An Extreme Empire

“I meditate, isolated
within the expanse of seasons,
central, surrounded by silent geography;
an incomplete temperature
falls from the sky,
an extreme empire
of confused unities
assembles all around me.”

from “Unity”, a poem by Pablo Neruda

 
 

TWO DEATH POEMS

From unbecoming I became
Now, manifest in sorrow, longing for one only,
I seek nothingness

*

All hope is gone – I am naked and helpless
My love has vanished – my heart has been
Stripped clean by human vultures
I have no life, only a stinking, diseased
Carcass that grips my tortured soul
Awaiting my sweet lady death,
Longing for her strange cold embrace.
 

“There are two tragedies in life. One is not to
Get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.”
- Oscar Wilde

        It seems the great playwright, iconoclast, and notorious homosexual of the late Victorian period, Oscar Wilde, must have had an experience similar to mine. Of course, all-American country boy Ted Sawyer cannot be otherwise compared to such a flamboyant personality, yet the quote rings true nonetheless.
         Just when I had found the greatest love of my life, she was cruelly separated from me, largely due to my own arrogance and stupidity; but it was also due to the machinations of a corrupt, inhuman justice system, which denied me the basic rights I had always taken for granted as a citizen of the USA, and whose corrupt police force contrived false charges against.
         Corruption is a way of life in Thailand. Officially, according to a worldwide media poll, Thailand ranks somewhere in the lower third among all nations in terms of corruption. However, I suspect the authors of such polls have no real idea just how pervasive and institutionalized the abuse of power in Thailand has become. The reason most people from foreign countries cannot understand the full depth of corruption here is because the Thais do everything possible to hide the truth from others, especially foreigners. The Thai government is adept at maintaining a veneer of democracy, which has never truly been implemented or even understood, covering up the truth with cute smiles and many denials.
         I have been told that the Thai Parliament passed a reform bill pertaining to reform of the entire justice system in 1997, but Thai police and courts have ignored these new measures. This is the so-called “Thai way”, which means steadfast resistance to change. It is my personal observation that most Thai citizens concede absolute authority to police in the belief that if enhances and ensures social stability. Obeisance to authority figures and worship of the king and royal family is a trait well-entrenched in the rigid social hierarchy, allowing a corrupt and amoral government to continually oppress the working classes and imprison them if they even criticize the king or the government, labeling them ‘terrorists’ and ‘communists’. A decadent form of orthodox Theravada Buddhism conditions the majority of Thais to philosophically accept their fate, no matter how unjust, unfair and cruel it may be, and helps to uphold the tradition of a strict hierarchical regime.
         Modern Thailand has become a pure capitalist marketplace, where money is the only medium of wealth. The land, abundant agriculturally, and all natural resources have been stripped to provide Thai bourgeois in the cities the capital to support their corrupt enterprises. All money flows inexorably to the top, where the average Thai businessman/entrepreneur uses these profits for his own pleasure. Degenerate behavior by the nobility and upper classes is considered their due, while the working poor and rural farmers toil 12-16 hours a day for pitiful wages. The true wealth of Thailand, its land and its people, is exploited mercilessly so that a few may eat, drink, and be merry. The same may be true in any capitalist country, but nowhere are the extreme differences between classes more apparent. This exploitation also serves the interests of foreign allies – Japan, USA, etc. who invest capital here in order to increase profits for their multinational corporate entities.
         Thus, colonialism has been replaced by multinational conglomerates and the emerging ‘New World Order’, whereby the US, Japan, and the Euro giants control the global economy, reaping tremendous profits in cooperation with their Third World partners – Thailand, Mexico, etc., who are happy to provide cheap labor and precious natural resources. Business as usual, all in the guise of ‘democracy’ – a word which means ‘the people’s rule’ and a ‘free world marketplace’.
         As social ills magnify in countries like Thailand, the government tends to become even more reactionary, fearful of the fomenting revolution. Whoring, gambling, eating and drinking, the rich and bourgeoisie merchants squander wealth faster than it can be printed on worthless paper. They give the police and military free reign to stem the human tide, hoping the revolutionary earthquake that may cause an ultimate tidal wave can be stopped.
         I was seduced by the glittering façade of smiles and nonstop sex in Thailand, just as every planeload of American, European, and other “First World” tourists becomes enamored in their own way by the carnival atmosphere. When my income dwindled, and I felt forced to deal with the corrupt Thai underground, I easily fell prey to the carnie hustle and got stuck on the “Dante’s Inferno’ ride.

“Cities are the abyss of the human species.”
From “Emile” by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

