Flower Lounge (7) -- Transfer

March 5th, day six. A giant boil has appeared on my left inner thigh overnight.

I have never seen a boil this size before, much less owned one. Given the diverse ecosystem I’m in, and the damp and sticky blankets on me every night, contracting some kind of skin disease seems entirely reasonable, even inevitable. But boils usually emerge gradually, with warning signs, a development process which biologists could follow from formation to maturity and make notes. Not this one. There wasn’t the slightest hint of its arrival when I went to bed last night. While I slept, it grew from nothing to the size of a quail egg, amassing an astonishing quantity of what I assume must be pus within hours. The human body is indeed magical.

In addition to the boil, a flu is gathering strength in me.

I’m under attack. Trillions of bugs are unhappy, or overly happy, taking advantage of my condition.

Marlboro says medical officers are just common jailers in a yellowish lab coat, something which they take turn donning. I cannot verify his claim, but from their coarse language and mannerism, the medics certainly don’t act like conventional professionals. Their routine tasks do not really demand expertise though. One of them would visit Fan Tong twice daily, mostly to collect urine and hand out Panadol to anyone complaining about illness. Inmates with medical conditions such as hypertension or diabetes also receive their meds prescribed by real doctors.

Regardless of whether it is hydrochlorothiazide or just good old Panadol, inmates take it with wide open mouth. The medic would place the pill at the back of the tongue, withdraw fingers, then command: ‘Swallow!’

Gulp!

He’ll inspect the mouth again before telling his patient off.

Next!

I show — show off — my boil and goggle at him with wide astonishment. There’s no need to say anything.

Look! Just look! Scary right? Ah Sir. Seen them this big before? Am I dying?

‘Wa!’ he exclaims after a quick glance.

Even he’s impressed. I have not exaggerated.

Keeping his distance, probably worrying about contagion, he squeezes a big blob of yellowish gooey unguent, like the greasy gunk on old car battery terminals, onto my palm.

‘Go! Next!’ he barks.

After dressing the boil generously with the unguent, I save the excess in an old Tempo wrapper and rub my greasy palm against the right thigh in case boils come in symmetrical pairs. Prevention is better than cure. Prison is generally progressive in terms of environmental practice. Things that non-prisoners toss out without second thought actually have plenty of useful life left. Tempo wrappers are great for keeping loose items such as ointment and postage stamps, for example. I could use half a dozen of them. Unfortunately, no one throws them away.

After breakfast, the morning messenger arrives, creating a commotion as usual. My number is on the list this time. I’m to go to the Fingerprint Room with half a dozen others.

We’re queuing outside the duty inspector’s office, to be admitted one by one. In my early school years, I had to stand outside the principal’s office periodically, waiting to be reminded of the consequence of behaving like a normal school boy in his medieval institution. I know the etiquette well: No talking back, no questions. Just say yes Sir!

‘365820?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You’re going to Tong Fuk.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Okay, out.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Ah Sir says I’m going to Tong Fuk. It’s in Lantau, I think. Never been very good with locations and directions. I wonder how I will get there. By a big black bus, I assume. When? Oh well, all will be clear in the fullness of time.

Feels strange to be moving out of the supposedly worst jail in Hong Kong soon. LCK is a hellhole according to Derek, whose only firsthand knowledge of jail is the visiting rooms. Still, chances are I’ll be relocated to better living conditions. But I have just started to feel settled here. After the emotional tremors and aftershocks of the past week, I have a deeply irrational wish to hang on to anything familiar, even a hellhole. If I were allowed to choose, I might just stay where I am, until — until it’s time to go home for dinner.

I must be looking as perplexed as I feel. An Indian officer walks over and asks: ‘Guo Gai Hui Bin Ah?’ Where’re you transferring to?

‘Tong Fuk Ah, Ah Sir.’

‘Good place.’

‘Really?’ I smile, wondering what his definition of good is.

‘Go tell your family right now.’

‘How?’

He points to one of the doors. ‘Ask the social workers to call your family and say you’re going to Tong Fuk tomorrow.’ When he mentions ‘your family’, I have a spontaneous urge to cry. These strange emotional ambushes are sharp and abrupt. I hold back inexplicable tears and thank him profusely. ‘Ng Goi Sai, Ah Sir.’

