Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  I couldn’t believe what was happening. Suddenly, I had a severe cramp in one of my calves. Desperately, I scooped water in a crazed attempt to flush everything down. I watched helplessly as everything came up instead. By now I was ankle deep in shit and my leg was cramping painfully. I wanted to cry, it was so repulsive and humiliating, but instead I screamed ‘FUCK ME, GEORGE!’ and wondered what had I done that was so terrible that I deserved this.

  Yes, okay, I knew exactly what I had done: the endless transgressions while I was peddling drugs; the lives I had destroyed; the hell I put my family through; not visiting my girlfriend when she was in hospital because of a car accident I had caused; years of abusing women – the list went on and on. Yes, my immorality had blurred my ability to judge right from wrong, but wasn’t there any other way I could have redeemed myself than finding myself here, now, standing in a pool of shit? They say G-d works in mysterious ways, and this sure came home to me that day!

  When you are serving a life sentence you are forced to coexist with so many people, and, with different cultures all up against each other, problems are bound to arise. I found the Asian way of life, or at least as I experienced it in prison, completely different to the Western way of life. At close quarters, sometimes Asian habits were difficult to handle – the habit of shouting across a room, of blowing your nose with your hands, of spitting. These things freaked me out to the point that I couldn’t tolerate the person anywhere near me. I became so irritated with Jimmy, my Singaporean cellmate, that it resulted in me attacking another Singaporean who got too familiar with me.

  When I challenged him, he said he was sorry, but, sorry or not, this was prison and he needed to be taught a lesson, so one evening I just let loose. In my experience, people don’t always learn respect through dialogue; sometimes one is forced to resort to violence. Half the guys in my cell were angry with me, claiming that it hadn’t been necessary for me to hit the guy. Also, fighting was forbidden and punishment was severe. You could very well end up in shackles. Luckily, on this occasion my friend Mohammed paid money to prevent action being taken against me.

  Bangkwang was so corrupt that if you had it in for somebody, you could pay the guard to turn a blind eye and hire a samurai to stab that person. The Thai inmates who had double life sentences for multiple murders were mostly total psychos and they would stab you for as little as 500 Thai baht, even if the guards hadn’t given the green light; some of the samurai were in and out of solitary confinement all the time. They were dangerous and calculating. A one-on-one confrontation was not how they operated; they either came in packs or attacked you when you were most vulnerable. A Thai will always first weigh up the odds. Losing a fight, especially against a foreigner, is a loss of face. We learnt never to underestimate them. As kids, every Thai male learns Muay Thai (kickboxing, or Thai boxing). For a young boy from a poverty-stricken background, Thai boxing is more than just a meal ticket. It’s also about honour and tradition.

  I quickly discovered how tough the Thai prisoners were. When playing football against them, often our shins would collide. The Thai would walk away without even flinching, while within seconds I would have a big lump and a bruise forming on my shin. From the many years of Thai boxing, their shins were as hard as steel.

  In the days after the incident with Jimmy, I really was not happy in my cell. I pleaded with Ryan, who had become my friend, to allow me into the private foreign room after all, which was now referred to as Room 16, or Hong Siephok. In a situation such as this, even though it was Ryan who had organised the room, he would have to discuss a new person with his cellmates first and there would have to be a collective decision. So they had a meeting and the decision was that their room, at its current 16 occupants, was closed. Taking on an extra body would mean that each person, depending on which side of the room I would sleep, would have to give up a few centimetres of his space, and no one was willing to do that. Ryan apologised, but assured me that as soon as somebody moved out, I would be the first in line to move in. I could have kicked myself for being such a fool and not moving in when he’d approached me the first time.

  From the time that we were locked up to about 9.30pm, the noise upstairs in the corridor was at ridiculous levels. Between the TVs blaring and people shouting to one other, it was impossible to take an afternoon nap or concentrate on whatever it was that you were doing. Downstairs, where Room 16 was, it was much quieter. I desperately needed to get out of my room, but I had no choice but to wait.

  In between the building that housed the prisoners and the dining hall was an open courtyard with two magnificent trees, which provided an abundance of shade. During the day, many enterprising vendors set up shop here. When you ordered perishable food from the prison grocery store, you would order by the kilogram, but, unless you had an ice cooler and got daily deliveries of ice, it was a problem to keep food fresh. So these vendors, who were all inmates, would portion up fresh beef, chicken, vegetables, etc. and sell them in grams. In other words, you could buy just enough to cook for the day. Different nationalities sold different foods. The Pakistanis, for example, were famous for their roti (flatbread), and sometimes they would fill these with scrambled egg and chilli, or else pour sweetened condensed milk over them, which was a nice snack for breakfast. There were a few guys who would barbecue chicken legs, chicken wings and – my favourite – chicken arses (the parson’s nose) on skewers. One guy sold lemon juice with crushed ice. It was amazing how this place was a world in itself, a world that functioned completely independently from the outside. If I didn’t know better, looking around this courtyard I could very well have believed I was strolling around the streets of Bangkok.

  To pass the time, the foreign prisoners would read any novels that were available and doing the rounds, or play board games such as chess, backgammon, Scrabble, Monopoly and Risk.