         Bangkok is the quintessential Oriental Babylon. Other Asian cities – Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bombay, Shanghai, to name a few – may have all the elements of decadence and corruption considered necessary for the title of “most depraved”, yet Bangkok is undoubtedly the city most worthy of such an epithet.
         In Thai language Bangkok is actually called Krung Thep, or the “City of Angels”. If that is so, then it’s safe to say the majority of its 8 million (and growing!) inhabitants are Fallen Angels. Drawn to this sprawling metropolis by the lure of money, rural Thais fall into a cesspool of urban madness and corruption.
         “Only two things are important in this hell-hole – sex and money, money and sex! All enterprise in Bangkok centers around the pursuit of pleasure and money. Business is for pleasure, and pleasure is the most important business.”
         My new British friend James explains the simplicity of Bangkok style philosophy. He has just been arrested for a minor immigration violation, procuring an illegal visa, after being an upstanding and fairly successful businessman for 11 years in Bangkok. Immediately after his arrest, he has been told his Thai landlady had his belongings and cash savings confiscated from his apartment. He is now completely destitute.
I enjoy talking with him, as he has many colorful tales about the city that surrounds our prison.
         “Thais are all bloody thieves, pimps, and prostitutes. They have no morals, ethics, sense of shame, values, or conscience. They steal from everyone, including their own family, but especially from foreigners. To them, we are only cash cows, to be milked every day.”
         His diatribe is merciless, sparing no one.
         “But it all rises to the top – like scum! Straight to the bloody king! They worship him and the stinking royalty, and all his lackeys – the police, military, politicians – until the day they die! And, in return, they are subjected to a life of poverty, humiliation and degradation. They’re worse than animals because they never know even a moment of true freedom! It’s a fucking snake pit, Bangkok, with all these silly vipers hypnotically kept under control of the ‘King Cobra’!”
         We are sitting near the commander’s small pavilion outside in the prison yard. It is a particularly muggy day, so I must fan myself with a homemade plastic fan constantly. I have been here nearly 5 months. Every day has been a small eternity of psychic torture.
         In spite of the surprise witness at my last court hearing, my case is still in doubt. The judges may refuse to grant the motions introduced by my lawyer, simply because it is a maid’s word against the word of the police. My next court date is four weeks from now. The ponderous weight of prejudice against foreigners and the bias of the Thai court officials for the prosecution probably guarantees that once again I will be denied true justice.
         “I don’t understand how this kind of government can exist in the 21st century!” I interrupt James to insert this comment, “Why can’t the people see how oppressed they are?”
         “Because they’re conditioned from birth to believe that Thailand and their bloody kind are the center of the fucking universe!” James sarcastically replies. “The rotten Thai way’ is the only way - they never recognize any other form of government, no matter how educated they become. They’re not taught to question authority. It’s strictly blind obedience, and those who do question will be punished. The whole damn country is run on fear – fear of the police, and fear of all foreign influence. They only want our money. They are afraid of our ideas and our strange philosophy that gives credence to individual rights and individual dissent. These people are simply schools of fish, who can only follow. They haven’t any ideas of their own.”
         The morning heat builds to a fever level, so I begin to daydream, tuning out James and his spiteful monologue. He doesn’t really bother me, because I feel we need to release the pent-up rage inside or risk a dangerous and counter-productive physical reaction toward another prisoner or guard. I share his hopeless and helpless feelings. We both have been left friendless and penniless by our arrest and incarceration, trapped in the blackest hole of Bangkok.
         My hatred of the police and Thai justice system is only ameliorated by my love for Aoi. All my memories of her have become distilled into a fine spirit, a melancholic liquor of tender words, fleeting smiles, sweet long kisses, and warm embraces – images of her in sari dresses, tight blue jeans, or entirely naked, standing before my mirror for hours, preening and glancing backwards to make sure I was watching. We used to lie beside each other, silently reading our books or maybe just holding each other very close because we knew that parting always came too soon. I would kiss every part of her young, beautiful body, especially her neck, her breasts, and between her thighs. Her soft voice still calls to me when this madhouse finally becomes a little quiet…”Tedja, Aoi loves you…”.  Now, she’s married to another.
         I haven’t seen her for over 5 months. The copy of the photo that Jack sent me keeps me from succumbing to total despair. However, it also reminds me how much I’ve lost because I was willing to risk a criminal venture. Now I realize it would have been better for me to stay in Chiang Mai, perhaps totally broke, but near my darling nonetheless.
         James and I share a bit of rice gruel for lunch. I’ve regained some strength after the month-long hunger strike, but the food here is so odious and revolting that I still eat very little.
         “This is pure garbage!” James tosses his spoon onto the table in disgust. “I wouldn’t feed this stuff to my dog! How are supposed to survive on this! It’s nauseating!”
         We hastily exit the filthy dining area and return to our spot by the groves of trees and flowers near the pavilion. This small parcel of natural beauty is the only relief from concrete, bars, and barbed wire inside the prison. Further sickened by the so-called meal we were given, we find ourselves talking about the miraculous, or perhaps impossible – bail and/or escape.
         “It seems bloody well impossible, doesn’t it?” James concludes after we discuss some of the options. “We’ve both been denied bail; and escape…” If I were younger….”
         “Yeah, that’s the way I feel. I’m not in good condition right now. This place weakens you every day. If I were 20 years old…sure, I could try.”
         So another day is wasted. Our lives grow shorter while freedom is denied. We seek temporary respite in our terrible crowded dormitories and dream of better times and places beyond this cursed pit.
         After 6½ months of agonizing deliberations, my trial has finally reached its climax. Today I will be given my verdict and sentence by a panel of judges.
         My lawyer is hopeful that our ‘not guilty’ plea will be upheld. He is certain that the judges will dismiss the attempted murder charge, and, given the fact that the police had no warrant when they barged into my hotel room, he is also optimistic concerning the counterfeiting charges. I wish I could share his optimism, instead I feel an increasing sense of dread as we wait for the judges to appear in the small courtroom.
         I have come to understand how this court operates, based on the experiences of most of the foreigners I have talked to in the last few months. I can expect the charges against me to be upheld by the judges in spite of the contradictory evidence and testimony given in my defense. The Thai courts routinely uphold any and all charges brought against defendants, demonstrating the tremendous weight of bias for the prosecution. Although well camouflaged, Thailand is a true police state. The power of the police is maintained by ruthless corrupt,  and unfair judicial officers, who daily convict people on fabricated charges. It is well known that only a well-placed bribe can buy a verdict of ‘not guilty’, and I am effectively impoverished. I cannot even afford to pay my lawyer.
         “Maybe you go home today,” the pretty court translator, Pailin, tries to encourage me. “I think judges find you innocent.”
         I smile in return, yet merely shaking my head negatively. Remaining silent in dreadful despair, I pat her soft hand and continue to wait, content to have her warm feminine presence beside me on the cold, hard courtroom bench. I realize that it may be many years before I am once again so close to a beautiful woman. Images of Aoi flicker in my minds-eye…her joyous nakedness, her sweet young body held tightly against mine.
