Rotting in the Bangkok Hilton: The Gruesome True Story of a Man Who Survived Thailand's Deadliest Prison (14 page)

A Thai Delicacy

T
im and I called him the “The Reptile Man.” He was burned the color of dark chocolate by a lifetime spent toiling in the tropical sun. A pattern of deep crisscrossing cracks and lines covered his moistureless skin. Bald, he had the appearance of a large lizard, hairless and scaly. His irises were twin black holes, devoid of emotion, the orbs yellow and watery from jaundice. He was frail as a dried leaf and rendered skeletal by illness. His was a terminal disease, his case hopeless.

The Reptile Man was a leper, and like all of those afflicted with that ancient curse, was slowly rotting. The sickly-sweet odor of decay clung to him. Patches of grey, flaking flesh grew into sores, ultimately engulfing and dissolving his extremities. He retained portions of his lips and nose, but his eyebrows, ears, and a few fingers and toes had gone.

He was hideous; a being the Thais believed had been abandoned or punished by the gods. After a while, however, familiarity blunted the shock I felt seeing him. Gradually, it became possible to meet his gaze as he had creep by in the dark concrete cavern of the dorm stairwell or on a garden path in the fierce glare of the day. I might greet him, but could never genuinely return his faint smile.

His story was as simple as it was pathetic. He was one of more than fifty million that made up the peasant population of Thailand. His back-breaking labor earned him a bare subsistence living.

He had lived and worked in the North, part of the region known as the Golden Triangle. Besides producing opium from thousands of illicit poppy fields, and the teak logged with elephants in the rain forests, the area was rife with communicable diseases. There he had the misfortune to contract leprosy. His wages were insufficient to pay for medicine and necessities together. After taking the medication sporadically for a time, the symptoms faded. Like many others, he chose food and shelter over permanent cure, no doubt feeling the medicine had triumphed over the disease. When he killed another laborer in a bar fight and ended up in prison, he brought the malady along with him.

He had bred a drug-resistant strain of leprosy and was doomed. The drugs had harsh side-effects and only served to prolong his misery.

The Reptile Man’s schedule never varied. The moment the guards unlocked the hospital dormitory gates in the morning, he would make his way, step by painful step, down the stairs to the drainage canal ringing the hospital grounds. His spot was right next to a concrete trough that held river water, polluted with chemical toxins and animal wastes, for prisoners’ bathing and laundry.

He always carried a bowl (to scoop up the water), a hand towel, a mirror, and an old-fashioned wooden ruler with a sharp edge of brass on one side. He would ease himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, and with the ruler painstakingly scrape off all of his dead skin into the canal.

The entire prison, like Bangkok itself, was built on top of a swamp. To try and mitigate the flooding which occurred every monsoon season, the Japanese (who built the place during WWII) had dug canals running the length and breadth of the prison.

These canals teemed with wildlife, strange gutter fish, spiny with poisonous barbs; pythons as long as two tall men; thin little red, yellow, and
black striped snakes that were mere inches long, and shy, but whose bite was instantly fatal (coral snakes). Brightly colored toads and frogs carpeted the canals’ sloping banks, noisy at night and sluggish by day, as scabby cats chased equally scabby rats along the putrid canals. Snapping turtles of vicious temperment floated along islands of malice. Countless species of insects shared space with all the fauna. Scuttling along in the shallows were purplish-black crabs, nature’s garbage men.

Voracious, the crabs were quick to spot an opportunity, and the Reptile Man’s crusty meat was no exception. They came in many sizes, some as small as a fingernail, up to elders the size of dinner plates. Every morning, hundreds of them gathered, swarming in a competitive pile, eager to seize their free meal.

For months, the clawed monsters ate this repulsive fare. Their carapaces could hardly contain their swollen bodies; they glistened darkly, grown fat and sleek. The prisoners, knowing the source which fed the crabs’ unnatural sizes, did not eat the things themselves.

