Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  Elisabeth and I sat in the back of the police vehicle like two lovebirds with our own chauffeur. We were so overjoyed it felt like we were going on honeymoon. Clasping each other’s hands, we taked excitedly about how I felt to be free. Disbelief was one of the emotions we both shared. At one stage, we had discussed her flying home with me, but even though for a while I was in two minds about it, I knew this would be a bad idea. I was far from ready to maintain a serious relationship. Quite apart from the emotional side, it just wasn’t practical. First I needed to be free, totally free, not only to deal with the whole adjustment process, but also free to explore and live a life.

  I was a different person now. I was no longer the Shani Krebs who had left South Africa for a quick holiday in Thailand in April 1994. My mind had become conditioned to an environment of survival, where I was in a constant state of alertness. The psychological transformation from a prison mindset to something completely different was too vast to contemplate. I had always been of the belief that marriage was for the emotionally insecure, that in a sense marriage was a worse institution than prison. Before I could even consider a relationship with a woman, let alone marriage, I would first have to become financially independent. There were too many factors conspiring against me and Elisabeth, and we both knew it. And besides, there was that all-too-familiar silent voice tugging at my subconscious: ‘Here’s your chance. This time it is easier than it was before. Run while you still can – run.’ Would Elisabeth ever understand that, while I did love her, I was incapable of loving?

  We phoned Joan again from the car. She was so excited to hear my voice for the second time that day that she cried from happiness. I had to keep her updated on my every move, while she in turn was busy posting developments on my Facebook page so that my over 1 000 Facebook friends, who were all eagerly monitoring my release, knew what was happening, too.

  From the outside, the IDC looked nothing like a prison. We pulled into a narrow parking lot that ran parallel to the entrance, which had a huge blue steel sliding gate. There were no guards that I could see. The policeman pressed a buzzer and then proceeded to slide the gate open himself. The next thing, a loud alarm went off; it was almost like an evacuation fire alarm. The noise brought me back to reality as I mentally prepared myself to confront whatever lurked behind this new gate. Elisabeth was not allowed beyond this point, so we hugged and kissed briefly and arranged that she would visit me on Wednesday.

  I was greeted by two immigration police, who were in civilian clothes and looked like detainees themselves. We walked into an open courtyard, directly in front of which was an office. Inside, sitting around a couple of tables, were four or five more police, also wearing civilian clothes, except for one. Just to the right of the door, I could see a whole lot of bags and a few suitcases, so it seemed we weren’t allowed to take our personal possessions inside with us. I also saw a variety of different-coloured sandals and shoes scattered around.

  I could hear conversations and activity echoing from all over, upstairs and downstairs. To the left of the office was a double doorway that led into a passage that gave access to the rear of the building, where the women detainees were housed. Outside in the courtyard there were three large wooden tables and benches, which I assumed were for official visitors, such as representatives from embassies, lawyers and immediate family. Behind this was a small cafeteria that sold things like basic toiletries, fresh bread, water and some groceries. Above it was a gated stairway that led upstairs to where the majority of the male detainees were held in cells under heavy security.

  I wasn’t subjected to any checking and was ushered to the last cell on the ground floor. I was instructed by one of the policemen to leave my bags outside the cell, which didn’t please me, and, after an argument that got a little heated, I was allowed to take one of them in with me. I chose the bag that contained my toiletries, change of clothing and my mobile phone. The cell wasn’t bad, about 3 by 6m, and it looked relatively well maintained. I would be sharing it with 13 other detainees. One of them, a Western foreigner, immediately approached me and introduced himself.

  ‘Hey, I’m Mark, where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from South Africa,’ I said.

  ‘Really? So am I!’ he replied. ‘What a coincidence.’

  Mark went on to explain that his visa had expired and he had to pay a fine, but unfortunately he didn’t have the money. To be honest, my mind was so preoccupied with my own thoughts that nothing much of what he said registered. I was vaguely aware of his mouth moving, but that was about all. While he was still jabbering on I took my place right by the door and near the overhead fan. Then I took stock. There was a group of about six Pakistanis, who had United Nations refugee status and were being relocated to families in the US, two Nigerians and three Laotians, one of whom was a beautiful woman in her late twenties. I was startled when I noticed her. Why was a woman here, locked up with a whole bunch of men? Then I realised that ‘she’ was actually a ‘he’, a lady-boy. This should be interesting, I thought to myself. I took out my towel and spread it on the floor. Then I took out the fake Blackberry Elisabeth had bought for me. After figuring out how to work it, I called home once again and also phoned a few friends to update them on where I was. It was really exciting sharing my joy, and everyone I spoke to was thrilled for me. Elisabeth had also bought me quite a lot of food – bread, cheese, fruit, nuts and chocolates. I invited the South African guy to eat with me, and then anybody else who felt like joining in. Naturally I invited the young lady as well, and she happily joined us. She didn’t speak much English, but we struck up a conversation. She told me she was a dancer at a club in Phuket and had overstayed her visa. Besides her prominent Adam’s apple and masculine voice, there was no way at first glance you could tell that she wasn’t a woman. Her name was Thong. After we had all eaten, I was busy cleaning my teeth when Thong came and asked me if she could use my phone. I said ‘with pleasure’. She came and sat next to me, so close that her leg was touching mine. I became aroused, and when she’d finished using the phone, I asked her if she would give me a massage. She agreed, so I lay back and put my leg on hers. I was wearing a pair of short jeans that were slightly loose, and, as she started to massage me, she slipped her hand up and under my thigh, almost caressing my balls. I felt myself getting hard. While she rubbed my leg, I played with her hair and, whispering, asked her if she enjoyed sucking cock. She gave me a seductive smile and gently squeezed my balls. I couldn’t believe that my body was reacting in such a manner. Could it be that after so many years of sexual deprivation I had become gay? How could I be turned on by a man with breasts? Well, hey, I thought to myself, maybe it would be an interesting experience.