         Pailin senses my attitude. She tries vainly to reassure me as the morning waxes toward noon. Her voice is pleasant and soothing, so I allow her to prattle on without offering any refutation. Suddenly her voice breaks slightly, halting in mid-sentence. Looking into her deep brown eyes, I see the reflection of my terrible anguish. As tears begin to form, she looks away. My own well of tears is now bone-dry after nearly 7 months without my lost love. Strangely enough, I feel happy for Aoi – an irrational wish for her to enjoy conjugal bliss in perfect counterpoint to my wretched existence since the day we parted.
         The three judges finally make their grand appearance. To me they resemble vultures – black-robed scavengers about to feed on the remnants of my wounded soul. I barely even pay attention as they begin to announce their decision concerning my future. I must be going insane, because I am lost in a daydream of the past…not so long ago, when love and joy were a common affair.
         I can see her lying beside me on our huge king-sized bed (the pillows still rumpled in the center where we had them suitably positioned for our last hour of lovemaking) reading one of her little books while she gently massages my genitals and thighs with her free left hand. I contentedly kiss her neck and breasts, stroking her back with my right hand. Her eyes droop and the comic book falls from her hand. I allow her to sleep, relishing the moment into timelessness, never forgetting the sweet gift of youth she freely shares with me.
         The guard behind my bench pokes me sharply with his billy club. Pailin tugs at my hand.
         “Must stand now, Mr. Ted. Judges want you to stand up to hear your sentence.”
         Jarred from a lovely memory back to this cruel moment of decision, I rise slowly to my feet. The leg irons clatter, another reminder of my present degraded condition. The eldest judge, a middle-aged woman, reads my verdict and sentence in Thai without bothering to even look in my direction. As always, I am shocked and appalled by the cold, impersonal nature of Thai courtroom proceedings. In a matter of moments, the judge stops reading, and it is Palin’s turn to translate for me.
         She hesitates. I can tell she is fighting to control her emotions. Her speech falters.
         “It’s OK,” I tell her, “I’m ready for the bad news.”
         “I…I sorry, Mr. Ted. Judges say you are guilty of both charges. They say you must serve 5 years prison for attempted murder charge and also 5 years for counterfeit charge. So…now you must go to prison for 10 years. I so sorry…you understand? My heart is very sad.”
         By this time the judges have left the courtroom and my lawyer Samat has joined me behind the bar. Both he and Pailin seem more stunned than I am by the harsh verdict.
         “Make appeal soon, OK?” he stammers. ”I sorry. I make appeal for you. Maybe you think I be bad lawyer, but I think judge makes bad mistake.”
         “Yes, yes. It is not your fault. You have been very good to me. I actually expected this to happen. We tried very hard, but the police and prosecutor also tried to win. So the judges believed the police did not lie.”
         Holding Pailin’s hand tightly, I did my best to appear unshaken. We were allowed to converse a bit longer, but finally the guard motions for me to follow him back to the holding cell.
         “I not forget you, Mr. Ted. Please…good luck.”
         “Thank you, Pailin. I’ll see you again maybe. Good luck to you also.”
 Samat promised to visit me as soon as possible in order to begin work on my appeal. I thank him and say goodbye to Pailin. She is crying and now I can feel tears of my own coming on and am shaken to the core.
         Ten years! How can I possibly survive in Thai prisons for another 9½  and years? I will be over 60 years old! The unthinkable has happened.
         A few weeks after my verdict is read, my spirits are lifted by a pre-Christmas visit from the U.S. Embassy. A lady named Caroline brings me many necessary items – vitamins, tennis shoes, shampoo, coffee, and assorted foods – and she also gives me information concerning a possible transfer to the United States in the future.
         “According to our treaty agreement, it may be possible for you to transfer to a U.S. Federal prison after serving 4 years of your sentence in Thailand,” she says, looking very much like a bronzed-tan California native to me.
         “Where are you from?” I interrupt her.
         “Uh…Arizona…Tucson. This is my first assignment overseas. And you?”
         “I’m from Colorado, but I’ve been living in Mexico, Hawaii, and Thailand since 1990. Looks like another 3½ years here in the Bangkok Hilton, but it’s better than 9½ - that’s for sure!”
         “It certainly is. Of course, we won’t begin to ask for this transfer until your 4th year of imprisonment. And…you may receive good news on your appeal before long. Also, you can always apply to the king for a pardon.”
         She is young, cheerful, and not at all cynical, so I allow her to infuse me with optimism. Why are Americans so positive and determined I wonder? Sons and daughters of intrepid pioneers I suppose – we can’t help but be confident that God is on our side, ready to deliver us from the heathens. I’m certainly ready to be delivered!
         “Well, thanks for the gifts. When will I see you again?” I venture a deep look into her light blue eyes.
         “I’ll come again in January. Since I’m new in the Citizen Services unit and speak Thai fairly well, I think I’ll be your regular visitor from the Embassy each month. Write me if you need anything special.”
         Her smile is warm and genuine, so I try to respond in an upbeat fashion. Telling her that I’m sincerely looking forward to her visits, I actually blow her a kiss through the chicken wire. She laughs and does likewise. The guards are surprised by these overly familiar gestures and inspect her quizzically as she walks out of the visiting room.
         Christmas comes and goes – just another boring day in this concentration camp. My 51st birthday comes soon. Where has my life gone?
         Sometimes I think that I can’t go on, that I won’t last another day or another week under these harsh conditions, facing several years more. Yet I keep going somehow. The monotonous routine days follow one another faithfully, forming a chain of long wasted months…then years, I suppose.
         I spent the daylight hours reading, writing, or helping with English translations in the small prison library. A bit of light exercise, two quick meals, in the morning and late afternoon, a cold splash-bath, and then the day is finished. We are all herded into the crowded dormitory cells at 5 p.m. The nights are most difficult for me, locked up for 12 to 14 hours with over 50 men – restless, young Thai males who can never be quiet. They constantly smoke, talk, play games, wrestle, or otherwise find some way to amuse themselves. The noise dies down gradually, and by 1 a.m. it’s nearly peaceful enough for sleeping.
         There are a few foreigners I can call my friends, but I realize we wouldn’t be associated in any respect outside these walls. Aussie Mel is a professional thief who finally got caught in Thailand passing stolen traveler’s checks. He’s a James Cagney type – last of the tough guys. If anyone (like myself, all too often) complains too much about the primitive conditions here, Mel will just snarl in disgust….”Quit your whining, you ruddy bloke! Shut up and do your time like a man! You did yer crime, now do yer time!”
         James is perhaps my closest buddy. He’s very intelligent and seems to share my total aversion to this brutal environment. However, he’s really the consummate businessman, so his conversation is mostly about money – how to make it, how to spend it, and how it rules our miserable lives. I’ve never been a financial wizard, so my mind drifts off as he expounds upon the virtues of filthy lucre.
         “Thai Baht keeps falling against the dollar…Euro holding steady now….” James peruses a newspaper, which is only a few days old. “Bloody Thai economy will never recover! Bankers are all thieves! Why can’t the IMF understand that?”
         “They believe the Almighty Dollar can save the wretched from their own excess, I suppose.”
         When James isn’t studying the latest financial news, he is busy hatching plans for escape. He always has a new plan.
         “It can be done. I’m sure of that,” he proclaims.
I found another way out this morning. The only problem is that we’d have to crawl in the shit ditch for a hundred feet. Then cut through a rusted grating, and we’re out. It would be bloody well disgusting, but…the price of freedom.”
        “Jesus! Crawl out in the fucking shit ditch!”