Every few days they’d capture the largest ones, carefully removing their shells so as not to damage the tender flesh within. They’d marinate the puffy meat in lemon juice spiced with powdered chilies and cinnamon overnight. Come the morning, the succulent pieces were skewered on thin bamboo sticks and patiently barbecued over hot coals.

The enticing scent never failed to draw the guards, who would eat the pieces as quickly as they were done. The prisoners sold every shish-kabob to them at a tidy profit.

I passed by the hospital guard shack one day, as the guards ate a lunch of crab, and the Assistant Building Chief called me over.

“You want some? It’s very, very good!” I told him that I appreciated his kind offer, but I had already eaten.

He tried to tempt me. “Delicious! A Thai delicacy!”

I shook my head and smiled. “Bon Appétit!”

Just an Owl

T
here are few sounds as terrible as the weeping of a child. More awful still are the screams of something dying, human or animal—both are much the same. Worst of all, perhaps, are the pitiful howls of a creature pleading wordlessly for mercy; wild plaintive cries that pierce the heart. It is especially monstrous because you know no mercy will be shown in the natural world, where the human concepts of kindness and forbearance are alien.

On a still, sunny morning, horrible shrieks swept the hospital grounds, echoing eerily off the prison dorm walls. I was jolted awake in bed. The noises possessed all of these traits, made worse by a gradual weakening that signaled the end of a being’s endurance.

My response was automatic, a blind and heedless impulse to put a stop to the torment as quickly as possible. I obeyed a primal urge demanding me to assist the helpless thing, regardless of the consequences. I threw on a pair of shorts and rushed off the second-floor ward, earning surprised looks from my fellow patients. Once down the stairs, fewer than a dozen strides took me from the dorm’s front staircase to the source of the cries. They led directly to the coffee shop area.

A high, asbestos-tiled roof sheltered the Building Chief ‘s office, the coffee shop, and a barbershop. The roof was about one hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. The floor was of rough, unadorned concrete, and matched the size of the roof. Fifteen foot high concrete columns supported the roof, which rose to a height of more than thirty feet at the sharp peak of its apex. There were no walls, only waist-high plywood dividers that marked off sections of floor-space with a formal purpose. The corner nearest the cells for madmen and the hospital dorm housed the coffee shop—not much larger than a storage closet. The shop was enclosed with chicken-coop wire that was stapled to the divider’s perimeter and was attached to the wooden eaves of the roof, securely enough so that the coffee shop could be locked. This was the only concession to protecting its stock: coffee, rice, sugar, and other basics.

At the other end of the roof were the Chief ‘s office and a small screened room with cots to be used by the guards on duty. The center was filled with desks.

The corner opposite the coffee shop housed the barber’s chairs and paraphernalia. A fly-specked old mirror, its silver backing peeling away in ragged strips, was the barbershop’s principal decoration. Just outside the barbershop, leaning against the wall next to its door, was a decrepit wooden picnic table, weathered by long harsh years of sun and monsoon rains.

The height of the roof was sufficiently lofty to allow sunlight to fall onto the concrete floor near the shops for several hours a day. The picnic table sat directly in the path of the sun’s rays, exposed from morning ‘til late afternoon.

A half-dozen prisoners that worked as gardeners, two blue boys, and a guard stood in a semi-circle around the picnic table. Their foolish grins were tinged with malice. The guard and the blue boys held short bamboo sticks. A large, noble-looking owl was the center of their attention, its thick talons wired to a plank of the table top. Its wings beat feebly, its cries of terror
growing hoarse and weak from exhaustion. Huge golden-green eyes blinked constantly, trying to adjust to the bright light, another source of misery. The blue boys and guard took turns poking it with their sticks, the group laughing at the sorry responses of the owl as it tried to escape its tormentors.

I was sickened and horrified. A blue boy leaned closer to hurt the owl and I snatched the stick from his hand and cursed at him in Thai.

I called him every foul name the language owned. I broke the stick and threw it into a nearby pond. They stared at me, wide eyed and open-mouthed in shock, my actions both unprecedented and inconceivable. They backed away instantly, the ferocity of my attack inspiring no small amount of fear.

