Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  In May, Bertie Lubner, who never gave up supporting me and my family, wrote to Nelson Mandela, advising him that he was planning to speak to the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Aziz Pahad, on my behalf: ‘… Even though I have no responsibility for the young man,’ he concluded his letter, ‘my conscience does not allow me to stop trying, as a productive and useful life is being wasted locked up.’

  In my cell we were a mixed bunch of Western foreigners, and guys came and went. There were four British guys, three Americans, one from the Czech Republic, a German (who would masturbate on his bed in the middle of the night), Simon the French Israeli (who still farted), a Dane, an Estonian, a Slovak and Pedro, who found solace in his lady-boy and drinking. Because we were all serving hard time, we tried to be more tolerant of each other, but this never lasted long. Sooner or later, tempers would flare and arguments erupt. The guy who slept next to me was allowed to be there only because he had stopped smoking, but after a couple of weeks he started again. A hand’s-breadth separated our beds. When I objected to his smoking, he gave me a mouthful, and I got so pissed off I threw the TV remote at him and threatened to fuck him up. That seemed to shut him up, but after that we didn’t speak to each other for a year.

  There were many such incidents, where trivial problems caused rifts between so-called friends. Remember that prison friendships are first and foremost mainly of convenience. It was seldom that one struck up a genuine friendship, although there were exceptions.

  In the cell next to ours, and also across the way, were the Nigerian rooms. We had a rule that because there were so many Nigerians, and they were forever in trouble and being transferred from one building to another, our room was strictly limited to ‘white boys’. This had nothing to do with being racist. But if you took one Nigerian into your cell, then every time another arrived, the prison authorities would shove them in your room and none of us wanted to compromise that hand’s-breadth of space. This rule caused a lot of resentment towards me, especially as I was a white South African. The Nigerians were also forever at each other’s throats, shouting the worst abuse imaginable. It got so bad sometimes that we would bang our fists on the wall for them to tone it down.

  The Slovak guy, Ivan Zavadinka, who was gay, slept opposite me. His mother was from Budapest and we spent quite a lot of time brushing up on our Hungarian. He was tall, good-looking, intelligent and generally liked by everybody. One Sunday night – it was 2 June – he complained about severe pains in his solar plexus area. We were locked up and there was nothing we could do. Many a prisoner had died in the cells because it took the guards so long to open up, and there were no emergency procedures in place. If you had a heart attack or a stroke, all you could do was hope to die quickly and peacefully. Anyway, Ivan’s friend, who was the guy from the Czech Republic and who slept next to him, gave him a bottle of freshly squeezed lemon juice, which seemed to ease his pain. I went to sleep. Around 3am I woke up and noticed Ivan on his hands and knees crawling to the toilet. He was in terrible pain. I helped him up and out of the toilet. For the next four hours until they opened our cell, he lay on his bed curled up in agony. It was heartbreaking to watch.

  When our cells were finally opened at 6.30am we carried Ivan downstairs. After the necessary paperwork was filled out, he was loaded onto one of the four-wheeled flat wheelbarrows that the food containers were carried on. That morning, when Jai visited, I asked her to call the Slovak embassy to inform them that Ivan had been hospitalised. The following day, Tuesday, we got the news that Ivan had died from a burst ulcer. The guard who told me actually laughed. We foreigners were totally shocked. A few days later I learnt that, on arrival at the hospital, he had been admitted but the doctor hadn’t even attended to him. A medic had given him a couple of paracetamol and let him go to sleep. The fuckers had simply let him die. I was so fucking angry. These people had no respect for life. Here was a beautiful human being, still in the prime of his life, and, just like that, he was gone. I could not understand nor believe that fate had anything to do with it. As a gesture of goodwill, I painted Ivan’s portrait and had it posted to his mother. I wanted her to know that Ivan was a gentleman and well liked by everybody, and that his death was mourned by Thai and foreign prisoners alike.

