Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (86 page)

The year 2007, my 13th in prison, was a tough one for me. After losing Jai, I really struggled to get through my days. I promised myself that I would never become emotionally dependent on anybody again. I found myself living more and more in my head.

Often with the intake of new prisoners came new trends. An Estonian prisoner who had been on death row for seven years had his sentence commuted to life in third court, and was transferred to Building 2. He and Shlomo became good friends. The Estonian was a bodybuilding enthusiast and weighed almost 100kg. At 1.8m tall, he towered over me. He had some interesting ideas on muscle building and would do certain routines on the weights. At the time I weighed about 80kg and it made sense to me to build muscle. Having got bored with playing football and my daily walking programme, I embarked on a vigorous gymming course. I started drinking protein shakes and eating three meals a day. Soon I had lifted my weight to 90kg. I was working out five days a week and had developed really nice arms; I thought I was in great shape.

For the enterprising prisoner, art was a means of making money. There were several talented Thai artists in Bangkwang who painted portraits for a fee. Whenever I was asked by an inmate to do somebody’s portrait, I would name a ridiculous price, firstly, because I never had the time, and, secondly, because frankly I couldn’t be bothered. Early into my incarceration I did paint a few pictures for some of my closest friends in jail, but after a while I stopped. Every building had guys who were artists or interested in art, but I gained the reputation of being the Number 1 Portrait Artist in Bangkwang.

That year, the prison introduced a programme called ‘Art for All’. Rather than being part of the rehabilitation process of prisoners, it was yet another scheme devised only to benefit the prison. The prison supplied all the art equipment, but there was a condition: anything you painted belonged to the prison. Art pieces would be exhibited outside and the proceeds would go to expanding the programme. The rest, needless to say, would go into the pockets of the prison authorities.

In Building 2, the bakery was converted into a studio for the prisoners. Drinking in Building 2 had become a serious problem, and the authorities suspected that the bakery commodore was selling yeast to the prisoners. So they closed the bakery and transferred the supervisor, who was a prisoner, to another prison. I thought it was really funny because they were so off course: it was me who was bringing the yeast in, and had been for a while. Ironic, really, when you think about it – with all the shit the bakery guard used to give us, we screwed him, even if it was indirectly. What can I say? Karma is a bitch.

Once a week an art teacher from outside would come and give basic art lessons to any prisoner who wanted to learn. All the prison artists knew each other already, and we were friends. Whenever one of us needed supplies, we would help each other out. I taught many of my fellow inmates the finer points of using carbon powder. Usually, when we wanted to send our paintings out with our visitors, all we had to do was make a request. This would be signed by the Building Chief and his subordinate in charge of foreigners – a simple procedure.

I had painted several nudes for one of my correspondents, who owned the Lisa King Gallery in Cape Town. She was keen to assist me and wanted to show my work to another gallery she thought could be interested in representing me. So I wrote the usual request and handed it to my friend who worked in the office, who translated it into Thai. Not much later, I was called to the office and informed by the new Building Chief that I could no longer send my paintings out and that they were now the property of the prison. This was the same arsehole who had chopped down every tree around Building 2, including the two beautiful ones beside death row that had offered shade to the prisoners. I don’t think he realised who he was fucking with, but first I tried to reason with him, explaining that I had nothing to do with the Art for All programme, and that in fact I personally supplied a lot of the students with paper and other items. He remained steadfast and refused me permission.

I had visitors arriving from South Africa in two days’ time to whom I was planning to give some of my pieces to take back home for me. I immediately drafted a petition on behalf of all the artists and threatened the prison authorities that we would inform every embassy in Bangkok about their proposed policy to steal our paintings. All the artists signed the petition. I submitted it and waited, knowing that I would have rattled the Building Chief’s cage. I had barely walked away when my name was called over the loudspeaker. I strolled back slowly. I was ushered into the chief’s office, whose whole demeanour had changed. Without wasting any time, he offered me a deal. He would give me, but only me, permission to send out my art, he told me, on condition that I withdrew the petition. I don’t know what he was thinking, but there was no way I was going to do that. Just on principle I wouldn’t do it. I wasn’t about to sell out my mates. So I told him it was all or nothing. I gave you a chance this morning, motherfucker, I thought to myself. Now you will suffer the consequences.

So the petition was sent out to the Director. At midday I was once again summoned to the office. All the other artists had gathered around, waiting for me, and from the expression on their faces I could see that we had won. I was really happy, as I knew that a lot of these guys had no support from outside and the only way they could survive was by the portraits they painted and sold to other prisoners.

There were rumours that the Thai government’s deeply controversial ‘War on Drugs’ programme, which had led to the deaths of more than 2 500 people allegedly involved in the trade, was set to be relaunched by the new government led by Samak Sundaravej, which had come to power in early 2008. According to foreign news reports, during a three-month period in 2003, thousands of Thais on police blacklists had been shot, allegedly on government orders. Some of those killed apparently had no involvement in drugs, according to the government’s Narcotics Control Board. The government had not set a target for the new anti-drug campaign, though the Minister of the Interior, Chalerm Yubamrung, had been reported as suggesting a tough line similar to the previous ‘war’ might be taken.