  Among the many foreigners in Bangkwang who had been sentenced to life was a Chinese guy from Hong Kong. His name was Akow and he was a paraplegic. He would manoeuvre his wheelchair from one side of the building to the other with such ease and speed that he was given the nickname ‘Schumacher’. I called him ‘the Cripple’. I was told that when the Cripple was arrested, he could walk. Then, while he was still in Bombat, he woke up one morning and couldn’t. Anyway, my friendship with the Cripple started when he showed an interest in backgammon, a game I enjoyed and was quite skilled at. I organised our first backgammon tournament after I’d been in Bangkwang some months. Akow, who had very little knowledge of the game, wanted to enter the competition but had no money. He promised me that, if I would let him enter, he would pay when his money arrived. Many prisoners found themselves in a similar predicament, where their money from home was delayed and they were forced to borrow or have credit extended to them. The Cripple got knocked out in the first round, but he was determined to lift his game, and after that I would see him playing every day with the Thais. When his money arrived, he came to pay me the 100 Thai baht he owed. I felt bad because he had been knocked out so early and so I wouldn’t accept it. From that day on, I had the Cripple’s respect.

  The key to maintaining one’s sanity in prison was to keep one’s mind occupied, but playing board games was not really my idea of passing time constructively. I had seriously considered doing a Marketing course through Unisa, but I thought that all the drugs I had done over the years had probably damaged my brain, so I dropped the idea. Art had always been my passion, but I had neglected to pursue it after high school, although I had briefly thought about getting involved in clothing design. Although my present environment was not exactly conducive to being creative, I had time on my hands. What better way to pass the time than doing what you love? I had wasted the past 16 years of my life getting high; now I was merely existing, leading a life with no purpose. Deep inside me I had an overwhelming urge to find a deeper meaning to my existence, to uncover the secret to life. Gradually, I was beginning to understand that it would be through my experiences and what I did with my time
here that I would find the answers I sought.

  My days started taking on some form of routine. First thing in the morning, when we were let out of our cells, I would jog around the football pitch with a group of about a dozen other regular runners. After that I would shower and get dressed. I drank a cup of coffee and would sometimes eat a couple of slices of white bread that we could buy from the bakery. I would then go find a spot, either in the classroom or the dining hall, depending on my mood, where I would write or respond to letters from my fast-growing pen-pal list or else simply just sit in the dining hall and draw.

  In the beginning a few of my good friends from back home had written to me, but as time passed the numbers started to dwindle. My best friend Morris never even bothered to answer my letters, let alone write any to me himself. I could understand that people had their own lives to get on with. Furthest from their minds would be me, Shani Krebs, stuck in a Thai prison on the other side of the world. I’m sure that most of them thought I would never make it and would probably die there, so why bother staying in touch. But I was disappointed in Morris. I wrote to my sister, asking her to tell him, if and when I got out, I was going to kick his arse. Come to think of it, there would be a lot of arses I would be kicking, not just Morris’s.

  It’s strange how grown men turn to childhood hobbies when they find themselves in a situation where they have to depend on their own resources. Stamp collecting was one of these, and it was very popular in prison. Whenever anyone received mail there would be a bunch of inmates pestering you for your stamps; some would even offer you money, while others were happy just to swap. I was receiving so many letters that I would give my stamps to people who were in a position to reciprocate with favours that would be to my advantage.

  I normally took my lunch around midday, and then, around 1pm, usually in groups, we would work out at the gym. Because it was a small area and there was an insufficient quantity of weights, each group would have a set time. The weights were nothing more than empty paint cans filled with concrete. We made do with what we had, and the paint cans turned out to be pretty effective. If I wasn’t training, I would do one of several things. Because I didn’t really have a place of my own besides my locker at the bakery, I often took a nap on top of my locker. The guard in charge of the bakery was Officer Cumning. In the first few months after I arrived at Bangkwang, he was forever chasing us off the lockers or telling us to clean the place up. Then one day the steel bucket that I used to take water with me to the toilet, because there was always a shortage of water to flush, disappeared. On investigating I found that Officer Cumning had confiscated it. I went to his office and retrieved it without his permission. I had just got out of the shower and still had my towel around me when he approached me and angrily demanded that I give it back. I refused and tried to explain that I needed it to carry water to the toilet. Everybody had these fucking buckets; what was his fucking problem? By this time a crowd of Thais had gathered around us. The guard stepped forward and pretended to take a punch at me. I raised my fist and told him, ‘Come.’

  I could see some of the other foreigners sitting on the lockers watching the scene. I said to them, ‘Check this guy’s problem.’ One of the officer’s boys, who was a Thai boxing champion, a little shorter than me and smaller in build, stepped in front of Officer Cumning. Words were exchanged between the two of them, but the Thai never said a word to me. The guard threatened to open a case of insubordination against me. I told him I would open a case against him with the South African embassy. Then the guard just turned around and walked away. The crowd dispersed. Nothing else happened.

