Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  An article appeared in the Daily News on 16 February 1996 under the headline ‘Plight of the Prisoners’:

  Local officials are trying to find a solution to nationals in foreign jails in Thailand where more than ten young South Africans are in jail for alleged drug offences. The Thai Government has indicated its willingness to transfer the prisoners to South Africa to serve part of their sentences.

  It was articles such as these that kept our hopes and our cause alive. During the Golden Jubilee celebrations, the Thai government expressed a strong desire to all foreign countries with citizens in Thai prisons to take their citizens home. The South African government didn’t appear to give a fuck. Their excuse was that South African jails were overcrowded, so why bring back more criminals? Fuck them, I thought.

  South Africa was five to six hours behind Thailand. I was forever calculating the time, trying to work out what my family was doing at what time. I would imagine Joan dropping the kids at school, or the family gathered around the dining room table having dinner. I would go so far as to create imaginary conversations they’d be having. I missed them terribly. Thinking of all the years I’d wasted in having so little contact with them in the past saddened me deeply.

  Meanwhile, back in my room, my African brothers (who, by the way, turned out to be great guys) had been moved to another building. I now secured my spot in the corner. Sleeping next to me was a youngster from England, Matthew Jones, in his early twenties. He had lived in Bangkok for a year or so. He was a good kid and shared my love of playing football. Prior to coming to prison he had never used hard drugs, but, like so many other foreigners, Matthew had fallen victim and become a heroin addict. I tried to encourage him not to use, but in vain. It killed me to see such a young soul destroying his life. Unfortunately, he had also contracted AIDS, more than likely from sleeping with prostitutes. He had served about six years when his family, with the support of the British government, managed to get him a medical royal pardon and he was released. Before he left, I told him that he now had a second chance in life. With antiretroviral medication he could live for many years and lead a normal life. I hoped that, by regaining his freedom, he would stop drugs and turn his life around.

  More than half the guys in my room used heroin. I couldn’t blame them and I never judged them. Prison was a place where drugs helped ease the pain and allowed the time to pass quicker. Ryan, who slept next to Matthew, always kept at least 100g up his arse, which he removed every afternoon in the cell and proceeded ritually to cut and make really huge lines to snort. He was a generous bastard and was forever inviting me to join him. Seeing how fucked-up everybody else was, though, turned me against drugs. And not only that – how could I squander on drugs the money my sister was sending me for my food? It would have been really bad karma. By 4pm all the junkies had passed out, some even falling asleep with cigarettes in their mouths. It was like watching a comedy movie.

  The room was quiet – there were no TVs blaring. We had run cables from both sides of the room to the main TV, and each person had a jack he could plug his earphones into if he wanted to listen. Because all the channels were in Thai, the foreigners formed a video club. Every day each person contributed 5 Thai baht and the guy in charge would hire movies and a video machine. For those guys who had nothing else to do, watching movies was an excellent way to pass the time. Having been something of a patron of the arts, I had already seen much of what was available when I was on the outside, but some of the more popular movies I would watch again. The Shawshank Redemption was one of my favourites.

  Having a private cell exposed you to extortion from the guards. The office clerk, who was a prisoner himself and in charge of placing prisoners in their rooms, was a dubious character, and from the beginning I didn’t trust him. Every week we were required to pay him 1 000 Thai baht, which he claimed was for the Building Chief. This worked out to about 70 Thai baht per person. It was like paying rent. I talked to Ryan and told him it was fucked that we paid money to the office clerk and not directly to the prison authorities. I know 50 baht wasn’t much money, but it was the principle. We were being robbed. Generally, the officers didn’t accept bribes from foreign prisoners, their main concern being that we would report them to our embassies. Ryan agreed with me. He asked if I was prepared to take on the responsibility of being the room chief, and I said I was. That night it was discussed with the others in the cell and everybody agreed to my appointment. The following day, I informed the office clerk that I was now in charge of Room 16, and that from then on I would deal directly with the Building Chief regarding any payments that were to be made to the prison authorities. He was not impressed.

  For the most part, receiving letters from home was every prisoner’s highlight. According to my sister in one of her letters, another article had appeared in a newspaper back home, and this one was claiming that ‘all South Africans in Thai jails are going to be released’.

  While I was taking a shower one morning, Ryan came running from the back of the building, all excited.

  ‘You better pack your bags,’ he told me.

  One of the Thais, an ex-policeman, had heard the same story on Thai radio, that all South Africans were going to be released as part of a special deal. I convinced myself that there had to be some truth to the rumour. I hoped with all my heart that it was true. I hated the place, I hated prison, I wanted nothing more than to go home. I had already wasted a year. I believed that I’d learnt my lesson and that I could now become a productive member of society. I wholeheartedly wished that the end was near.

  My mom’s birthday was on 3 August; it would be her second since my arrest. Whenever it was a family member’s birthday I would spend hours on end looking at their photographs. In this way, I felt like I was part of the celebration on that special day. Despite all the difficult things that had gone between us over the years, I had a strong feeling that I was connecting spiritually with my mother.