Seriously, I must have been a good guy in my past life. Most of my friends complain about taxi drivers. They speak from experiences which contradict mine. Nine out of ten cabbies I’ve encountered are friendly and helpful. Now that I’m in jail, I also find most prisoners and jail guards generous and kind.

‘Quick. They’re off soon.’

I salute him again, and run as fast as I can in flip-flops.

The door is closed. Knock knock. No response. I push it open gingerly. A few non-uniform men stop talking and turn to stare at me with impressive uniformity in timing and expression. One intensifies his face into a standard what-the-fuck-do-you-want look.

‘Ah Sir, I’m about to Guo Gai.’

‘So?’

‘Can you let my wife know?’

He gives me a small piece of paper. ’Write down your name, and your wife’s name and number.’

‘Thank you, Ah Sir.’

When I hand it back, he actually smiles back. Folks here can be helpful, but they never smile at us cons. That was nice.

After visiting the social workers, I wait outside. I now know how things work. Just wait, and things will happen. Now that I’ve sent a message to Satu, I feel more excited about the move, charged with anticipation about being sent to another prison. After an indeterminate period of time, an officer collects us to go back to the Common Room. Guo Gai will only take place tomorrow.

Imminent transferees sleep on the eighth floor. I share a cell with a scholarly looking man. Have not seen him before, must be from another Fan Tong. Is he a poet? Let me find out.

‘So, what’re you in for?’

‘Car theft.’

‘I see.’ Petty crime. ‘How long?’

‘Twenty months.’

‘What!?’ As a car owner, I don’t support car theft. But twenty months? I would regard it excessive even if it were my car that he had stolen. Perhaps he stole a whole ship load? ‘How many?’

‘One. A used one. But it’s my fifth time, you see.’

Five times? Though incorrigible, he obviously regards the penalty reasonable and proportional from a professional viewpoint, and sees no cause for complaints.

We ramble on, like two family men shooting the breeze in a country club sauna. This one is filled with secondhand smoke and vintage ammonia instead of cedar scent.

Car Thief is forty-eight, married with three kids — four, seven, and eleven. He closes his eyes gently when talking about his family. Drifting into felicitous reverie, a smile forms around his mouth. His son, the eleven-year-old, worries him the most. ‘Very stubborn,’ he shakes his head, then opens his eyes, woken by a troubling side of reality which warrants vigilance.

Could it be hereditary? Insisting on stealing cars again and again, refusing to switch to other commodities, sounds pretty stubborn to me.

‘Boys are like that these days, according to my friends with sons,’ I say, omitting my speculation on genetic influence. ‘Stubborn about nothing, and highly restless indoors.’

‘Oh yes. Very restless. Indoors! Spot on. Won’t leave the house,’ he loses composure for a second. ‘Video games you know. Modern opium. Girls seem more normal though, so far.’ A sigh turns into smile, probably by the thought of his daughter, followed by another deep sigh.

‘They get video games from parents, don’t they?’ I now know the See Hings a little, well enough to challenge this one mildly, safely, on a sincere friendly basis.

‘No choice. My wife thinks it’s child abuse if we don’t give him what he wants. Plus I think they can get it online now.’

I have no idea. Electronic opium is not a problem at my home, fingers crossed. Don’t wish to comment further on this subject. We take a brief silent break. The neighbours are much calmer tonight. Mixing inmates from different Common Rooms must have dampened the party mood.

‘I miss my daughters most,’ he finally says, half to himself.

‘Me too. My young one’s eight, similar age.’

‘Really? Lovely age.’

He does whatever it takes to make life as comfortable as possible for his family. As being jailed every now and then is part of the job, he steers clear of anything carrying a stiff sentence. ‘Some people work overseas for long periods. Just the same,’ he rationalises. The family has arranged its affairs around his periodic absence.

He grew up in a hillside squatter hut, the dim end of the poverty spectrum in the 1960s.

‘The slammer isn’t that bad comparing with the tin can home of my childhood’ His tone suggests that I have no personal experience to verify his comparison. ‘My dad and I had to lie on the roof to stop it from flying off during typhoons, holding onto boulders.’

‘Wow!’ My sincere admiration. Hong Kong was successful for a reason. I had heard a very similar account from a subcontractor. Maybe every man in the squatter areas slept on the roof hugging a boulder during typhoon attacks.

‘Quite hard on my wife though, with three little monkeys.’ He comes back to the relatively comfortable hardship of the present.

