Rotting in the Bangkok Hilton: The Gruesome True Story of a Man Who Survived Thailand's Deadliest Prison (26 page)

In practice, things were not so simple. My quarrel with the Embassy had its repercussions. I was turned down on my first application to the Transfer Committee; the Embassy blaming it on the Thais. There was no certainty that this would not happen again and again for years. Another American at Lard Yao Prison had been in a similar fix two years previously. He was eligible, but was denied for nearly ten years. He was finally repatriated … after he went mad.

Johann, too, was in a tight spot. He had been busted with heroin by the Thai prison authorities several times. The Treaty was nebulous on this point; saying only that “good conduct” was required of prisoners applying for a transfer. Worse, he was too far gone in his addiction to give it up without real medical care. If a blood test was administered prior to his leaving, he would be disqualified, as the presence of heroin merited disciplinary proceedings.

After several postponements, both the United States and the Austrian Embassies had assured us that
this
meeting, set for late February, was going to happen. Johann had been incarcerated in Thailand for nine years; I had been there more than five. We could not help but talk about it every day, and our conclusions were grim. If we were not repatriated, neither of us would last much longer.

Except for the ability to purchase any drug over-the-counter at Thai pharmacies (prescriptions were not standard in Thailand, as in many Third
World countries), after paying a bribe to a guard to go get it, there was no medical care in the prison.

Neither was there any way to achieve a balanced diet. Dairy products were expensive and often unavailable, as Thais do not use cheese or milk in cooking. Furthermore, getting any food from outside the prison was a great ordeal.

As if this were not enough, the hassles of daily life took their toll. Forced to use filthy water, ear aches, eye infections, and skin diseases were rampant. Industrial chemicals used in the prison factories churned out vapors and fluids without the slightest effort at safety, and polluted the air and water. Trying to keep fit, get enough to eat, and avoiding the daily dangers that ranged from poisonous insects and snakes to insane and violent inmates and guards has a wearing down effect on you.

Better than ninety-five percent of foreign prisoners either turn into hopeless heroin addicts or are driven insane by conditions. The agreed belief among prisoners—backed up by experience, is that eleven or twelve years is the maximum a Westerner can survive. On average, eight or nine years is more than most people can take.

For various reasons, Johann and I were at the end of our physical and mental resources. Another denial by the Prisoner Transfer Committee and it was doubtful we had make it to the next committee meeting in winter.

We prepared ourselves for the worst and agreed we had to let it go. Whatever happened, we had no control over the outcome. We had to take it as it came.

With this resolution, we put an end to our conversations of “what ifs” and “maybes.” I drew a simple picture of an open door on the wall in the house, and Johann added in a scene of mountains and forests visible through the entrance. We had said all we had to say, but the door was never far from our thoughts.

Two weeks before the meeting, I sat in our house drinking tea alone with Mohammed. It was a quiet afternoon, and few people were around.
Mohammed had been acting strangely all day, as if troubled or upset. Several times he began to speak to me, only to fall silent at the last minute.

I offered him some tea and cookies, and he accepted. As if this broke his inhibitions, he took a sip of tea, nibbled on a wafer, then carefully explained with words and signs his thoughts.

Pointing to the drawing of the door, with reference to Johann and I, Mohammed made it clear that he would be able to help us. With frequent pauses and with a grave mien, he managed to communicate the fact that his ‘skill’ did not work very well with money, or for physical ailments. But as for things that people wished for—things close to ones heart and deeply desired; for these, his magic worked well. He was too close to his own troubles for magic to get himself out of prison, but he believed for us it would work.

He’d be happy to try if I wanted.

I thought about it for a moment and knew there was nothing to lose. With sincerity, I took his hand and thanked him for his offer. Any help was welcome, and I knew he had been successful many times. In any case, as Mohammed well knew, Johann and I were resigned to death, and that our chances were not good.