  The South African consular officer now only visited every eight weeks. People from the French embassy came every two weeks and they brought the French prisoners magazines and stamps. The American embassy came every month and gave their citizens vitamins, books, magazines and even Nike running shoes. I thought it was a shame that our embassy did so little for us. When I did see a South African official, and asked about the rumour regarding our possible release, I would be told that they were confident that South Africa would be signing a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand soon. Every time they visited, the first thing I would ask them was about the treaty and every time the answer was the same.

  On 6 August 1995 an article by Ramotena Mabote appeared in the South African Sunday Times, in its Metro section, under the headline: ‘Mandela Save Me, Begs Drug Runner’. A portion of the letter I had written to President Mandela was reproduced in it.

  My sister was doing an amazing job fighting for my release and keeping me visible in the media, and I had Joan to thank for this article. It lifted my spirits, revived my faith and gave me fresh hope. My story was being extensively publicised. Joan would keep me updated on everything she was doing behind the scenes, and she also sent me copies of all the articles that were published in the press. Our prime objective, of course, was to get the prisoner transfer treaty in place, which would benefit all South African prisoners, but, just as importantly, we needed to make sure that drug cases would benefit from the upcoming amnesty in 1996. Joan sent letters pleading our case to President Bill Clinton, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi, the Chief Rabbi Cyril Harris, Tokyo Sexwale (then Gauteng premier) and the Minister of the Interior of Thailand, Banharn Silpa-archa.

  For those foreigners whose countries didn’t have a prisoner exchange treaty, there was another means of regaining one’s freedom. This was by royal decree, which was extended to all prisoners, Thais included. You could submit a personal petition requesting a royal pardon after going through certain channels: first from the relevant prison, then to th
e Department of Corrections, Ministry of Justice, prime minister’s office, and ultimately to the King. It was King Bhumibol himself who made the decision on royal pardons and signed off on them, resulting in either a sentence reduction or an outright pardon. In the 1980s, numerous foreign prisoners had benefited from such clemencies, but, by the 1990s, after a change of government led to a tougher stance on drug offenders, royal pardons had become less frequent.

  I was told that I would have to wait at least two or three years after sentencing before I could submit such a petition. In the event that your pardon was rejected, you would have to wait two more years before you could submit another petition. This whole procedure could take anything from three years to five. Submitting a petition for a royal pardon without full support from your own government, however, was pointless. The South African government refused to submit such a letter on our behalf. All they agreed to do was guarantee our travel documents. Other Western democratic countries gave their full support to their prisoners.

  Just a couple of months back I had been standing in a toilet with a noose around my neck, ready to take my own life. Now I was full of energy and hope.

  My excitement was overshadowed by my nephew Darren’s birthday in September and his upcoming Bar Mitzvah on 7 October, a day after my niece Keri’s birthday – Jesus, it was tough not being able to celebrate with my family! The more I thought about it, the more I just wanted to get the hell out of Bangkwang. Adapting to prison life wasn’t working out for me. Prison is a very dark place. One is reduced to nothing; life can easily become meaningless. Fortunately, unlike many prisoners, my family had not abandoned me, and it was only their efforts sometimes that kept me alive. If I was to get through this, I realised I would have to dig deep. My spirits were like a yo-yo: one minute I was up, the next I was down, and when that happened the vision of a different future was obscured by the towering cement walls.

  Chapter 10

  My Eyes Were Opening

  Prison staff are classified according to rank. All staff wear military-style uniforms and the insignia on their shoulder straps, such as stars, leaves and castles, distinguish their status. At Bangkwang, the Director, who was the number one in charge of the prison, was a C10. The next in line was the Deputy Director, a C9, but also known as the 105, and he basically did the Director’s dirty work. Each building had a chief (rank C8). The Building Chiefs sat in their offices most days and seemingly did nothing but dream up ways to extort money from prisoners. The office clerks, who were also prisoners, kept files on everything that went on in the building. They recorded, for example, the roll-call counts, which officers were on duty, prisoner requests, how many inmates had reported sick and needed to go to the hospital, and the arrivals and transfers of prisoners. The Building Chief’s sole duty was to sign off on all these files. Beneath him was the second chief, ranked C7. He was virtually a nobody and mostly dealt with general everyday problems. These two chiefs would often be on bad terms simply because the first chief, being the number one, took all the bribes; once you had him in your pocket, there was no need to bribe the second chief.

  Beneath the chiefs were the officers in charge of sections. They were ranked C6, and included the factory supervisors, the officer in charge of the actual sleeping quarters, and the officer in charge of the workers who maintained the building. Beneath them were the junior officers, C5s, C4s, C3s and C2s. These guards, or commodores, were stationed at less important posts, but were more involved in the daily running of things. They would also be the ones who smuggled illegal items in and out of the prison, such as money, electrical appliances, CDs, Walkmans and earphones, among other things. The drug dealers would use them to take money out of the prison to their visitors, at a cost of 20 per cent for their services.

  Prisoners who enjoyed privileges, such as having their own private room, owning a house or running a business, were required to pay or give a gift on holidays such as Songkran, the Thai New Year, and also on our Western New Year, to the Building Chief, second chief and the officer in charge of the room. Then, depending on your relationship with certain other guards, you might give something to them voluntarily. Failure to do so could result in your sudden and immediate transfer to another building or, worse, to another prison.