  The Thais have a traditional home-brew, an alcoholic beverage called lao. There are two kinds of lao. To brew the first kind, they dry sliced bread by laying it out in the sun, thereby gathering natural yeast from the air. The bread is then soaked in water and sealed in a plastic bag with small holes poked in the sides, allowing air to enter. The bag is kept in a dark place. After a week or so, when mould has set in, the bag is placed in a container and three litres of water and half a kilo of sugar are added. This allows fermentation to set in. After five days the mix turns to alcohol. The stuff tastes terrible, and I’d heard stories of prisoners going blind from drinking it. The first time I drank it was with a Dane who brewed his own. Within ten minutes I had severe stomach cramps. I ran to the toilet and my insides literally poured out of me.

  The second method of making lao involves using yeast with fruit, water and sugar. This yields a much better and stronger form of the drink, and two cups will still knock you for a loop. Lao was usually brewed before Songkran and New Year, when there were five days of holidays. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in prison and yeast was harder to come by than heroin. The problem was that drinking invariably led to violence. We would go to extreme measures to hide the alcohol. At one stage the guards were so strict that we actually buried the containers it was brewing in. After lockdown the guards would walk around the building checking all the water containers. If they found alcohol, they would pour it down the drain.

  On 12 September 2002, my sister drafted a letter to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma:

  There is the matter of prisoners having the right to request a pardon from the King of Thailand. Generally the Thai authority only recommends the pardon to the King if the resident embassy supports the application or provides a ‘no objection’ (to the pardon) letter. It is my belief that such a letter from the embassy would assist in the reduction of some of the sentences of South African prisoners held there, and it would be sufficiently neutral not to have any repercussions.

  I humbly request that consideration be given to allowing our embassies to provide ‘no objection’ letters. I attach for your information a letter of support from the Islamic Republic of Iran (also known to have a hardline attitude towards drugs – people are executed in Iran for drugs) for one of their prisoners requesting a pardon. As you will note, my request above does not even go this far.

  On 6 October 2002, my niece Keri, Joan’s daughter, wrote to Nelson Mandela:

  Dr Mr Mandela

  My name is Keri Sacks, I am a thirteen year old and I have a wonderful Uncle who has been in prison for 9 years (nine).

  He is a kind hearted man from what I can remember. His life is so wasted in a prison.

  My Mom and Gran are so devastated especially my Gran who is seventy-eight years old.

  She is worried she may die before she sees him a free man again.

  I truly would like to see you for just five minutes to explain my sad story.

  I know you have many requests like this one, but please consider my request, it would mean so much to me.

  I thank you for reading this letter and I look forward to hearing from you. You could tell Mr Lubner what you decide to do and he could tell me.

  In Grateful Anticipation

  Keri Sacks

  Meanwhile another eight Americans were transferred back to the US. While America financed the war on drugs in Thailand, when it came to their own nationals, they did everything to ensure their safe return home and early release. While I was happy for anybody who regained their freedom, I was bitter about the injustice of it all. We needed a new strategy.

  At this time, the rand was weakening against the dollar, which meant I was getting fewer Thai baht. Fortunately, there was always some
body who stepped up to help out. My mother even contributed a portion of her pension money to provide for my needs in prison.

  Notwithstanding the conditions, in comparison to the majority of prisoners I enjoyed a much higher standard of living. By now I employed the services of five ‘boys’: I had one who did my washing, another who would change my sheets and take my bed into the sun once a week, and I had a water boy, who would carry and collect clean water for my daily showers. In my cell, I employed the services of a professional masseur, who gave me a foot massage every night just before I went to sleep. Lastly, I had a boy who carried my portable electric fan and water cooler to the cell when we were locked up in the afternoon. Having all these luxuries, and knowing that I wasn’t short of anything, gave me peace of mind. In my heart I was beginning to accept my fate. I learnt a very important lesson in prison – that peace of mind is the single most important element to allow you to succeed in all your endeavours. This was clearly evident in the pieces of art I was producing. My eyes were worsening, though, and I was already on +200-strength reading glasses.