        I am thoroughly revolted by the idea. Lacking a modern sewage system, all the prison wastewater flows down a narrow ditch and eventually drains out of the compound, somewhere under the massive wall surrounding the perimeter.
        “You must be nuts!” We both laugh at the thought of attempting to crawl in the ghastly, putrid water containing the waste of 8000 prisoners. “Can you imagine what we’d smell like once we got outside? What if we got stuck going under the wall?”
James shrugs. He agrees that going over the wall is infinitely preferable.
        I would do almost anything to escape this maddening environment. However, I also want to feel that the chances for a successful getaway are at least reasonably certain.
        “Look, James…we both know what the real problem is here. It’s the fucking Thais! They’re all a bunch of snitches. They’d turn us in before we get halfway up the wall, unless we could somehow stay outside and try it in the middle of the night.”
        “I’d like to kill them all – before I go. Bunch of stinking animals!” James’ face becomes distorted with hate. “Kill all the guards and the prisoners! Then get outside and kill my bloody landlady! Torture her before she dies! Make her pay, the goddamn bitch!”
        I’m afraid that James will lose his cool sooner or later and cause extra trouble for himself inside this madhouse, surrounded by the worst sort of Thai people. His hatred is quite understandable, considering what has been done to him by his Thai business associates and the police, but it definitely won’t aid us if we seriously attempt an escape.
        “We won’t have time for that,” I tell him. “We have to concentrate on the main objective – getting clear of this place as quickly as possible.”
        He slowly simmers down again, and we discuss all the problems and possible hazards that might inevitably impede our plans. Given our current physical condition – both of us are over 50 and not in peak athletic shape – a trip over the formidable 25 foot wall with barbed wire and electric current wire lacing its top seems nearly impossible. I suggest other possibilities.
        “There’s got to be another way. There’s probably a way that’s so easy…but we just can’t see it. If we could just get a gun…maybe take a guard hostage….”
        “You’d have to kill one, then maybe they’d let us out the front gate. You ready to kill one? I am!”
        “Maybe…maybe.” I’m frustrated by this kind of talk. It seems so futile.
January and February of the new year pass by, mere ripples in time, which now seems to flow around me, this prison a great rock upon which I am stranded. More foreigners are brought in the prison, and I am becoming an “old-timer” – someone who the new arrivals must look to for advice as they try to adjust to this bewildering alien institution.
No one  from a relatively enlightened and progressive state can begin to fathom this type of prison still administered as if it were the 10th century instead of the twenty-first! A new inmate from Hungary named Peter sums up the typical reaction of European when first thrust into this monkey house…
        “There is no method to this madness! It is pure chaos! That is what is so frightening,” he says.
        “Yeah…even the Nazis and Russians and other Communist states had some purpose – an overriding logic of sorts. But this place, and the Thai police logic of sorts. But this place, and the Thai police and justice system…I don’t get it! I guess they’re purely reactionary. A police state operating totally at the gut level. Punishment without purpose. Weird.”
        “They arrested my wife also,” Peter tells me. “My Thai girlfriend – not married really, you know. But she has done nothing! Nothing! She did not know about the things I was stealing. I am going crazy now because it is my fault she was arrested. They must be accusing her also of my crimes. But it is not true!”
        “It happens every day. They arrest people who happen to be living with someone – family, friends – or even just visiting at the time of the arrest. They don’t care! They will arrest everyone in the room or the whole family. They take the children too, and put them in a special juvenile detention center. It’s just like a prison. The kids must stay there until the parents are released, or until they’re 18. I can’t believe this is happening! No one in America would believe these stories either.”
        Peter has that state-of-shock look most of the new arrivals wear on their face. Actually, only foreigners have it. Most Thais expect to be treated like cattle. Most of them don’t even care, which is why this terrible abuse of power by the Thai police is perpetuated. Sitting outside on a fairly cool March day, Peer and I exchange our stories of woe and misfortune.
        “So I lost everything I really held dear,” I tell him, “my beautiful girlfriend, my nice little apartment in Chiang Mai, my guitar, my peace of mind. If I stay here much longer I’m sure I’ll also lose my sanity.”
        In the last two months the prison has become severely overcrowded. Every day more new people are brought in – sometimes 40-50 new arrivals – while only a few are released. We are literally packed like sardines each night in our small dormitory rooms. I feel like I’m suffocating from the close proximity of too many bodies.
        A Thai inmate I’ve dubbed “The Floater” ambles toward us in his inimitable fashion. It’s quite obvious that his elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. He spends most of the day drifting to and fro inside the compound, tiptoeing like a sleepwalker ever so daintily, with his arms slightly extended in front of his emaciated skeletal body, wrists dangling. Most people leave him alone, but a few of the more sadistic types are always tormenting him somehow. It should have been a giant clue to someone in the prison administration that he wasn’t tuned-in when he signed his name as ‘Chuan Leekpai’, who happens to be the current Prime Minister of Thailand.
“The Floater” doesn’t say much. He usually just walks up to someone and looks totally pitiful, then wanders on, and on, and on.
        “I think he must have a mental problem,” my new Hungarian friend observes wryly.
        “Yeah…” I give the would-be Prime Minister a banana, and he moves on down the line. I can’t figure out why any cop would arrest him. What crime could he possibly have committed? Stealing a candy bar? Trespassing? Why the hell don’t they put these kind of people in a hospital? How could any judge possibly convict this guy to a prison term?”
        As always, these questions go unanswered. As Peter has noted, chaos rules, and logic is absent.
        It is the sad plight of any foreigner arrested in Bangkok to be thrown in this prison with an amazing conglomeration of mostly lower class Thais – crazies (usually violent, wearing a permanent set of heavy leg irons), homosexuals and transvestites, gang members (decorated with hideous tattoos), deviants of all sorts who are generally retarded, undernourished, and terminally lazy.
        A smattering of rich criminals are here also. Most can afford bail, but the magnitude of their particular charges keeps them from paying their way out. There are a few rogue cops, most being held on murder charges, and even a former highly respected Buddhist monk, who is accused of conspiring to murder a senior abbot.
Ironically, this is perhaps the most democratic institution in Thailand, in the sense that we are all treated equally – with utter contempt! Rich drug lords must sleep beside street junkies, and murderous cops may be your closest bunkmates (no bunks available – rich and poor sleep together on the floor). Although money has certain advantages here, everyone must tolerate the heat, filth, and high risk of disease. No one can stay above the infections lurking here.
        I’m catching a different kind of illness – spring fever. I’m trying to be patient and wait gamely for my appeal, which is my last hope for any kind of justice. However, as my prison term approaches the one-year mark, I find myself contemplating the impossible, or certainly the highly improbable – a means of escape.
James, the Englishman, has several fantastic ideas related to the cause of early release (without parole!) but I tend to think the obstacles within this particular prison are too great. Not only is the wall impassable without some sort of climbing gear – ropes, ladders, etc. – but it is absolutely impossible to attempt its swift negotiation without being spotted immediately by another prisoner or one of the tower guards. Therefore, I have come up with a tentative plan of my own. It is related to my next appearance in court, which should happen in the next few weeks or maybe months, as soon as my appeal requires me to go to court. During this period, I must come up with a viable plan.