  Mark, my new friend and fellow South African, was still busy eating, but I could tell he was fascinated by what was going on.

  ‘Hey, Mark,’ I asked jokingly, ‘would you like a blow job?’

  He seemed kind of nauseated by the thought and hurriedly said he had a girl in America whom he’d met on Facebook and fallen in love with, so he would give it a miss. It was really funny. Perhaps if he had been in prison as long as I had, he might have felt differently. I mean, after all, who goes to Thailand without getting laid by a transvestite?

  I thought I would settle for a blow job. I longed for intimacy but drew the line at a lady-boy. But I decided that I would keep an open mind and just see how things unfolded. So far, IDC was proving to be a lot more interesting than I’d anticipated.

  After all the excitement of the day, compounded by the hot weather, I thought I would take a shower. I half-undressed and then, first securing my towel around my waist, removed my shorts. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the lady-boy watching me. Shower bowl in hand, I made my way through to the back of the cell where there was a doorway (without a door) into the so-called shower room. This consisted of a water trough on the left-hand side running the length of the room – similar to the ones in prison. The difference here was that this area was tiled and
had clean running water. On the right-hand side there were five Western-style toilets, completely walled in for privacy. The downside was that all the doors had been removed.

  I slipped off my underwear. As I’d expected, the lady-boy had followed me, and, as she passed me, she gently touched my neck and ran her hand down my back onto my arse, sending shivers up my spine. I hung my towel over the wall of the toilet. I was naked. The lady-boy took her place in the end toilet and started removing her clothes. While scooping water over myself, I turned and faced her, and began to soap myself, while she stripped down to her skimpy hot pants. My hand moved over my cock. I was fully erect. Her breasts were small and her protruding nipples were enticing.

  She watched me as I showered, touching herself, caressing her breasts, all the time never taking her eyes off me. Then she took her thumb, pointed it towards her mouth and slowly mimed something unmistakable. It was an instant turn-off for me. I couldn’t help it, but I just burst out laughing. I knew there was no way I could go through with it. So much for my first blow job as an almost-free man!

  Things were getting a bit weird, even for me. I finished my shower and left the pretty lady-boy there in the toilet.

  It was dark already when, at around 7pm, one of the Nigerians and I were called to the office, where we joined a queue of about 20 new detainees all waiting to get registered. They ranged from young children to entire families, who were obviously illegal immigrants from neighbouring countries. While taking my place at the back of the queue, I suddenly remembered I was in an open courtyard. I looked up to the heavens. The vast open skies had come alive with millions of bright, shining, luminous stars. I felt a knot in my stomach and tears welled up in my eyes. For 18 years I had been deprived of the simple soul-nurturing pleasure of seeing the stars and the moon. I was mesmerised by the sight and thrilled by the idea that, in a matter of five short days, the night sky would once again be part of my everyday existence. I must have been staring for quite some time, because suddenly I noticed that everybody else was looking up at the sky, trying to see what I found so fascinating. They looked at me enquiringly, as if they were asking me to point out what it was that I was seeing that they couldn’t. Yes, they were looking upwards, but they couldn’t possibly have seen what I was seeing, or felt what I was feeling. They might as well have looked with closed eyes.

  I pointed to the stars and said, ‘Siep pat pee pom mai hen (Eighteen years I never see). ‘Pom hue krang nai reenjum’ (I stayed in prison).

  I’m not sure if they even understood Thai, as they still looked bewildered. I smiled to myself and thought, I’m alive again. There’s a whole new world out there, and it’s been waiting for me all this time. My breath grew heavy with excitement and I knew there and then that I could never allow myself to ever take anything for granted again, especially my freedom. No amount of money was worth losing one’s freedom for. I said a silent prayer of thanks to Hashem.

  Eventually I got to the front of the queue. I had my photo taken and was given a copy pasted on a small card, which was now my IDC identity card. When we were returned to the cell, I was instructed to get my stuff. The Nigerian and I were being moved upstairs. I tried to argue, as I dreaded the prospect of being thrown into one of the overcrowded cells upstairs, where the likelihood of getting into a fight was very real. It was not that I feared fighting. I had nothing to prove to these strangers who were going to be my companions for the next few days, but I had a whole new life waiting for me and I didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. My arguments fell on deaf ears, and once were were out in the courtyard again, with all our belongings, we were asked if we had mobile phones. If we did, we would have to hand them over. I hadn’t been prepared for this. My dog was in my bag, the one they were already searching. Anyway, I decided it was best to cooperate, so I handed the phone to the guard, who also took away things like my deodorant, aftershave, my mirror and my belt. These items were put in a big brown envelope for safekeeping. We were then taken to the third floor. The first cell on the left was for all African foreigners, so my Nigerian friend was put in there.