  Rumours were surfacing that drug cases would no longer be considered for royal pardons. If this was true, it would be a terrible blow for many of us whose only chance of freedom was through a royal pardon. I had grown accustomed to hearing all these rumours and, unless something was in writing, I usually didn’t give them much thought. This particular one bothered a lot of the prisoners, though.

  I was going through my most prolific artistic phase. I would allow nothing to stand between me and my dreams, and I continued to escape into my own world where my thoughts converged with my desires. I created my own paradise.

  Despite the new government’s clampdown on drugs, with the introduction of cellphones, which were illegal in prison, the drug trade in Bangkwang continued to thrive. Yaba was the drug of choice for many prisoners. Increasingly, people who were busted on the outside with large amounts of drugs would inform the police that they were working for bosses inside Bangkwang. They would give the police phone numbers, names and even tell them which buildings these ‘bosses’ were in. This led to regular raids by the police, who arrived with sniffer dogs.

  Bangkwang Central Prison is a million-dollar enterprise. The amount of money that passes through its gates is unbelievable. In addition, the prison factories are a significant source of revenue for the government. The position of Prison Director is a powerful and lucrative one. Besides being of sufficiently senior rank to qualify, the officer who is considered for this position has to pay huge amounts of money to the director of the Department of Corrections and to the Minister of Justice.

  The Director is the man responsible for the prison’s budget and for allocating money for the prisoners’ food. Our Director would cut costs wherever possible. One of the buildings at Bangkwang was a pig farm. Here pigs were slaughtered and the meat supplied to the prison kitchen. This provided food for only about 40 per cent of the prison population, but that was all the Director would allocate in funds. The rest he pocketed himself. He also received kickbacks from all the factories.

  Bangkwang went through phases when restrictions were alternately eased or tightened, which usually happened whenever a new Director took over the prison. It is similar to what happens when a new government comes into power. Rules were changed, new visions articulated, and sometimes buildings were even renovated. In 2002, for example, our annual contact visit was cancelled.

  Many things were illegal in prison. Money was one, electrical appliances another. Searches happened fairly regularly. These could be conducted by the inside guards, which comprised the Bangkwang security section together with guards from our own building, or, every now and again, by the Department of Corrections. They would often invite a police and military contingent to take part in the raid. These raids were more serious, and when they happened prisoners would be warned to hide their money and anything electrical they happened to have. Sometimes the warning came 20 minutes before the raid, and suddenly everybody would be scrambling and running around trying to hide their things. Money would be rolled up and wrapped in plastic bags, and buried in the sand. We’d put our electrical appliances into rice bags, marked with our names. The guards would open one of the solitary cells for us and we’d store our goods there until the raid was over. If it was the outside guards who caught prisoners with money or electronics, it would be a loss of face for the Building Chief in question, as it would be clear that he was corrupt, and he would be punished.

  It was quite ironic, really; the whole system was riddled with corruption, but as long as it was done clandestinely that was okay.

  Notwithstanding the new government’s stern line on drugs on the outside, it was business as usual on the inside. The only difference was that we were on constant alert.

  On 11 December, Aziz Pahad, on behalf of Mr Mandela (and thanks to Bertie Lubner), took my case to His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand. He beseeched him to grant me a royal pardon. The Royal Palace replied in a letter stating that my application for clemency was still in the decision process. It seemed that my pardon had not, in fact, been rejected and that an administrative error had been made!

  I was not to learn about this until January 2003, and as soon as I could I related these developments to the consular officer, mentioning also that Mr Mandela had personally supported my application. Mrs Pheto was only too eager to follow up. More rumours were circulating, one of which was that Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra had called on all foreign governments to sign treaties and to take their citizens out of Thai jails. Once again, I allowed myself to hope. The signs were all favourable. There was no doubt in my mind that if our government really wanted to liberate us, they could do so. There were 14 South African prisoners in Thailand at that time, most of whom had been arrested in 1994. Close on ten years was a long time by any standards.