        “The Floater” is dead. Apparently he succumbed to pneumonia or some other serious bronchial ailment while staying at the small prison infirmary. The chances are good he had the HIV virus, which weakened his immunity system and left him prone to a life-threatening infectious disease.
        It is now mid-April, and the “hot season” in Southeast Asia has arrived in full force. Midday temperatures reach 40-42 Celsius (96-102 Fahrenheit) with a high humidity index in Bangkok. Nighttime brings little relief, and the overcrowded prison dormitories have become sauna-like torture chambers. If it weren’t for the ceiling fans, I’m sure many old people and Farangs – including me, of course – would expire. At times, I’m wishing for the relief of expiration.
        Slowly but surely, I’m preparing for my escape attempt. My plan is rather simple actually, so it won’t require a lot of extra thought or any extra gear, clothing, etc. Most of my preparation entails exercise, so I will be physically prepared for the strenuous moments of actual escape. The most difficult item for me to obtain beforehand is cash. I want to have as much as possible.
        Luckily, the American embassy provides me an allowance, which can be converted to pocket money. They deposit about $270 (U.S.) into my prison welfare account every three months. This money is then used as food coupons inside the prison – it is against the rules to actually have any cash. However, these coupons can be traded for money. Some of the wealthier Thais have cash, which they will trade for food coupons at a 20% interest rate. So far I have accumulated about 1000 Baht through this trading scheme. I hope to have two or three times that amount by the time I’m called to court.
        My exercise routine includes jogging, calisthenics, weightlifting, and some wind sprints to develop more quickness and running speed. During this midsummer heat, the only time I can really do a full workout is first thing in the morning, but I also do yoga and stretching exercises later in the day. It’s all beginning to pay off – I feel stronger and more athletic already.
        My appeal was submitted to the court four months ago. In Thailand an appeal can take anywhere from 4-13 months before a decision is announced. No warning is given – one morning I will be told to get dressed for court; so I must be ready any day for my appearance. This means I must be fully prepared to make my escape, unless, of course, the judge hands down a very favorable ruling, such as a major reduction of my sentence – quite unlikely.
        I will be ready. I am tired of being in Hell!