  Building Chiefs and second chiefs were changed regularly. After serving a term of a year or two, they would be moved either to another building or to a different prison. With every newly appointed chief, there would be a new set of rules; it was like a new government coming to power. Prisoners would drop an envelope on the chief’s desk as a sort of welcoming gift, and then the whole process of paying for your privileges would start again.

  Absurd as it seems, one is forced to make a life in prison, and I did the best I could. I am the type of person who loses interest if I have to keep doing the same thing for too long, so I had to keep thinking up things to change my routine. I cut my jogging time by half and for the remaining 20 minutes I started an aerobics class. Before long I had over ten members. It was a lot of fun in the beginning, and I made it really tough for the guys, but soon the novelty faded.

  My first year really dragged by. All I knew was that I could not give up, and when that first anniversary came round, I would have to try not to be cynical: only another 99 years to go … I was a survivor. I had to be. I owed it to my family. Knowing my sister was doing everything humanly possible to try to secure my early release kept me going. I remember once thinking to myself that if I had gone to prison when I was a much younger man, I might never have found myself where I was now. This was the last stop before hell. I had my highs and I had my lows, and for the most part the lows were very low. I went through a serious depression. I know it’s a cliché, but I felt like a bird whose wings have been clipped. Even writing letters was beginning to bug me. I wanted to have no contact with anybody. The outside world ceased to exist.

  In the many letters that I was receiving from family and friends, I had learnt of the upsurge in crime back in South Africa. I was concerned for the safety of my family. Then one day I got the dreaded news that they had been hijacked in their driveway. Thank goodness none of them was hurt. My sister played down the incident, not wanting to upset me, but I could imagine how traumatic it must have been. Joan and I were so alike; neither of us would ever complain to the other. She wanted to make my life in prison as manageable as possible. Every now and again she would send me a parcel containing luxury items such as biltong, dried fruit, nuts, rooibos tea, fish paste, vitamins and clothes. I was always hungry, so any food was welcome. Because of the extreme heat, I was forever breaking out in a rash on the inside of my thighs, so on top of my list of needs was always Canesten cream, an anti-bacterial fungal cream, which helped and soothed. I was so grateful for parcels from home and very happy when they arrived. Everything is relative, though, and on an emotional level I was drowning.

  We were grateful for small wonders. My friend Ryan got a Christmas cake around Easter that was laced with hashish. There were probably about 15 foreigners who shared that cake. I ate only a small piece, but I got really high. Some of the other guys in our room really pigged out. We were all on our own mission. The mind is so powerful, independent of the body. For those few hours I could have been anywhere. When I took a walk around the building I would come across some of the other guys and we’d smile at each other and comment on how fucked we were. These may have been lighter moments, but actually prison life is fucked-up. It can make you, but in most cases it will break you. One of the things I hated most was that I had no privacy whatsoever, but at least my accommodation had improved – a small consolation where deprivation was the order of the day.

  The communal toilets, which you had to flush manually, were such a freak-out. Twice a year the vaults in which the sewage was stored were emptied. These vaults were situated on the side of the building. There would come a moment when the vaults reached full capacity and the pipes leading into them would start to back up. Opposite my room downstairs was anot
her foreign room in which most of the Nigerians stayed. Early one evening, during lockdown, shit started coming out of their toilet. The guys scrambled to move their beds, piling them on top of each other in the corner of the cell out of reach of the shit. In no time, though, most of their cell was flooded. The sewage reached the corridor and then began to flow into our cell. We piled up a bunch of wet towels along the bottom of the steel security gate to prevent the shit from flooding our room, too. Our Nigerian brothers really had it bad. They shouted, screamed and whistled through the bars at the rear of the cell, hoping to attract the guards on night duty, but to no avail. They shook their steel security gate so hard that pieces of cement dislodged around the frame. The smell was nauseating, and cockroaches came pouring through the toilets in their hundreds. Even the guys in the corridor were scrambling to avoid the floating faeces. It was disgusting. You can’t believe what people had flushed down the toilets and was coming back up again. Eventually the guards appeared, wanting to know what the commotion was about. When they realised what the problem was, they went to the side of the building where the sewerage pipes were and, using a steel bar, smashed the concrete pipe that led to the vault. This at least diverted the sewage to the house outside (which happened to be my friend Mohammed’s) instead of letting it flow into the cells. He was going to be in for a helluva surprise in the morning!

  The vaults were sealed with a big square piece of concrete. When it was time to empty them, a crew of workers and several volunteers would dig up a section of ground in the area where vegetables were grown. They’d dig a trench about 6m long, about 1.5m deep and about the same in width. Then they would remove the concrete lid and take the shit out by means of small buckets attached to ropes. They would empty it into steel drums, which were transported by wheelbarrow to the new pit, where the shit was dumped. When they couldn’t reach any further into the vault with their arms, the guys would climb in. They would be chest-high in shit. When the vault had been completely cleaned out and all the shit dumped into the pit, this would be left open for a day or two to dry. The smell would permeate the building.