Alas.

He briefly explains the transfer process, telling me what to expect tomorrow. He knows Tong Fuk well. ‘Not a bad pen. Don’t worry.’ Looks like Tong Fuk has a good reputation, highly recommended by jail guards and inmates. I might have won a lucky draw without knowing.

I take the opportunity to learn more Prison Speak, taking notes as he explains.

Visits are grave sweeping — that I know already. X-rays are dead beams — know that too. Peeing (often on official command to yield a test sample) is willow waving. Picture a line of cons peeing, swaying unhurriedly like willows in the wind, left to right… right to left. Towel is drag water. Okay. Soap slippery stone. Okay too. Slippers are watermelons. A bit puzzling, but my teacher doesn’t know the etymology. A second pair of pants refers not to garment, but other outstanding charges against a convict, yet to be tried. First-timers are white hands; repeaters black hands. There’ll be more. I set aside a few pages in the notebook for them.

‘You’ll learn all that in a few days. No need to write down lah!’ he laughs.

Jailbirds are extremely heavy users of the expletives. Just a few days of prison life has made me swear more profusely in order not to appear odd. The Car Thief is peculiar in this regard. He hardly swears.

Just before turning in, he mentions that, by the way, some Vietnamese inmate hanged himself not long ago, probably on this floor.

Is he trying to spook me?

‘How do you know?’

‘A guard told me.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I look around for something a human could dangle from. The gate, opening all the way to the concrete lintel above, is barely high enough for me to get through. The highest cross-bar at the front grille is less than four feet above ground. ‘How’s that possible? How tall was he? Three feet?’

‘Easy. You use the bed sheet. First pull the knees to the chest. Wrap the sheet tightly around before tying the neck to the bar, then let go and swing. It’s called Dorg Gang.’

Dorg Gang — neck measurement.

My spine freezes.

‘What determination…’ I finally mutter. ‘To do all that within fifteen minutes?’ The guards make their rounds every fifteen minutes or so.

‘Yup. Happens all the time. I’d say at least a couple of times a year,’ he gives me his experienced estimate. ‘When there’s no hope, they’ll find a way. Often ONs with long sentences. When you know you’re stuck here for twenty-five years, can’t speak the language, no friends, no visitors, nobody to talk to, no nothing, why not?’

‘That’s so sad.’

I never say that’s so sad. The phrase is over-uttered by too many who don’t mean it. But I do feel eerily saddened by the story.

‘Yup,’ he yawns, not looking one bit saddened. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

I pull the blanket up, covering my mouth, and close my eyes.

A balled up human, suspended from the grille by bedsheet, swings silently, heavily, above my face. I can’t see his hands, but know they’re there, held back by humanly impossible willpower.

Grasp the bars! Where are your instincts?

One more second — thousand and one — just one breath less… Just a tad easier than strangling oneself barehanded.

Are his eyes resolutely closed, focusing on escaping a hopeless world? Or defiantly open to watch it being snubbed out, by him. For once, he’s calling the shots, taking charge of fate, dangling a few inches from the ground, not giving in, until lights out. What would he do if he knew that fate had made this cruel arrangement for him long ago?

He’s stopped swinging. The room is haunted by absolute stillness, suddenly very dark. Not even the floodlight can get through. I await my nightmare’s arrival.

No radio blaring out good morning wishes. A welcome change.

I had a dreamless sleep, which seems unreal. Perhaps dreams and reality have become indistinguishable. After brushing his teeth, Car Thief tosses everything into the bin. I’m appalled. Noticing my incredulous stare, he tells me new ones will be issued when we get there — our respective new jails. Nonetheless, it seems shockingly un-prison-like to do that. I put mine in my plastic bag.

After room-service breakfast this special morning, we carry the beddings downstairs and throw them into a big heap near the building entrance, right on the floor. Would they be washed? Mine certainly didn’t have the smell and feel of fresh laundry. We then go to the Fingerprint Room to wave willows. Drug tests are mandatory whenever we move between facilities.

Car Thief and I are separated. I wish him luck in my mind. He’s a good man, though a lousy thief with a terrible track record.

I wait, and wait, as usual. Waiting without knowing why and for how long doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ve decided it’s a relaxing way to savour life. All things exquisite take getting used to.

