by Shani Krebs
The most common offences that resulted in a prisoner being sent to solitary confinement were fighting or being caught in possession of drugs. In the event that you stabbed somebody, you were given really heavy shackles that weighed over 10kg. Solitary confinement, or Building 10, wasn’t a place you wanted to go. All the misfits ended up there. You were locked up on your own 24 hours a day without a ceiling fan or lights. It was a daunting prospect and a punishment I hoped to avoid at all costs. There were many prisoners who had lost their minds in solitary confinement and some had even committed suicide there. When you had completed your punishment in solitary, you were transferred back to the building in groups. As a rule, violent offenders were never moved back to the same building in which they had committed the offence.
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 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.
The letters from my sister were a bit different. She would constantly remind me – it was more like nagging – to stay out of trouble and away from drugs.
The year 1995, the year I would turn 36, was a significant one for me on many levels. Not only was I learning about the people with whom I was forced to coexist, but I also discovered a lot about myself. In prison, your strengths are revealed and your weaknesses are exposed. There’s no running away from yourself or deceiving yourself about who you are. Through my poetry and art, for the first time in my life I began to find purpose. One of the books I read was Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom. I couldn’t believe how ignorant I had been about the plight of black people in my own country. Mr Mandela had sat in prison for 27 years; I had barely finished a year and I felt sorry for myself. His crime was fighting for the rights of his people; mine was that I was a drug dealer, a destroyer of lives. Reading his book was a huge inspiration for me. I thought that if anybody could relate to my unjust incarceration, it could be him. I saw Mr Mandela as my ticket to freedom. I wrote him a letter, which I had smuggled out of the prison to Joan. I urged her to publish it as an open letter in one of the South African newspapers. Nobody wanted to publish it, however. Although my conscience did trouble me regarding my claim of innocence, I justified the lie because of the ridiculous sentence I had been given: 100 years for a first offence. This was virtually unheard of in any Western democratic country. Through the assistance of a mutual family friend, my sister managed to have my letter hand-delivered to Mr Mandela.
In the letter I described the appalling conditions in Thai prisons, the outrageous and arbitrary sentences handed down to drug and other offenders, the corrupt system of using prisoners as labourers in the prison factories, the overcrowded conditions, the poor food, terrible sanitation and the unhygienic water in which prisoners had to wash themselves and their clothing. I hoped that the President would feel compassion for the plight of Africans in the same situation as I was and might intercede on our behalf with the Thai government. It was perplexing to me why a country was so bent on keeping foreigners in its prisons. I couldn’t get my head around it. Perhaps it had something to do with the United Nations’ provision of a daily subsidy of about 25 Thai baht for each foreign prisoner held there – we prisoners were lucky if we received one fifth of that amount. Perhaps Thailand’s corrupt and strict judicial system was a way to leverage stronger political ties with certain Western countries.
Another thing that surprised me, considering all the noise the Thai government made about drugs and the country’s drug problem, was that there were no official rehabilitation programmes in the prisons. Instead, there were drugs everywhere. They were so easy to get. The psychological effect on a prisoner of a life sentence in a Thai prison can be devastating, and drugs are an obvious route to dull the pain. This easy access often resulted in people who had never used drugs before turning to them, initially as a method of coping and then very soon becoming addicted. I saw this over and over again in Bangkwang.
In the general run of things, besides the annual inter-building sports events organised by the prison authorities (but paid for by the prisoners), all other recreational activities were organised by the prisoners themselves. The allocated area for these was situated just off the centre of the main yard, adjacent to the towering, ominous 4.5m wall with electrified barbed wire that divided Building 2 from Building 1.
Three of the most popular forms of exercise were football, basketball and jogging. Exercising and some form of game began as soon as we were let out of our cells at around 6.30 in the morning. There was always a game of basketball in progress, which lasted until about 8am, before it got hot. The yard and adjoining court had no covering, and the only protection against the scorching sun was the occasional stray cloud.
At 8am the Thai national anthem echoed through the many speakers strategically positioned around the building. All prisoners had to congregate in the yard for the hoisting of the flag. We foreigners refused to participate and would stay in our houses while this was going on, while some of the Thais would absent themselves by occupying a space in the communal toilet.
When I’d first arrived in prison, the prospect of using the communal toilets was so revolting to me, given the filthy state they were in and the fact that I couldn’t take a sh
it in full view of others, meant that I didn’t go to the toilet for eight days. Eventually I was on the verge of bursting. I imagined my intestines and stomach exploding and the pieces spraying in every direction. I hovered by the toilets, hoping to find a moment when there was nobody around, but no such luck. There was a constant flow of people answering nature’s call. So, finally, armed with my bucket of water and plastic bowl, and consumed by a feeling of total degradation, I took occupation of one of the end toilets. This meant I had to tolerate only one person at my side rather than two – a small consolation. I had tied a bandana around my nose and mouth, as the stench was unbearable and made me want to throw up. I lowered my shorts and went into a squatting position. Nothing happened. Nothing wanted to come out.
Using both my hands, I pulled the cheeks of my buttocks apart, expecting that this would make it easier to discharge my heavy load. I could feel some movement but whatever was in there was struggling to come out. Because I’d held it in for so long, my faeces had solidified. I kept pushing with all my might, sweating and taking deep breaths with every contraction, and my anus stretched to the limit. The pain was excruciating. I imagined childbirth might feel something like this. The muscles in my calves started to ache. Leaning with one arm on the small wall on the one side to take the pressure off my legs, I was forced to use the other hand to remove the hardened mass that was now protruding from my backside but wouldn’t budge any further. I felt nauseous, not only from the rancid odour, but also from the fact that I was using my hands to dislodge shit from my arse. After successfully extracting parts of my hardened stool, my bowels erupted and excrement poured out of me and, to my horror, quickly blocked the toilet, while I frantically tried to flush it down.