  Although I had just met the Nigerian guy, and so he wasn’t strictly speaking my friend, calling all fellow prisoners ‘my friend’ was a habit I’d picked up from the Thais. In prison, irrespective of whether you’re a foreigner or a Thai, whether you knew somebody’s name or not, invariably you would refer to them as puen (friend). So this made all of us ‘friends’.

  There was a lot of noise coming from the African cell and I could actually feel the body heat. It was obviously very overcrowded. I was placed in the cell next door. When I entered, it felt like there was no air in there at all. I felt claustrophobic. There were bodies everywhere. At a glance I estimated at least 80 Western detainees, with many Koreans, Chinese and Singaporeans. I was taken into a small room within the big cell where I was introduced to the room chief, a Chinese guy who spoke good English. He had been in IDC for several years already. He was starting to take out this huge ledger to register my name when three Chinese guys approached me, calling my name. ‘Hey, Alesanda puen!’ Their eyes lit up as smiles stretched across their faces. Wow, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew all of them! About 13 years back, we had not only stayed together in Building 2 but had also been good friends. I felt a warmth in my heart, knowing that for the next five days I would be among people who knew me, rather than among strangers.

  The Chinese guys invited me to stay in their private room. Some of them had been waiting a month already for their visas and travel documents. However, this didn’t seem to dampen their spirits too much, nor mine. What we had all been through was nothing in comparison to a few weeks, or days, in IDC. My new cellmates were only too keen to help me in whatever way I needed, and what I needed most was a dog. So when I was offered the use of a mobile, for however long I needed it, I became instantly cheerful. I decided I could live with the squalid conditions, even with only two toilets among us, both of which were broken. Shit would leak out when you flushed and float past your feet where you were taking a shower. Temperatures soared over 40 degrees, but nothing was going to detract from my good mood, and even the ugliness of my surroundings took on a much brighter hue now that I was among friends.

  I took advantage of the mobile to try calling Jessica again, and finally I got to hear her voice. I felt a flood of relief wash through me. When I asked her what had happened, and was she all right, she was apologetic and a bit surprised at my tone. Her son had fallen ill, she said, and she’d switched her phone off. Naturally, I was sorry about her son, but still–! I thought she could at least have messaged me, at this of all times in my life. Right there and then, I decided that I would have to dump her. I tore up all her letters. It made my load lighter for one thing, and my conscience clearer for another. Jessica had fucked up and she would pay the price. Second chances were earned; they weren’t just afforded.

  By the fourth day in IDC, I had broken out in a rash along both arms, and I had these pus-filled pimples that were incredibly itchy. These few days felt more like months – the thrill of being a free man was temporarily stifled by the insufferable conditions.

  On Friday 27 April, early in the morning, a list of names was brought to our cell of those people who were going to be deported. My name was among them. Everything was on schedule.

  I went through a whole range of different emotions during those last hours of counting down the time. I was spinning out of my head, jumbled thoughts bombarding me from the deepest recesses of my mind. I kept looking compulsively at my new Swatch watch, which hung as uncomfortably on my wrist as did the jeans around my waist. I stared at its face as the seconds and minutes ticked past. I could see time moving, and yet for me time stood still. And rising up from the pit of my stomach was that all too familiar feeling of nervousness that I remembered from the first time I walked into prison. The moment was drawing closer, the moment I had dreamed about, waking and sleeping. It was real, too real. My brain struggled to absorb it.

 
I couldn’t help wondering what it was going to be like to see my mother again. I had suffered terrible trauma at the hands of my parents during my childhood. I had never talked about it, not to anyone, but over the years I had done my fair share of reflecting and trying to process it all. Somehow, somewhere in my heart I had learnt to forgive my mother, and during the past 18 years she had certainly tried to make up for lost time. But was that enough? Would it change anything? Truthfully, I doubted that it would. All the same, knowing that her remaining years were probably few, I was determined to show her as much love as I was capable of. That was the best I could do.

  That evening, around 8pm, the steel doors of our cell were opened and those of us who were on the list were called to go downstairs. My things were all packed. I thanked my friends from IDC and said goodbye. There was no room in my heart for sentimentality. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there, and, hey, it was my turn now to turn my back on the battle-scarred faces of men who lived in four-walled city-towns.

  It was my turn.

  I walked lightly down the stairs.

  Acknowledgements

  Where to begin and how to thank the many thousands of people who encouraged and supported me for almost two decades of my imprisonment? Thank you to my family – my mom Katalin, Mike, Joan, Malcolm, Darren and Keri. Without your unconditional love and devotion, I might never have made it out alive to write this book.