         “Be careful if you take a boat. The Malaysian Coast Guard will probably check it out as soon as it enters Malay territorial waters. You might have better luck just finding a place to sneak across overland. If you wait until after midnight, there are many places you might be able to just walk across.”
         I’m listening to Arthur, an Englishman who recently arrived on a false passport charge, as he describes the possibilities of leaving Thailand via the border with Malaysia. Arthur was arrested at the Bangkok airport as he attempted to leave the country. His problems are compounded by the fact that he’s actually out on bail from a drug charge in Phuket province.
         “I was framed, really fucking sweetly!” he says bitterly. “Lady I was living with actually had the drugs and did a bit of sales. But when the cops came, she told them I was the dealer! Of course, I didn’t realize what she was telling the bloody coppers. Now she’s out on bail, and left the province – I don’t know where to. I wanted to go out over the Malay border, but my sister talked me into flying back to England with a fake passport. She paid 3000 pounds for it, and it turned out to be a rotten forgery!”
         I can’t help but wonder how many Farangs have been likewise framed by police on drug charges. What makes it so awful is that the sentences for even small amounts of drugs are unbelievably severe. Even on a first offense one may receive 20 years to life! According to Caroline, the embassy cutie, I am the only U.S. citizen currently held in all of Thailand who doesn’t have a drug-related case. Many of the 25 Americans in Thai prisons have been given sentences ranging from 30 to 50 years, usually based on the possession of only a few grams of heroin or amphetamines. I’m certain that many of these unfortunate young people were framed by Thai police.
         “So you think I might have a lot of trouble getting across the Malaysian border?” I ask Arthur.
         “It’s not as easy as you might think. They know a lot of people are wanting to leave in that direction. Maybe…if you hire a guide, do it at night. I don’t know. But I think a boat trip is impossible without a valid passport.”
         At least Arthur isn’t giving me unrealistically optimistic appraisal of my chances to leave the country if I can escape the Bangkok area. Actually, once I’m free of this prison and the Bangkok police, I might decide to stay in Thailand – probably the Chiang Mai area. Right now I must focus on my initial escape.