  At the end of December of that year – I remember it was a Tuesday, not my regular visit day – Tony Leon and his beautiful wife came to visit me. I was humbled that a prominent politician had not only taken the time to come and meet me, but had also, prior to his visit, made several attempts to influence certain cabinet members to work towards a treaty. Unfortunately, nothing materialised from his efforts.

  During the days and nights leading up to 27 March 2003, the day they were due to be transferred back to their home country, the Nigerians couldn’t sleep. All they talked about was their transfer. Their excitement was tangible. They were all busy gathering their things together and packing their bags. Some packed only basic essentials and a few sets of clothing, while others took their DVD players, movies and MP3s. After all, they were still going to prison in Nigeria and not about to be released altogether. Even so, they were one step closer to freedom. And anything was possible in Nigeria, a country where corruption was as rife as it was in Thailand.

  That Tuesday morning, 321 Nigerians made their exodus back to the land of their birth. Two aeroplanes were chartered to transfer them back home. About 30 guys, many of them dressed in traditional attire, walked through the gates of Building 2. The balance was made up of prisoners from other buildings and also from Klong Prem. Irrespective of skin colour or nationality, we were all brothers. I had forged strong friendships with quite a few of the Nigerians, and I shared their joy. I hoped and prayed that now a window of opportunity would open for the South African government to follow Nigeria’s example.

  After the Nigerians left, the prison quietened down considerably. It was something of an anticlimax, I suppose. The number of foreigners had dwindled, and, where foreigners had once dominated in football, this was no longer the case.

  The owner of the gym had managed to get onto the transfer list. When he left, he gave the gym to another African, Dikor, who was from Mali. I was a member of the gym, and, although I paid my monthly fee of 100 Thai baht, it hardly ever worked out that I got full value because I played football on most days. If I did weight training two months out of the year, it was a lot. Dikor, who s
poke fluent French, was a very good friend of Simon, the French Israeli guy.

  In September we heard that Catherine Mnyengeza, who was serving a 35-year sentence at the women’s prison, had tragically passed away. She was still in the prime of life, and we were friends, corresponding regularly. She was nine years into her sentence when she died. If South Africa had had a prisoner transfer treaty in place, she would have been eligible for transfer after four years, paroled and would have received proper medical attention. She would, in all likelihood, still be alive. Our embassy had done nothing to help Catherine. In fact, as far as I was concerned, they had murdered her. Her tragic and sudden demise cast an ever greater shadow over us South Africans and the uncertainty of our fate. In her honour, I painted a vase with orchids, which I have dedicated to her memory. In a letter I subsequently wrote to President Mbeki, I asked him: ‘How many of us must meet the same fate as Catherine before you take the necessary steps to repatriate your citizens?’

  It seemed that Catherine’s death had, in fact, rattled our government. On 6 November I was informed by the authorities that I should prepare myself for an audience with the Director of the prison on the 10th. I had no idea what was going on. That morning, when I walked out of the gates of Building 2, there were balloons and Thai and South African flags lining the road that led from the main gate. My heart was pounding. What the fuck was going on? Was I going home? I wished and I prayed. I was escorted by two guards to Building 14, which was the university building. The Director at the time was Mr Pittaya Sangkanakin, whose goal in life seemed to be to rid the prison of corruption and drugs. He had built a television studio in Building 14 so that prisoners could learn to be camera operators. The studio made it possible to televise live events – mainly our annual football competition. Teams were no longer allowed to take supporters with them because drugs would be exchanged and distributed to the other buildings during matches. Prisoners could now watch every match on a big colour TV in the dining rooms of their own buildings. Alternatively, for those who had private TVs, they could watch the games in the comfort of their houses.