chair. Like many prisoners, I purchased a lawn chair—a simple folding wooden frame with heavy cloth for the seat. Peter, a Dutch friend of mine, sat opposite me in his own chair, and we’d take turns setting up our chairs, which we stored in a nearby room. Unless you purchase a place to stay from the authorities, you’re forced to wander around chasing shade. The chairs are the feeble answer prisoners devised, for those unable to afford the $400 or $500 necessary to buy a ‘house’ from the guards.
We’d place them against the wall behind the toilets to take advantage of the morning shade. Unfortunately, only in the space directly behind the toilets was there sufficient room in the grossly overcrowded prison yard to put a chair. We were thus forced to endure the odoriferous locale if we wanted to avoid the sun.
At that hour, roughly half an hour between 7:30 and 8:00 AM, the Thai junkies mob the toilets, crouching down so that they are blocked from the view of guards and blue boys passing by on the sidewalk bordering the dorm. In circles of three to as many as five or six, they’d sharpen used needles stolen from the hospital garbage on the rough concrete paving underfoot. They attach them to empty plastic Bic pen ink tubes and jam this contraption into a vein. Mixing the heroin—China White Number 4—very potent stuff, with water from the toilet trough, the head Thai of the group spits it into the vein via the plastic ink tube. They repeat the process until everyone has their morning fix, then they vanish.
Occasionally they’d hit an artery, and a jet of blood spurts out rhythmically for a pulse or two, splattering those unlucky enough to be fixing nearby.
Of course, it’s no secret that the junkies used the toilet area as their shooting gallery. Like so many aspects of Thai society, “out of sight, out of mind.” The guards bring the dope in, and it’s better for the prison administrators not to inquire too deeply into the affairs of their poorly paid subordinates and their sorry clientele.
Peter and I, in common with most well-off prisoners, ran a tab with a Thai who sold coffee and cigarettes. Every morning, as soon as he had boiling water ready, he’d bring us as many cups of super-sweet Thai-style coffee, as we’d request. We’d read yesterday’s edition of the Bangkok Post and discuss the world’s troubles, ignoring the junkies as best we could. Usually we’d sit there until 10:00 AM or so, when the shade would disappear.
The difficulty of finding shade to sit in varies from building to building. Buildings 3 and 4 have a lot of greenery, while 1 and 6 barely have any. Immediately past a building’s gate, on the right-hand side sits a large rectangular field where vegetables are grown. To the left is a long thin lawn, used on weekends by Thai to dry laundry. Some buildings have trees bordering the lawn; others do without. Directly behind the vegetable field stands a building that houses the factories, the administrative offices, and a dining hall. The factories production includes the manufacturing of towels, fancy picture frames, rip-off Levi’s and Gucci goods, fishing nets, and anything else the prison officers can dream up. This building is little more than a roof on stilts, designed to catch every breeze in the oppressive tropical heat and humidity. It’s filled with small structures constructed with scrap lumber.
When the temperature began its daily climb and the sun its brutal assault, Peter would flee to a spot in the factory next to a Thai friend of his. I retreated to a room loosely referred to as the library.
The Library in Building 2 consists of disordered stacks of books donated by visitors or prisoners dropping off ones received from friends and relatives. Two large bookcases hold the motley collection, and five or six ancient school desks for children complete the furniture. A propeller fan stirs the muggy air. The ten-foot square place tucked away in a corner of the
We’d place them against the wall behind the toilets to take advantage of the morning shade. Unfortunately, only in the space directly behind the toilets was there sufficient room in the grossly overcrowded prison yard to put a chair. We were thus forced to endure the odoriferous locale if we wanted to avoid the sun.
At that hour, roughly half an hour between 7:30 and 8:00 AM, the Thai junkies mob the toilets, crouching down so that they are blocked from the view of guards and blue boys passing by on the sidewalk bordering the dorm. In circles of three to as many as five or six, they’d sharpen used needles stolen from the hospital garbage on the rough concrete paving underfoot. They attach them to empty plastic Bic pen ink tubes and jam this contraption into a vein. Mixing the heroin—China White Number 4—very potent stuff, with water from the toilet trough, the head Thai of the group spits it into the vein via the plastic ink tube. They repeat the process until everyone has their morning fix, then they vanish.
Occasionally they’d hit an artery, and a jet of blood spurts out rhythmically for a pulse or two, splattering those unlucky enough to be fixing nearby.
Of course, it’s no secret that the junkies used the toilet area as their shooting gallery. Like so many aspects of Thai society, “out of sight, out of mind.” The guards bring the dope in, and it’s better for the prison administrators not to inquire too deeply into the affairs of their poorly paid subordinates and their sorry clientele.
Peter and I, in common with most well-off prisoners, ran a tab with a Thai who sold coffee and cigarettes. Every morning, as soon as he had boiling water ready, he’d bring us as many cups of super-sweet Thai-style coffee, as we’d request. We’d read yesterday’s edition of the Bangkok Post and discuss the world’s troubles, ignoring the junkies as best we could. Usually we’d sit there until 10:00 AM or so, when the shade would disappear.
The difficulty of finding shade to sit in varies from building to building. Buildings 3 and 4 have a lot of greenery, while 1 and 6 barely have any. Immediately past a building’s gate, on the right-hand side sits a large rectangular field where vegetables are grown. To the left is a long thin lawn, used on weekends by Thai to dry laundry. Some buildings have trees bordering the lawn; others do without. Directly behind the vegetable field stands a building that houses the factories, the administrative offices, and a dining hall. The factories production includes the manufacturing of towels, fancy picture frames, rip-off Levi’s and Gucci goods, fishing nets, and anything else the prison officers can dream up. This building is little more than a roof on stilts, designed to catch every breeze in the oppressive tropical heat and humidity. It’s filled with small structures constructed with scrap lumber.
When the temperature began its daily climb and the sun its brutal assault, Peter would flee to a spot in the factory next to a Thai friend of his. I retreated to a room loosely referred to as the library.
The Library in Building 2 consists of disordered stacks of books donated by visitors or prisoners dropping off ones received from friends and relatives. Two large bookcases hold the motley collection, and five or six ancient school desks for children complete the furniture. A propeller fan stirs the muggy air. The ten-foot square place tucked away in a corner of the
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