         The scorching midsummer days drag on. The effects of relentless heat and humidity combined with my regular exercise program have reduced my bulk considerably. I have shed about 20 pounds, but, unlike the days of my hunger strike, my legs and torso are very muscular. I’m feeling lean and mean.
         As June approaches, I know that my appeal hearing must come soon. Every morning I wait to hear my name called for a court appearance. I have hoarded about 2800 Baht in cash, and I carry it on my person at all times. This is slightly risky. I might be searched at any time, and the money would be confiscated. However, foreigners – especially older ones like myself – are rarely subjected to a body search.
         Samat, my lawyer, believes my appeal will bring a big reduction in sentence for me. He is forever optimistic, I suppose, as his job requires. I tend to think the terms of my conviction will be upheld – Thai judges are rarely just or merciful.
         Therefore, I anticipate an exciting day at court. After the appeal verdict is read – assuming there is no significant reduction of my long sentence – I will put my plan for escape into effect; I can only hope the element of surprise will ensure its successful implementation.

         Finally, the day of my appeal hearing arrives.
         “The – Sawya…The-Sawya…” my name is butchered over the loudspeaker, but the moment has come.
         We have just come from the dormitory cells to take our morning splash-bath. I have only a few minutes to prepare for court. Checking my  pockets, I make sure I have some very necessary items – a paperclip, my wallet with over 3000 Baht, my small address book, a handkerchief, a small washcloth, and a small roll of clear tape.
         I hurriedly put the official prison uniform on over my short pants. The bus for court will leave soon, so I rush to where the leg irons are put on prisoners bound for their hearing. When I reach the leg iron station, I give the trustee in charge a small note written in Thai language, and I also give him a 20 Baht banknote.
         A few months ago, I had the doctor write a note which explains that I have an ankle problem and should not have to wear the heavy leg irons. So, instead, today I am fitted with a set of ankle cuffs, which are similar to handcuffs – much lighter and easier to eventually get off when the time comes.
         In about ten minutes, the packed bus pulls out of the prison complex and joins the swarm of Bangkok morning rush-hour traffic. I look back; wondering if I’ll be returning to this concentration camp later today or if I’ll have made a break for freedom. It all depends on the results on my appeal. I’m so fed up with being treated like a dirty dog that I’m wishing for a chance to just run, and never… never…never look back!
         At about 11 AM I am led to the courtroom. Pailin, the pretty translator, is there to meet me.
         “Hello, Mr. Sawyer. How are you?” her smile is dazzling.
         “I’m actually feeling very well today. And you?” You’re looking very beautiful, by the way.”
         “Thank you. You are very kind. I hope you have some good luck today. Not like last time we are here. You are also looking good. You maybe have lost much weight, no?”
         “Yes. I’ve been exercising and trying to look better for the times we meet.”
 She laughs and tries to change the subject from such personal banter. We talk about my appeal, about life in the prison, and a little about the justice system in the United States. Then, like a buzzard swooping into view, the judge arrives. He is about 40 years old, mostly bald, a sinister black-robed spectral figure.
         Appellate reviews in Thai courts are a judicial farce. The appeal is actually only a letter or form given to the court by a lawyer. The case is then reviewed by judges and a decision is later given to the defendant, who is never allowed to give any testimony on his own behalf. Incredibly enough, during this appellate review judges may also actually add to the original sentence!
         In my case, as I already had anticipated, the judge announces that the original sentence of 10 years is upheld. He reads this decision without even a glance in my direction. Pailin translates. She is stunned by the lack of change in my sentence.
         “Now you must make appeal to Supreme Court,” she says. “They have the best judges – more fair.”
         “Perhaps…” I can’t tell her of my own plan for immediate sentence reduction.
         “Where is Samat?” I ask about my lawyer.
         “He could not come today. His wife recently fell very ill, and is in the hospital. Will you be all right? Now I worry for you.”
         “I will be all right. I can go back to America on a transfer treaty in 3 years.”
         This seems to mollify her somewhat. We exchange words of parting, and then I am on my way back to the holding cell. I try to contain my nervous excitement, as my escape plan goes into effect very soon, probably about 1 AM in the afternoon.
         In the giant courthouse holding cell, the other inmates are wasting time by watching TV, chatting noisily, and catching naps on the concrete floor. Lunch will come soon, and after that I can begin the first phase of Operation Getaway. I try deep breathing to help myself relax.
         When the lunch is brought into the holding cell, I ask the guard for permission to use the toilet. Once I’m inside one of the semi-private toilet stalls, I begin to work on my leg cuffs. Reaching inside my prison uniform, I take the clear tape and a paperclip from the pockets of my safari shorts underneath. Straightening out the paperclip, I use it to try unlocking the leg cuffs.
         It is a laborious procedure. I must sit on the filthy floor of the toilet stall and strain my back to insert one end of the paperclip into the locking hole of the cuffs. I’ve never tried this before, but I’ve been told it will work to unlock the cuffs. I’m skeptical, but I must try.
         I play with the left cuff, using the straightened paperclip with my right hand. After about 5 minutes of back-bending work, it still hasn’t unlocked. Taking a short break, I take some deep breaths and look over the short partition wall. No one else is in the toilet area. Most of the inmates and guards are busy eating lunch. I have a few more minutes until someone will wonder what I’m doing.
         I try unlocking the cuff of my right leg. It is more difficult to reach with my right hand, but, suddenly, on my very first effort, the right leg cuff comes loose! I’m gratified, and now I can work on the left cuff without too much strain on my back. Within a few minutes, the left cuff is also unlocked.
         I look up again. Some of the other inmates are finished with their lunch, and they are coming over to the toilet area.
         Quickly, I loop the cuffs around my ankles again, but I keep them unlocked. I use some of the clear tape to hold the cuffs together loosely around my ankles. To any casual observer, they still appear to be locked. I can only hope that one of the guards doesn’t inspect them too carefully.
         Finally, I exit the toilets. I walk carefully back to the holding cell, hoping the tape doesn’t break until I’m actually ready to remove the cuffs. The prison bus is due to take us back to the prison in about 40 minutes – at that time, I will actually attempt my getaway.
         Now I am extremely nervous and excited. Months of planning and waiting have taken me to this crucial moment. Literally, my life and my freedom are resting on a razor’s edge.
         The prison bus shows up and the guards begin to assemble the prisoners for loading. In a single file, we are slowly marched through a cordon of guards toward the bus. I stay in the middle of the long line, hoping not to attract any attention. The back door to the bus is the point where my actual escape begins…or, possibly fails.
         When I finally reach the door, I drop quickly to the ground and roll beneath the back of the bus. As quickly as possible, I break the tape on the leg cuffs and remove them. Then I crawl out the opposite side of the bus from where the prisoners are being loaded.
         Someone shouts. I spring to my feet and look both ways down the long alley behind the courthouse. A guard comes around the back of the bus, so I take off running the other direction. Charged with adrenaline, I sprint away from the bus.
         “You! You!” Several guards are now chasing me, trying to catch me before I reach the street.
         I have a good lead, and the busy street is only one hundred yards away. A siren begins to wail. There is more shouting behind me. I suppose they’re afraid to shoot any bullets in my direction for fear of hitting the people or cars in the street just ahead.
 In a few moments, I reach the avenue. It is flooded with fast-moving traffic. Without any hesitation, I run directly into the current of trucks and automobiles, dodging and weaving to avoid being run over. With great luck and a bit of artful dodging, I cross the deadly stream of traffic and reach the sidewalk on the other side. Pedestrians gasp and duck quickly out of my path. I glance over my shoulder. The police have hesitated and are now standing on the other side of the street, shouting ineffectually for me to stop. I plunge ahead, running as fast as my fifty-year-old legs can take me down the next alleyway.
         So far, so good! But the wail of several sirens keeps me on full adrenalin rush.
 The alleyway is full of trucks and people. I am in a market area now, where loading and unloading of various goods is in full progress. I collide with people now and then, causing anger and great consternation, but I keep my feet beneath me and run determinedly ahead. I cross another street and head down an alley which seems to be adjacent to a park. This alleyway is very deserted so I make good progress now.
 Even before I can slow down or relax, I see a police car pull into the alleyway about 200 yards ahead of me. Lights flashing and siren wailing, it comes directly at me. Frantically, I look for somewhere to evade this threat.
         I notice a transformer box adjacent to an 8 foot high stone wall that surrounds the open parkland to my left. Gaining momentum, I rush toward the box and vault on top of it. Then I scramble over the wall and drop to the other side. My fall is cushioned by low shrubbery.
         I can’t rest yet, so I take off running through the park. The police car stops near the box, and a few seconds later I hear the cops shouting at me. A gunshot jolts my senses, but I realize they’re probably shooting into the air. Within moments, I am hundreds of yards from the wall and sprinting madly through grassy lawns, small groves of trees, and low hedges. No one seems to be in the park. I suspect now that this is actually private property, possibly school or hospital grounds.
         When I am certain that there’s no close pursuit, I stop just long enough to take off my prison uniform. Now I am clad only in my safari shorts. I hope that I appear to be a tourist out for an afternoon jogging session.
         I am a bit winded, and my side aches. My lungs are burning. A large building comes into view, so I decide to mingle with whatever type of people might be around there.
         My luck holds. It appears to be a hospital. I slow down and walk as nonchalantly as possible around the building, looking for the front entrance. A few minutes later, I spot exactly what I need for the next phase of my escape – a taxi.
         Several metered cabs are parked near the entrance, and I walk up to the first one in line. The driver inside appears to be napping. I rap on his window. He slowly responds, rolling down the window.
         “Pai satanee rot may neua! I go to the north bus station? OK? I am still a little breathless.
        ”OK! You go north bus station.” He speaks a bit of English, it seems. He yawns and stretches.
         “Wai-wai! Quick…quick!” I urge him to get going. A police car could arrive at any time.
         “OK…ok. You pay! Have money?” he obviously thinks I’m suspect, dressed only in shorts with no shoes. He checks me out, somewhat skeptical.
         “No problem.” I take out my wallet and give him 200 Baht in advance.
         Soon we are on the way. Within a few minutes we are away from the section of Bangkok where an intensive search takes place. We pass several police cars going toward the courthouse. I can only hope they don’t spot me inside the taxi.
         It takes about a half hour to reach the terminal. Once I leave the taxi area, I search immediately for a small shop somewhere in the vicinity where I can buy a shirt and some shoes. I find just such a vendor not far from the station, and buy the cheapest shirt in my size. For shoes, I buy some flip-flops – only about 100 Baht for both items.
         Now I make it my business to board the first bus heading north. Checking out the schedule, I find a bus to Ayhthaya which leaves in about 15 minutes. I pay only 40 Baht for a ticket, and get on the bus as it sits in the dock warming up. The seats are narrow, and there’s no air conditioning or ventilation. However, I’m elated with my progress to this point, and wait for my driver to load up and get me away from Bangkok. Ayuthaya is about 100 kilometers north, from there I can find transportation to Chiang Mai.
         The 15 minute wait is excruciating. I worry that police may show up at any time to check out the buses and their passengers. In due time, however, the bus driver makes a final call and then begins the trip to Ayuthaya. For the first time in many long hours, I sit back and relax.
         As the bus cruises north on the freeway, it passes the Bangkok Inn, where my arrest took place 13 months ago. Now it seems my ordeal of imprisonment may finally be over. At any rate, I vow never to allow myself to be re-arrested by a Thai policeman. Next time, they’ll have to kill me!
         The bus picks up speed as we leave the city proper and travel toward Ayuthaya. My mind is nearly overwhelmed with the sensations of hard-won freedom.
 I look around the crowded bus. A young lady across the aisle is staring at me, probably because I’m the only Farang on the bus. She quickly averts her eyes. When she dares to look in my direction again, I smile and wink. She smiles shyly in return.
        Ah…Freedom!
 