Early in 2009 there was a raid by the army, police and Department of Corrections. We had been warned to hand in all our electrical equipment a week before, so I took my dog and hid it in the lid of the water boiler. Then I packed all my other things in a cardboard box and tied it up with string. The authorities locked our stuff in the
soy
rooms next to the gym. After three days, the Building Chief informed us that all the equipment we had handed in was going to be moved to a safer location outside Building 2. I immediately became suspicious and assumed that our electrical equipment wasn’t going to be returned to us, so I insisted on taking everything back, as did some of the other prisoners. Two days later, soon after lockdown, they raided us. There were more than 100 commodores. They came armed with steel bolt-cutters, broke all the locks on our lockers and proceeded to do their checks.

From my cell I could see them in the Nigerian house. They ransacked everything. They then moved on to my house, broke open all the locks and proceeded to do a thorough search. My dog was hidden in the same locker where I kept my DVD machine and I was as nervous as hell. There were at least six guards searching my house. Besides all the electronics I had, there were also two plastic protein powder containers filled with wine that was still brewing. I didn’t mind losing the electronics; it was my dog I really didn’t want to lose. After a while, I got so nervous I couldn’t bear to watch any longer. I expected the worst, but hoped for the best. As always in times of trouble, I needed help from the powers above. I prayed to G-d and asked Him to close their eyes to where the dog was hidden. The anxiety was contagious and nobody really slept that night.

The following morning, when I got to my house, it looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Everything was strewn all over the place, even the foodstuffs. My hi-fi and speakers, blender, toaster, sandwich maker, DVD player and every single DVD I had collected was gone. Luckily, my iPod, which had been given to me by a good friend and correspondent, Adi Fredman, which was in the top drawer of my desk, hadn’t been found.

My heart was beating rapidly. If they had found my dog, I would be moved to solitary confinement immediately. Making sure nobody was watching me – everybody in the other houses was preoccupied with sorting out their own stuff – I checked to see if the dog was in its kennel. When I felt with my hands that it was there, I cannot describe my excitement. I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, I had outwitted the authority.

My house was a mess. The bastards had taken one of my backgammon sets, stolen 2 000 Thai baht worth of stamps and 10 000 baht in cash that I had hidden in a book. They also took my books on semi-nude photography. One thing that surprised me was that, although they had obviously detected the wine – one of the containers had been opened – they hadn’t thrown it away. This was prison, nothing was sure; your situation could change from one moment to the next. There was nothing you could do. At least I still had my dog; that was all that mattered. My guardian angels were still keeping an eye on me.

We had to do something, however. I discussed various courses of action with the other foreigners, emphasising that the first thing we should all do was complain to our embassies. It wasn’t that I was hopeful we would get anything back, but it might deter future raids. Later that morning one of the Blue Shirts came to me. Apparently, one of the guards who had raided the previous night was head of security, and he had been on duty in our building after the raid. He had told the Blue Shirt: ‘
Aleksander tam lao dee
’ (Alexander makes good wine).

The South African consular staff, when they heard what had transpired, were supportive and wrote a letter to the Department of Corrections asking what had happened to my personal belongings. The Department of Corrections always preferred not to have any negative publicity or to get on the wrong side of the embassy. The official response was unequivocal: I had been found to be in possession of illegal items, and under no circumstances would these be returned. This didn’t surprise me. It was the response I had expected. Many prisoners had lost their things. And everybody knew that when you bought an electronic gadget, it was a gamble as to how long you would enjoy the privilege of using it.

Over the years, the Cripple had become an integral person in the lives of many of us inmates. He had spent the past 14 years gambling his life away on just about everything, from backgammon to football to death row executions. You name it, he would put his money on it. The Cripple slept in front of our cell. Whenever he was up on his winnings, he became irritably loud and arrogant; when he lost and was down and out, you never heard a squeak out of him. Money in prison meant power. Most of the Asians had a similar mentality. You would know exactly when a person’s money had arrived from home by their tone of voice. One warm April afternoon in 2008, soon after we were locked in our cells, the Cripple buckled over and had a heart attack. Fortunately, the key-boy managed to alert a passing guard and the Cripple was loaded onto the wheelchair and rushed to the hospital. For a few days we didn’t hear anything and, to tell the truth, I kind of forgot about him. Then, after about a week, I asked one of the Chinese if they had any news; I thought maybe the Cripple had died. I was told that he was now paralysed down his left side but that, by some extraordinary miracle, he had regained mobility in his legs. The Cripple was now hopping around on crutches!

The motherfucker, I thought to myself. He had been faking his paralysis for 14 years! On the one hand, you had to admire the man. I was sure he was gambling on the possibility of being granted a medical royal pardon. On the other hand, more dangerously, he was gambling with fate. A true gambler to the end. At least he was alive. I decided to go and visit my old rival, so I filed a request saying I had an ear infection and needed to see the doctor. When I reached the ward, the Cripple spotted me before I saw him. Excitedly, he pulled himself up with one arm and waved me over. In a half-stutter he called, ‘Alec! Alec!’ Next to his bed was a single crutch. As I reached him he said to me in broken Thai, ‘
Do, do, pom dun dai
’ (Look, look, I can walk). Then he hopped off his bed, grabbed his crutch with one hand, the other arm dangling lifelessly against his body, and hopped along the ward. It reminded me of when I had a broken leg and my friends called me ‘Hopalong Cassidy’. I smiled at the Cripple and, pointing my finger at him, said ‘
Kun zig zag
,’ which was Thai slang for being deceitful. He pretended not to hear me. I then added, ‘
Kun keng muck
’ (You are very strong).