, I would drop Keng a litre. Booze became a currency that bought you loyalty. Veesarnou had been there only a month when Keng informed me that Veesarnou had a list of people he suspected of having mobile phones and that my name was on top of the list, followed by three other members of my cell. Veesarnou summoned me to the office. He told me he knew I had a mobile phone, but said that if I handed it over I wouldn’t be punished. I acted shocked, and flatly denied the allegation. Angrily, I added that whoever had told him more than likely had one himself, and that was who he should be investigating, not me.

The Nokia mobile we’d bought was a second-hand job. The screen was cracked and the zero key didn’t always register. We couldn’t exactly send it for repairs, and my friend John, the electronics expert, couldn’t risk repairing it either. So, using a small screwdriver, I took the machine apart myself and managed to fix the key. Because I took most of the risk in keeping the dog, I felt it was only right that I should use it more than the others, but the ideal situation would have been for me to have my own mobile phone. The problem was that the Thais were the ones distributing them. This was doubly dangerous, because they would sell you a mobile and then inform on you. Buying a phone from the guards, on the other hand, opened the door to having money constantly extorted from you.

One of the other foreigners managed to smuggle in a dog concealed in a container of peanut butter sent in a parcel. This was also risky; since the new drug laws and the clampdown in the prison, all items in our parcels were now thoroughly checked. The parcel area was divided into two sections, with one end for the Thais and the other for the foreigners. One guard, Suchin, controlled and checked the foreign parcels and registered mail, while another, Watcherine, checked the Thais.

Arranging things from home was much easier now, as I would just SMS my sister or call her. I was feeling increasingly unhappy having to share a mobile. Our British co-conspirator would speak for hours on end, which irritated me a lot. I’ve always been an independent person, and I hate having to rely on somebody or to wait for someone else. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford my own dog, so I arranged for my sister to send me one. I instructed her to conceal it in a portable radio but I emphasised that it was imperative it be done professionally. At that time Joan worked at a place called Delta TV. I knew they’d have technicians who would be able to organise this for me. About a week before its expected arrival, I told Suchin that a radio would be arriving for me in a parcel, and at the same time I dropped him an envelope. He was not altogether happy, because the Director had tightened up on things. I also had to take care of the Blue Shirts who were posted at the gate entrance of our building.

The moment of truth arrived. I was called over the loudspeaker to collect my package. I was extremely nervous. What if Suchin had decided not to give me the radio and to keep it overnight to check whether anything was concealed inside it? If he found the mobile, I had no doubt he would report me, which would mean six months in solitary. Armed with my plastic carrier bag, I made my way to the parcel area. The Blue Shirt, Weechai, would be waiting for me. It was around 9am. Trying to act natural, I greeted Suchin. My box was there. I recognised the brown wrapping paper and my sister’s handwriting. I whispered to Suchin that it was the radio I’d been waiting for. My knees were weak and my hands were shaking. I kept telling myself to relax or for sure Suchin would sense something. Taking a Stanley knife, he cut the box open. There were a few other odds and ends in the parcel, things like Dettol, soap, some dishcloths, tennis socks, Provita biscuits and toothpaste, all of which he handed to me first. Then Suchin looked around discreetly to make sure nobody was watching him. He took out the radio, examined it to make sure that it had not been tampered with, and then opened the battery compartment. He lifted the radio up and started to shake it.
Fuck
, I wanted to drop down dead. I was praying that Joan had concealed the cellphone properly. When nothing seemed amiss, Suchin passed it to me. It was not very big, so I put it in my plastic bag, pushing it down under the other items.

When I arrived at our gate, the guard was stretched out on his chair, feet on the table, watching a replay of a football match. Weechai, who I had paid for this, looked into the plastic bag and pretended to be checking through the stuff. He allowed me to pass. I took a deep sigh of relief. I had made it. As I walked along the concrete path that led to the main office I felt the spring come back into my step. I was smiling from ear to ear. Lady Luck was on my side today. When I got to my house I locked the radio away, and no sooner had I done so than I was called for a visit. It was a Wednesday, the day Jai would bring me a whole roast chicken and potato salad, as well as my normal weekly food order.

Hidden in one of my lockers were two 3-litre containers with wine brewing – today called for a celebration. As they did every Wednesday, Jonnie, Yegor and the Frenchman came to my house for lunch. My Chinese chef, who was cooking for me again, had made us a platter of dim sum. After lunch, we topped up our mugs with wine and I broke the news of what I had pulled off. I hadn’t told anybody about my plan until then, as one never knew who one’s friends really were. I took out the radio and Jonnie volunteered to dismantle it. To my surprise and dismay, there was no phone to be found. What was going on? It
had
to be there! In frustration I took the radio and smashed it on the concrete floor … and out fell the mobile. It had been so well hidden and covered in black carbon paper that none of us had been able to detect it. It was a Nokia 7250i, one of the first phones with a camera and internet connection. The jack to charge it was the same as for the other Nokia we had, which I had sold to the British guy for much less than we’d bought it for, on the understanding that we would share the jack. It was not an ideal situation, though, so again through my sister I ordered a jack from home. I advised her to cut the cable about two inches from the jack, making it easier to conceal. My idea was to hide it in a vacuum-sealed packet of sliced biltong, so I suggested Joan send me three packets of 1kg each, gambling that the guard would cut open only one of the packets and that it wouldn’t be the one that contained the jack. The odds were two to one. As it turned out, that was exactly what happened. I managed to get my own charger. I had taken a hell of a chance, but what was life without taking risks?

In the cell there were four of us with private TVs, so from the main plug, which had two or three adaptors attached to it, we ran our own extension cables. I took the adaptor from a CD player, cut the cable and attached the jack for my mobile phone. Every night before I went to sleep, I would charge my phone for the next day.

Pedro, who had had his pardon rejected way back in 2001, a month before my own, had heard that Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands had visited the King of Thailand early in January 2004. A month later, he and a Ghanaian who was married to a Dutch woman were granted royal pardons and were released. Pedro’s sleeping spot in the corner was taken by Mikhail. Meanwhile Joseph convinced me to bring Philip into our cell because he felt sorry for him, as he was in a room with 22 Thais. Philip was a strange fucker who came from a tough background. He slept on the floor and drank his own urine. He had another bad habit that really pissed me off: he would lie on the floor and let out these really loud and rather offensive farts. Thank goodness I didn’t sleep near him. Well, that’s prison – it takes all types to make up the zoo.