Rotting in the Bangkok Hilton: The Gruesome True Story of a Man Who Survived Thailand's Deadliest Prison (20 page)

Shortly after 4:00 AM, the entire population of the upstairs dorm corridor was crushed against the bars of the casino cell. The silence was absolute, the ritualistic formalities were observed so meticulously one could be forgiven for imagining a royal christening or crowning might be taking place.

New dice were removed from a sealed plastic package; a new felt-lined leather cup and felt-lined box were produced, cleaned, and set up. Everything was solemnly offered first to Eddie, then to the Cantonese players for their inspection and approval.

With the formalities adhered to, Eddie rolled the cup in his hands back and forth a few times. He hefted the dice, jiggled them a bit, and dropped them in the cup. Four hundred thousand or nothing, to be determined by one throw.

He lifted the cup, then slammed it mouth down in the box. A Cantonese flunky had been delegated to do the deed, gingerly lifted the cup, and revealed the dice.

The stony, rigid glares of the Chinese spoke volumes. Heinrich and Fritz let out whoops, and a ragged cheer was given by other farangs. Eddie allowed himself the slightest hint of a smile, and lit a Gauloise (French cigarette).

A farang could not possibly own and operate a coffee shop. Quite aside from official Thai xenophobia in business matters, there were so many issues, large and small, unresolved that daily transactions would grind to a halt had he tried to assume control.

Eddie did the sensible thing, accepting a large lump sum deposited in his bank account, and monthly payments to clear the debt in three months.

The casino owner was ruined, his debt paid through nebulous clan ties and obligations, and faded into obscurity in disgrace. As technical owner of the casino, Eddie demonstrated his wisdom by making a gift of it to Youngman for a relatively nominal sum, and thereby earned the powerful Cantonese’s eternal friendship.

The more reflective members of the Western community long debated a bone of contention. Had it all been a sting, a carefully crafted con game? Was it possible so wily a character was just riding a lucky streak, the laws of probability be damned? It felt like he had played them hard, the whole thing too neat to believe it was natural. I was not alone in this belief.

No answers were forthcoming. Only one thing favored the supporters of the con game theory. Eddie never gambled again.

A Family Reunion

N
oi looked exactly like what he was—a fairly average working-class Thai: He was short, wiry, muscles thin but corded by hard labor, and not a gram of extra fat on him. His skin was the color of old cinnamon, leathery from years of exposure to the sun. He was self-contained; quick to smile or make a jest, but his eyes were pools of deep and abiding sadness.

Like many of his fellows, he was stick thin from years of short rations. The prison food is inedible, so everyone must buy their own, or re-cook morsels strained from the nasty stuff the prison provides. Noi was forced to the latter method to survive.

Sores and purplish discolorations disfigured his skin; the result of using water from the public troughs for bathing. The troughs are filled with water pumped straight out of the Chao Phaya River. The river is so horribly polluted with chemicals, rotting animal carcasses, and such that it needs to be boiled several times before it is safe for use. The poor have no choice but to bathe in the untreated water, unable to afford the time and the price of the wood for the fire to boil it.

He had a few puffy, inflamed spots on his neck and arms, like most of us, bug bites. A thin bamboo mat was all that separated him from the concrete floor, which made him easy prey for parasites. Insect life flourishes in Thai prison; mosquitoes, roaches, scorpions, poisonous centipedes, and millipedes are everywhere.

He had lost three fingers on his right hand, an injury gone gangrenous requiring amputation. Small cuts or abrasions quickly become infected in the tropics, and without money to buy antibiotics, the least wound can cost limbs or prove fatal.

His back was bent; his arms and legs bowed, he had worked hard in the factories set up by prison officials to make use of prisoners as slave labor. The factories contain old, decrepit machines lacking safety features that maim workers. Made long before designers thought of ergonomics, they twist men into strange shapes from decades spent molding themselves to fit odd angles.

His breath held a hollow rattle, a suppressed cough, the legacy of the regular use of dangerous chemicals. The furniture factory, the towel factory, and the picture frame factory, to mention the three busiest ones in Building 2, all used copious amounts of industrial solvents and compounds, typical of Bang Kwang Prison as a whole. The chemicals drift in vapors on the air, and leach into the groundwater. Poured untreated into the open sewer drains that ring the prison, they taint every breath, every bite and sip with bitter poison.

Buddha was certainly right, as far as Noi was concerned. Life
was
suffering.

Like the other twelve million or so of his class swarming the capital, he had grown up on the outskirts of Bangkok, eventually getting a job in the city in early adolescence. As an adult, he had worked in construction as a manual laborer, and earned enough to start a family. Although he was far
from well-off, he, his wife, and daughter were surviving better than if they had lived in the countryside.

The life of a Thai peasant is one of sorrow, punctuated with bright evanescent moments of joy. High taxes, usurious loans, crippling medical bills, brutal work, and long hours for a pittance are a daily struggle. This is interspersed with the birth of children, holidays, the rare satisfaction provided by the purchase of some little luxury, a radio, perhaps, or a new dress for the wife.

This fits well with the Buddhist doctrine Thais absorb with their mother’s milk that existence is suffering. If one submits to it patiently, one might escape the great wheel of karma that dumps the masses into life after lives of misery. In Noi’s world, endurance is the ultimate virtue.

