“How is she taking it?”
“She spoke to her best friend on the phone yesterday.” Khun Kulakon shrugs. “Apparently, in Australian culture best friends have a special significance-deeper than family, I think.” She shakes her head. “It’s tough to watch these cases, even after all these years. She’s just a stupid girl with a great body who was brainwashed by her culture to think she deserved more from life than she was getting. Corporal punishment would be so much more compassionate, but farang have made it out of style. As it is, even if the King pardons her eventually, which he will, she’ll be a basket case by the time she gets out. But you can’t see psychological scars on TV news, so that makes it all okay.”
As with men’s jails, the women prisoners spend most of their time in an open-air compound surrounded by rows of cells in a rectangular formation. For Thais, riap roy, or neat and tidy, is not an exhortation so much as a way of life. Even though at first glance the compound looks like a refugee camp, with towels and other pieces of fabric used as something to lie on, some cooking going on over small earthenware charcoal stoves, disheveled women shifting in their sleep or moving listlessly from place to place, to any Thai it is obvious that a detailed order prevails. Basically, each six-by-four-foot space staked out by towels or newspapers possesses an invisible number in the hierarchy, with longer-term inmates owning the most highly prized places. On the other hand, the old-timers are expected to help the newcomers learn the ropes and the elaborate rules which the women impose on themselves. That is true of the Thai women, at least. About ten percent are foreigners. I recognize a couple of very big and very black Nigerian women who were caught with heroinfilled condoms in their stomachs, a German woman who murdered her Thai husband after she caught him in bed with a prostitute, a couple of English girls who got caught forging checks and copped an eight-year sentence in a case hardly worth a hundred dollars. They were left to find out for themselves how the system worked. Sooner or later even the weeping and screaming Nigerian giants would learn to conform.
Rosie, though, is in a different category because she has just arrived. The head screw takes us to where she occupies one of the most highly prized positions in the middle of the compound; positions are rated as to how far away they are from the cells, where mosquitoes breed and plague the flesh of everyone in proximity. Nights in the cells are a torment during which all but the toughest find it impossible to sleep; daytime is for catching up on lost slumber.
Coming at her from behind one cannot help but be aware of a shapely backside; the curves of her body, though, are brought together in a compressed fetal posture. When we arrive at her spot, we notice she is sucking her left thumb and appears to be unconscious.
“She’s not sleeping,” the screw explains. “She’s blocking out. Farang women do this a lot-it’s kind of weird. A Thai woman who comes to us for the first time usually sets about learning the rules, studying the power structure, and making herself useful so she can earn some privileges and make friends. Farang don’t see life that way. They feel either destroyed or superior. There’s no middle way.”
Well, Rosie does not look superior. The screw bends down and whispers gently in her ear. When that fails to have an effect, she shakes her with increasing vigor. Finally she says, “Sorry about this,” and twists Rosie’s ear until she opens her eyes.
“You have visitors. Stand up-or do you want to be closer to the mosquitoes?”
I think the name of the insect does the trick. She seems to force herself to stretch her body, as if taking a step in an icy sea, trembling all the while and squeezing her eyelids shut again, clenching her face against the world. When she finally manages to stand, she has the white, crumpled face of an old lady. Once she starts to speak she seems unable to stop, although it’s unclear if she is talking to us or simply vocalizing a monologue constantly playing in her head: “I’m finished, my life is over, I’m all fucked up, destroyed, finished, they’re going to waste my life here, my body, I’m all eaten by mosquitoes, I’m going to be old and wrinkled by the time I get out, I’ve had it, I’m dead, this is hell, the mosquitoes are hell, hell, hell, there’s nothing left for me, nothing, I’m wasted, finished, I’ll never experience childbirth now, I’ll never marry, my mum will drop dead with shame, my friends will disown me, I’ll get hate mail, I’ll be so ugly no one will want to look at me, I’ll be bitten all over by insects, I’ll disgust people, me, look, don’t you like my tits? Don’t you want me? Have me, you can fuck me here in front of everyone, I want you to, this might be the last chance I have for good sex, I don’t care, I don’t care, I’m dead, can’t you see, I’m dead, gone, it’s over for me, I’ve got a decade to go in the valley of death, I’ll turn to stone, I’ll be just a shadow, a frightened little old lady scared to leave the house, I can feel it, I’ll be a total nutter, can’t you help me, please, I have such a good body. Do you eat pussy? Want a blow job? I’ll be your sex slave for life if you get me out of here, I can do things with my tongue you wouldn’t believe, I love being tied up, or I can do that to you, whatever you want. HELP ME! THE SKEETERS, THE SKEETERS ARE EATING ME ALIVE, I’VE GOT BITES ON MY NIPPLES!”
The screw slaps her face and she falls silent. I shake my head at Lek. To Rosie I say, “Maybe we can help, but you’ll have to get your head together. Ask the screws for some tranquilizers, something to help you think straight. Here.” I slip her a bunch of banknotes worth over a thousand baht.
She stares at me and bursts into tears. “I’m not a criminal, I’m just a normal girl. I didn’t want to get into this, all I wanted was a harbor-view flat in Sydney, it was a one-off, I was going to open a beauty salon, there’s a new development on Rose Bay, I wanted south facing, I was going to be ‘Rosie of Rose Bay,’ that’s all, I was going to have sex doggy-style and look at the view. I only intended to do one bad thing so I could have a real life, that’s the only way I could afford it, see? What’s wrong with that? It’s what everyone does.” She stops suddenly, as if remembering where she is.
I hold up a hand and whisper sternly, at the same time passing her more banknotes with the other, “Maybe we can get you out in eight years. That’s a long time, but you’ll still be in your midthirties. If you keep your mouth shut we can get you special privileges, insect repellent, the right food with vitamins and protein-maybe we can even make you a trusty with lots of privileges-maybe even let you have a man now and then. Rosie, we’re the only chance you’ve got. Am I getting through to you? The only chance, Rosie. Rosie, if General Zinna thinks you’re going to talk, he’ll kill you, do you understand?”
I think I did manage to penetrate to that part of her that was still interested in living. Openmouthed, she nods slowly, like an idiot. She puts a hand on my shoulder and leans heavily on me, blinking all the while at the scene around her. Little by little she musters her strength, forces herself to focus on her surroundings.
“It’s shit’ouse here,” Rosie says. “Those slimebucket Nigerian bitches are only crying for appearances, soon as the screws turn their backs they get heavy-and there’s nothing you can do, look at them, they’re giants.” I follow the direction of her chin across the towel-strewn prison yard to the two enormous Nigerian women, each of them about six foot six, who are softly sobbing together at this very moment with their arms on each other’s shoulders. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, and those who were given the privilege, like Rosie, of a spot away from the insects now pay for it in terms of exposure to direct sunlight. Rosie’s delicate northern skin has started to flake a little on her nose and forehead, and she is taking care to keep covered up as much as possible.