I fell silent, the owl grew still, and the Thais’ expressions mirrored their perplexity. Ordinarily, my interference would have merited a severe beating. However, I taught the head doctor and nurses English, and their friendship with me posed a dilemma.

How angry would the doctor and nurses be if I was punished?

Might the guards not be in deep trouble if they harmed me? Caution prevailed, and lacking further amusement by my protection of the owl, the prisoners slowly dispersed.

The blue boys awaited the least indication of what the guard would choose to do, their attention on him rapt and predatory. Their disappointment was palpable when the guard disgustedly threw his stick into the bushes and slouched away. Over his shoulder he said, “The bird is mine! You cannot touch it. Go away, NOW!”

I could not pretend not to speak Thai, so I was forced to obey the letter of the law. I violated its spirit as much as I dared by moving only a few paces away. I sat on the banks of the pond within easy sight and reach of the owl. The blue boys, equally determined to save face, also sat nearby, watching me watching them.

The morning sun grew hot, and the nocturnal owl tried desperately to escape the wire holding it fast in the light. It cried intermittently, and pulled
and pried futilely at its bonds. Its wretchedness made me miserable. My impotence to alleviate its plight became a heavy burden.

After half an hour I could not bear to watch the poor thing suffer, and went to see Jaruk, the head blue boy who effectively ran the hospital single-handedly.

In spite of the many barriers between us, we had become friends.

Our relationship was somewhat tentative, as too many differences existed for us to be completely at ease with one another. Nevertheless, we achieved an accord. It was mutually beneficial enough to overcome the difficulties. He was a decent man, more open-minded than most of his fellow Thais. I hoped he would help me put an end to the atrocity the guard was committing.

Jaruk’s guarded look when I entered the treatment room let me know the news of my interference had already reached him. I sat down on a chair and watched him skillfully give shots to the line of tuberculosis patients snaking into the room. He was done quickly, and after clearing away the syringes and empty medicine vials, he brought out the plastic pill container that held the hospital’s drug supply for the week.

Traditionally, I helped him sort the drugs, almost since the beginning of my stay at the hospital for tuberculosis. I was one of five prisoners (out of 6,000) with a college education, and this formed an instant bond between us. The activity was enjoyable, a way of bringing some sense of order to chaos. The Thai Government Pharmacy gave the prison its medicine in the form of loose pills dumped all together in a plastic liter jar. Why they did this was a mystery I never solved. It was a soothing pastime, useful yet un-taxing. Jaruk’s accepting my assistance was a significant mark of trust, as the vast majority of farangs were drug addicts. It was unthinkable that junkies would ever be given the opportunity to handle drugs. Beyond this, it was a neutral and peaceful way of spending time together, justifying what might otherwise have seemed like a dangerous and corrupting association with a farang. Jaruk was mindful of the official xenophobia rampant in the prison administration’s
ranks, a reaction to the power of Western embassies and their occasional meddling in prison affairs.

I forced myself to slow down and joined him in the pill-sorting ritual. As eager as I was to try and help the owl, I needed Jaruk’s influence if anything was to be done. Confrontation is anathema in most Asian cultures, and this is doubly true in Thailand. Thai even lacks a word for “no.” Only a boor or a child risks losing face in an argument in Thai society, and disagreements are approached indirectly and with delicacy.

Whether one is in Tokyo, Hong Kong, or Bangkok, in general, Asians believe that the person who introduces a subject first in negotiations has already conceded a major point. By speaking of a topic, one admits that the topic is important, and has therefore revealed a weakness. On the other hand, if one refuses to bring up a subject that is being negotiated, forcing one’s opponent to do so puts one in an advantageous position. In effect, one sees how the opposition feels about the matter, whether they are eager or not, as well as other psychological subtleties that are taken into account. After several minutes of silence, I decided to give Jaruk the advantage, and mentioned the owl.