         It is now mid-July. Since my escape last month, I have been living in Chiang Mai. Today I will finish this journal of my arrest, imprisonment, and eventual escape, then I will send it to a friend in the United States.
         This past month has been very rewarding. I have been generally impoverished, sometimes lacking money and a place to stay, but I’ve enjoyed every moment to the fullest, savoring each breath of precious freedom. I’ve had to spend a few nights sleeping outside, but I can honestly say that I’ve rarely been happier.
         The most difficult thing for me now is to constantly avoid any possible contact with the police or immigration authorities. In Chiang Mai, that’s not really a big problem, as most police are very laid back. I’ve found a few new friends who I can trust, so I’m usually able to keep out of sight at their homes if I feel it’s necessary. Also, they feed me if I’m totally broke.
         Last week I saw Aoi. We just happened to meet unexpectedly at a local market. We both shed a few tears at first, but she seemed to be content with her marriage, so any sadness soon evaporated. She told that she is a few months pregnant and that her new husband treats her very kindly. We then parted with a little kiss, and I watched her walk away, tears flooding my vision.
         Now it seems to me that I had to lose everything I loved and treasured last year in order to really learn appreciation for the freedom I had always taken for granted. At 51 years of age, I have begun my life over. Every moment of every day is a gift that I gratefully accept with a new found spirit of joy and wonder.
         Each evening I take time to watch the sun set behind Doi Suthep, the mountain looming serenely on our western horizon. Sometimes the atmospheric haze causes the solar disk to turn a lovely reddish/orange hue. In this burnt-orange continuum of old Chiang Mai, I am content to weave a tapestry of new hope from the fresh garland of moments given to me.
 

         “I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the grey rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forest that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all, - I love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vast animate and sentients whole – a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose thought is that of a God’ whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose densities are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the animal culae which infest the brain – a being which we, in consequence, regard a purely animate and material, much in the same manner as these animal cuale must regard us.”