Unfortunately, endurance and submission are qualities at odds with the modern Western culture invading Asia, particularly Thailand. Instant gratification American-style plagues the poor from every billboard, TV screen, and radio. An electromagnetic bath of torment, force-fed visions of the unobtainable, that all too often proves unbearable, demanding relief whatever the cost.

Drugs are omnipresent in Thailand, cheap and easy escape valves from drudgery. As much a part of life as cigarettes or liquor, they compete with the values of the temples, priests, and family traditions. It is a losing contest for the old ways.

His wife’s second pregnancy spurred him to seek a way out. The temptation of easy money from drugs was his ruin. He was busted on his single attempt to bring a kilo bag of heroin into the city from the North. The cops can spot novice smugglers as easily as a child plucks seashells from the shore. A nervous, sweaty peasant, darting glances in every direction, reeking of fear. Noi’s shabby clothes contrasted starkly with the first class train seat he was told to buy “because they don’t hassle first-class passengers.”

Noi ended up with a life sentence—100 years, because he did not have the money to pay the bribe the judge demanded, as is customary.

Shortly after being sentenced, his pregnant wife and their little daughter moved back upcountry to her parents’ village. That was the last he heard from her; but Noi was not angry. He understood how hard it was for her and did not blame her a bit. Without his support, her family’s help was her only alternative to starvation or prostitution.

His mother brought the only other news; his ex had given birth to a son. She gave the child Noi’s name, and for that he was grateful.

Noi served his time at Bang Kwang.

As are most Thais, Noi was a fatalist, and he did his time like everyone else; one painful day at a time, trying to make the best of it. Twenty years passed this way, each day indistinguishable from another; time marked by barely remembered seasons. One by one, his relatives died, and Noi became increasingly isolated.

Luckily, his mother remained in good health for years, and came to visit him whenever she could manage. Eventually, though, she too died, and with her went his last source of contact with the outside world.

When the prison grapevine told him that someone with his name was going through trial at Lard Yao Prison, Noi was filled with a nameless dread. He prayed it was only a coincidence. Every so often, someone would let him know what was up with his namesake’s case. Going to court was common, as appeals in cases with life sentences are automatic, so prisoners share a wide network of information about each other’s whereabouts and situations. Actual relief from courts rarely occurs, but court trips are a social event where prisoners from the local prisons mix freely, and gossip all day.

Inevitably, as one of the hopeless poor, the day came when his namesake was convicted, and was shortly thereafter transferred to Bang Kwang. As luck would have it, the young man was brought to Noi’s own building after lockdown count. Proof, perhaps, of synchronicity—of meaningful coinci
dence, he was put into the cell directly across from Noi’s in his first evening in Bang Kwang.

A few minutes conversation through the cell bars, across the corridor, was enough to establish identity. This was his son, the child that bore his name that he had never seen.

Shock, amazement, and a terrible sense of futility pained Noi’s soul. His eyes blazed with emotional agony. His son had been given a life sentence for trying to smuggle heroin, just as Noi had received more than twenty years before.

I was in Noi’s cell—one of only two farangs, and the other Thais were as surprised as Noi was by this new waking nightmare. Feverish whispers spread the tale from prisoner to prisoner. The story was remarkable, even by the standards of a place that regularly bred hideous things. My Slovakian friend Ivan, whose Thai was about the same as mine, questioned the others closely, until we were sure we had it right.

With tears flowing down his face, Noi let gush a torrent of his life’s story, to an audience silent with horror and pity. Sleep came hard that night.

The Thais woke me in the early morning gloom, far earlier than usual.

They urged me to examine Noi. They knew I was an educated man and wanted an unbiased confirmation of their fears. He was cold and slightly stiff. I touched his eyeball, and the absence of a response made it certain. I gently closed his eyelids, and nodded to the Thais … he was gone. There was no doubt he had died of a crushed spirit in the night.

Unspeakably tragic reunion that it was, there was nothing to be done.

Noi’s body was stripped bare of possessions: clothes, bedding and all, scant minutes after I told them he was dead. The other prisoners were not completely unfeeling, though. The son was given a lock of his father’s hair, and the cheap clay Buddhist amulet he had worn on a leather thong in remembrance of the old man.

Course of Treatment

I
dubbed them ‘Scabby Numbers 1, 2, and 3.’ A good friend of mine, Johann, was with me in the prison hospital at the time and quickly started using the monikers as well. It was cruel and unsympathetic, but accurate. The three men, dying of AIDS enabled leprosy, were covered with weeping multi-colored sores. Kaposi’s sarcoma brought out sickly hues, like bruised fruit, on their arms, legs, and torsos. Their flesh had become canvases for the mordant artistry of a virus.

Johann and I lacked empathy due to the fact that they stank abominably and continued to use the communal water for cooking and bathing. Their nasty habit of spitting on the floor in complete disregard for others did not help matters. This was typical of prisoner’s behavior in Thai jails in general. Most were oblivious to others’ needs or concerns, tightly wrapped in solipsistic cocoons.

The three were kept on the second floor ward of the two-story hospital dorm; the ground floor being devoted solely to tuberculosis patients. I slept five beds down from them in their row; Johann nearly opposite me in the row against the far wall. Both floors were laid out identically.