I asked him what he wanted for his fee, but he refused to take anything. I talked to Sam alone later, and we agreed a few boxes of tea and a big bag of sugar would be appreciated.

The next day I gave him the tea and sugar. After much persuasion, he gave in and accepted the gift. Whenever he cast the spell for us, neither Johann nor I saw it done.

When the day dawned that the Embassy was due to let us know the results of their latest meeting, Johann and I were both too nervous to do much of anything. Mohammed, on the other hand, was calm and slightly upbeat. He felt that his spell had been a great success.

The loudspeaker crackled to life at around 10:00 AM, and the Thai announcer’s butchery of my name was called for a visit. I shook both Johann and Mohammed’s hand, and walked out to the visiting area on unsteady legs.

I sat down on a bench in the dark narrow confines of the visiting room reserved for lawyers and officials. Inches away, sitting on the other side of the mesh screen were the Second Secretary and another Embassy employee. The darkness of the hallway did not hide their expressions. Their smiles gave it away. Then … they confirmed it. In the teeth of Thai objections, touch-and-go, but I had been approved!

They did not know whether Johann had been approved, but they said as far as they knew no one that had been on the agenda was turned down at the meeting.

Johann was happy for me and Mohammed was all smiles. A month or two more, and I’d be on a plane back to civilization. Johann had to wait two more days for the predictably dilatory Austrians, and in the end the German missionary ladies that visited the German-speaking prisoners brought him the news. He, too, had been approved.

News of our transfer approval spread quickly, and the jungle grapevine gave plenty of credit to Mohammed’s efforts. By the time we left, business was booming.

Afterword

W
ell, things didn’t go the way I had planned or hoped for, that’s for sure. But they so seldom do.

I ended up serving sixteen years—over five in Thailand; then, after my transfer back, another eleven in federal prison in the United States (most of it at FCC Tucson). The book did not get published while I was in prison and I did not pay any bribe to get free. An amnesty from King Bhumipol Aduladej (Thailand’s monarch) did that. Actually, I served three years longer in prison than I should have, due to not knowing about the amnesty when it was granted; but that’s another story.

I really hate to admit it, but I am a much better person for having those experiences. Before getting busted in Thailand, I was a pretty rotten human being—uncaring, selfish, dishonest, all that compounded by having very poor judgment.

I do not know how much my judgment has improved, but everything else is 180 degrees better. If nothing else, facing death squarely over and over forces you to address the fundamental issues of your life. In my case, I understood that when you strip everything away ‘til you are shivering and naked,
we are all the same—just needing the basics; a little food, warmth, and comfort. And if you do not have any compassion for others who suffer just like you do (often far worse), then your life is not worth a damn.

There are a lot of issues raised by an experience like this—prison conditions in Thailand, and prison reform in general; the plight of the Hill tribesman in Northern Thailand; poverty in Asia; the list could go on and on.

But you, gentle reader, receive too many lectures and pleas for help as it is. I would not add to that burden.

All I can say is that I hope you found these stories interesting, and if I am lucky, you found them educational, at times amusing, and hopefully, moving as well. That is all an author can ask for.

It seems very distant to me now; like a bad dream that would not quite fade away. I hope you never go through anything like this. But if you do, at least you have a little forewarning.

Best of luck to you and thanks for taking the time to read my collection of stories about my time in, what would amount to be, hell.

As the Thais say, “Jai Dee Mahk,” which translates to (You have a) very good heart, or “You’re very kind.”

T. M. Hoy
November 2011

About the Author

T
. M. Hoy was born and raised in Mountain View, California. After extensive travel through Asia, he settled in Bangkok, and then Chiang Mai, located in northern Thailand. While living there, he made a “tragic error in judgment” by not reporting a friend to the police for murder. In 1995, he was given a life sentence, and spent the next five-plus years between Chiang Mai Remand and Bang Kwang Prison. He was given a treaty transfer and sent back to the States, where he finished his sentence at FCC Tucson in 2011.