  The following morning, when I got to my locker, Cumning was waiting for me. Nobody else was around yet. He said to me in English, ‘Come, one by one.’ I laughed to myself. I couldn’t believe he was back here challenging me to a fight. Out of respect, I backed off and told him in Thai, ‘Pom yom’ (I surrender). I also apologised. After that, Officer Cumning didn’t bother us for a while.

  That afternoon, I saw that the Thai guy who had stepped forward threateningly was out training on the field. When I walked past him he challenged me to a sparring session. I accepted and we squared up. He kicked me once or twice really hard, in the ribs and on my shoulder, but at the same time I swept his feet and he landed on his back. I jumped on his chest and with my right hand I delivered three to four blows inches away from his nose. Then I stood back, held out my hand and helped him to his feet. We shook hands and from that point on he became one of my best friends. I named him ‘Mike Tyson’ and he loved it.

  When Ryan came to me one morning to tell me there was a place available in his room, to say I was delighted by the news would be an understatement. I accepted the offer without hesitation. No more Jimmy scratching his scabs, no more noise, and I would only be with Western foreigners. We went to the office and arranged for me to change rooms. My friend Mohammed was kind enough to lend me the 2 000 Thai baht I had to pay upfront.

  Inmates were allowed to stay in the cells all day and come and go if they pleased, but this privilege would cost you 1 000 Thai baht a month. If you wanted to go into the cells an hour earlier, you could do that for 500 Thai baht. It was crazy how the guards would make money in every way possible. Posted at the door to the cell was the key-boy, who would let you in and out. It goes without saying that you would also have to keep him happy. Usually a packet of cigarettes every now and again could win you his favour. At 2pm I gave him a Pepsi so that he would let me go upstairs to fetch my bed. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I was to be leaving Room 45. I hoped that I would not end up sleeping next to the old French Israeli man who had blasted me with his farts – he had been part of the first group to move to the new foreign room. At 3.30pm as usual it was lockdown. I made my way to my new cell, Room 16. The guys were very welcoming and I was given a spot near the toilet. On my right and left sides were two Nigerians. The space between our beds was about one and a half palm-widths, which was much more space than I had had in Room 45. I was struck by the irony of a white South African ending up between two black guys. One of them snored, and the other didn’t use deodorant, but anything was better than Jimmy’s scratching and having his scabs floating around the room.

  Around July or August, news started filtering through of a possible amnesty in 1996. King Bhumibol Adulyadej would be celebrating his Golden Jubilee on 9 June. Worryingly, though, the prime minister, Chuan Leekpai, had made a speech on TV in which he recommended that drug offenders shouldn’t be included in the upcoming amnesty. Those of us foreigners whose governments didn’t have a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand depended on sentence reductions through these amnesties. I panicked. The Golden Jubilee would be the most auspicious occasion on the Royal Thai calendar, and it was imperative that we be included!

  It was becoming quite apparent that my Israeli saviours, who had promised to get me out of prison, were not only not going to get me released, but had also ripped us off. I had not heard from them for over ten months, so I couldn’t rely on their intervention or assistance. I would have to explore every other possible avenue, and so I took it upon myself to do whatever I could for myself and for other South Africans incarcerated in Thai jails. I had approximately ten months to achieve my goal of getting us included in the Jubilee amnesty the following year.

  As a prisoner in Thailand, if you are in the court process you are not eligible to benefit from any amnesty, and ‘luckily’, because of my lawyer’s negligence around my automatic appeal, my case had been closed. I didn’t know it at the time, but her negligence would turn out to be more of a blessing than a curse.

  I began by writing a letter to my sister explaining the situation, and instructing her to draft a letter to the Thai ambassador in South Africa requesting that drug offenders should not be discriminated against and asking that we be included in all future amnesties. In addition I proposed that Joan contact the families of the 12 other South Africans in Thai jails and get their support to stage a demonstration out
side the Thai embassy in Pretoria.

  Over the next few months I wrote several letters – to the United Nations, Amnesty International, the Pope and the King of Thailand. I also wrote over a thousand letters to people in South Africa who had responded to the articles in You and Huisgenoot magazines, urging them to write to the King of Thailand and ask for us to be pardoned. Rumours circulated that all foreigners would be pardoned and released because of the importance of the King’s Jubilee, and these rumours kept our spirits up.

  To my pen pals I wrote letters along these lines:

  I desperately need to ask a great favour of you. Can you get as many people as humanly possible to please write to the King of Thailand, requesting a pardon for all fellow South Africans presently incarcerated in Thai prisons, on the auspicious occasion of his fiftieth anniversary to the throne, which he will be celebrating on the 9th June 1996. The chance of a pardon being granted is very likely. Please realise that you’ll be playing a key role in possibly securing our release. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the effort you are showing in this respect. G-d bless you, and your family.

  During this time, an organisation called FOSADA (Families of South African Detainees Abroad) was formed to support South Africans incarcerated in prisons around the world. There were over 600 South Africans in foreign jails, the majority of whom were in South American prisons. The organisation was headed by Pam Burgess. Families were contacted to see if they were willing to demonstrate. None of them showed an interest. My sister said that she would protest on her own by pitching a tent outside the embassy, something I couldn’t agree to because she could be risking her life.