My Time In A Thailand Prison

Sorry to disappoint those who thought this might be a confessional-type post, but the title refers to a visit made to the Pattaya Remand Prison (also known as Nong Palai), and not a sentence served by your humble host. Quite frankly, it was discomforting enough just to be in there on the "free" side of the cell bars; I have no intentions of ever being an unwilling guest on the other side.

In early 2008 I was making a visit to a Pattaya charity organization I've had the pleasure to be of some minor assistance to and walked in to find staffer Pui with several loaves of bread and a large jar of peanut butter. "Are you here to make sandwiches?" he asked. "Why not?" I replied, and after washing my hands I began to help him assemble the several dozen needed for their jail rounds that day.

Although peanuts in sauce and nuts crushed up for Thai cooking is common in Thailand, jars of processed peanut butter such as Skippy or JIF or Peter Pan that we in the West take for granted are expensive items for regular folks there. Primarily for the label I'd bought a tiny 6 ounce jar of Skippy to bring back for my brother as a joke and paid a dear price for it, as I recall. Now when I fly there I take a couple of two-pound jars along with me to help stock their "prison" supplies.

A small (3" tall, 4 oz.) jar of Skippy peanut butter (above)

I was offered the opportunity to tag along with them on one of their regular visits to local correctional facilities where they distribute water, fruit and peanut butter sandwiches to prisoners being held there. Sometimes there's actual contact with the inmates, sometimes the supplies are just given to guards just inside who distribute them further into the cell areas. Feeling I'd be OK since I'd be along with folks who regularly go inside I took them up on their offer.

After we'd finished making them up we stacked the sandwiches back into the bread wrappers and loaded them into the back of their Toyota pick-up truck, along with bags of bottled water and oranges. Scrunched in the back onto the bench seats the four of us made our way off on our rounds: two Thai, one British friend who'd made the trip several times already, and myself.

The first stop was Nong Palai, not far away from the charity's compound. There were a couple of dozen people sitting on the ground or wandering around the main building as we pulled into the lot, some of them looking as though they'd experienced the less comfortable side of life, let's say. We parked the car and as I was unfolding myself from the cramped quarters in the rear of the mini-truck I realized I had my camera in my pack. Rats. Knowing the answer I asked Pui "I can't take my camera inside of the prison, can I?" He looked at me as if I'd just asked if I could carry a handgun in with me. "No!" he laughed, "Leave it in the truck."

Glancing at the folks loitering around us and taking interest in we two farang I set my small pack onto the floor of the front seat and turned to go inside, thinking "OK, if it's gone, it's gone. It's not like it's my passport and wallet," and walked to the entrance, where Pui rang the bell and a guard recognized him, opened the door and ushered us in. The door latched shut behind us with a resounding boom I can still hear today.

Suddenly I remembered one more thing: the small Swiss Army knife I had in my pocket. "Sh*t," I whispered to Pui "I have a knife in my pocket!" I began to sweat even more than usual for a hot morning, but Pui said "Don't worry about it - we won't be searched. Just don't take it out, and you'll be fine." "Yes," grinned my British friend "and if you're not, tomorrow we'll bring you a peanut butter sandwich!"

We were taken down a short hallway to some holding cells where folks awaited processing, court dates, sentencing or transfer to other facilities for longer stays. The cells were small: maybe 12 feet by 12 feet, bare except for a small area enclosed behind a low wall where the squat toilet was.

There were a good 25 men in each of the two cells on one side of the aisle, and only a few less women in the cells on the other side, maybe eight feet away. The heat was oppressive and the air was worse than stale because of the crowded conditions. I have no idea what bathing options there might have been in this holding area, but I've been told that in the regular cells you're alloted five cups (1.2L) of water to wash with when you're allowed to bathe, and soap and toiletries are luxuries purchased with your commissary funds, if someone's good enough to provide them for you.

When they saw us come in, almost all of them rose from where they'd been squatting or lying on the cement floor of the cell, coming in an orderly fashion to the bars between us. The guard stood by, watching closely. Most of the prisoners knew why we were there and began to stick their arms through the bars to accept the sandwiches and fruit, grateful for fresh food.

Nearly all were Thai, and a couple of them came to Pui with requests as he handed them food. He stopped several times to reach into a kit containing basic first aid supplies he'd brought in with him and handed out band-aids, aspirin and the likes.

One grey-haired British falang stood out in the crowd, and he seemed more pleased to be able to speak English than he was to get the food. Close to 70 years old, he'd overstayed his visa by a week or two - I don't recall, actually - and was being shipped to Bangkok to be sent back to the United Kingdom. He was a pathetic looking character but really no worse than the other couple of dozen men he was locked up with. He'd already been there a couple of weeks, was tired and sore from sleeping on the bare cement floor and had no idea when they'd be getting him out of there and on his way home. I made mental note to not make the same mistake.

When we'd distributed all of the food there wasn't much left to do but prepare to leave. Once the distraction of giving the supplies out was finished I was again acutely aware of where I was - and how unsettling and unpleasant it felt to be there - and I was happy to hear Pui say "OK, we go now."

Emerging from the building into the "living" air I couldn't complain about the heat- or anything else, really. We were free to go, and while I was happy to have been able to walk into the place, I was happier still to walk out.

To this day I think of those folks in there every time I put peanut butter on bread.