Can’t help thinking about the Vietnamese See Hing. What had he done to get a stiff sentence? Those born into war-torn countries can be vicious, they say. Death takes on very different meaning and dimension to those who have seen too much of it. Having ‘nobody to talk to’ doesn’t sound like a legitimate reason though. If I were jailed in a strange-tongue land, with nobody to talk to for twenty-five years, I’d learn the language. Given a quarter of a century, it must be possible to learn anything, even Icelandic poems. Maybe he had been traumatised by the radio broadcast, and found Cantonese impossible? Alas. May he rest in peace.

Finally, something’s happening.

I’m cuffed up with a middle-aged See Hing. We exchange nods absentmindedly, lost in respective thoughts. He looks friendly and harmless.

Two by two, we march to a CSD caged van. The trip to nearby Stonecutters Island Pier takes no more than ten minutes. There, we board a prison vessel from a Government pier not open to the public.

On the boat, we are un-cuffed inside a sizeable cage with rows of benches. All that space, just the two of us. About ten other inmates are headed for Hei Ling Chau, a drug rehab island which was once a leper colony. Drugs are more popular in Hong Kong than I thought. They share another hold, and will get off first.

The flu bugs have gained much ground over me in the night. I try to focus on breathing rather than chatting, but my companion becomes talkative and jolly once released from handcuffs. He’s Malaysian Chinese, and singularly curious about every island we cruise by.

‘Hey, what’s this one?’

How would I know? I’m a waste treatment engineer, not a geographer. I was born without much sense of direction. Why? Nobody’s perfect. Not wishing to give the wrong impression of aloofness, I make wild guesses. Uh, Cheong Chau, I think. That? uh, must be Lamma. Good seafood, but overpriced. Makes no difference anyway. He’ll never verify my geographic speculations. Lies don’t get whiter than this.

Finally, Lantau. This one I know with ninety percent confidence. Before disembarking, we are handcuffed again. The one-minute walk from the pier to the waiting van is my first public appearance in prison uniform, wearing handcuffs. Two small kids playing nearby stare at us with wide eyes. I have a spontaneous urge to give them a boo! I look down instead, and see my shadow underfoot, getting stepped on by myself. It must be shortly past noon.

The drive to Tong Fuk takes about twenty minutes of aggressive navigation through winding country roads. Traffic’s sparse, the job’s boring, and the passengers are low-lifers. Who wouldn’t drive like this? The scenic route brings back ridiculous memories from younger days. I had camped on the beaches of this island a few times, confused by pubescent desires, tortured by sand fleas. Life is a series of transitions, each one torturous in its own way, but none as embarrassing as puberty in retrospect. It puzzles me why some old people want to be teenagers again.

Back then, Lantau was a collection of sleepy fishing villages. It has since been nibbled at by the government and private developers to house a huge middle-class residential estate, the Airport, Disneyland, and a few bucolic correctional institutions. Only Shek Pik and Tong Fuk prisons are still in operation — Shek Pik for really tough guys; Tong Fuk for not so tough ones, like me — 365820 — and my new pal Malay.

The surroundings are pleasing — tall trees, songbirds, and a quiet beach in the distant background, guarded by greyish-green mountains. But I’m fighting bacteria in defeatist mode. Nothing looks right at the moment. Plus, don’t forget, I’m in jail, and Tong Fuk is no more a hotel than LCK.

The reception is assuringly friendly. The security officer who gives the now familiar search is warmly inquisitive and courteous. While I push against the wall naked, he asks behind my back what I’m in for, and whether I’m preparing an appeal.

After checking in, we go through another gate, and are left alone at a split level dining hall. The higher level is raised like a performance stage with a few tables. At the auditorium below are a dozen or so round tables. At this time of the day, the room is largely empty but for a few muscular inmates chatting and exercising on stage, wearing only boxer shorts. Malay takes the few steps up and sits down at an empty table at the other end of the stage. I follow him. Just as I put down my garbage bag of chattels, looking forward to a good rest at last, a See Hing walks over, swaying, muscles twitching.

He talks to Malay only: ‘Dew Lay Lo Mo, does this look like a fucking restaurant to you?’

‘Ah, Hm Ho Yi See, See Hing!’ Sorry sorry, really sorry.

He springs to his feet and exits stage-right. I follow closely behind. There’s nobody else down here. He picks a table near the entrance. Good strategic choice.

‘So, what’re you in for?’ I ask after a few silent minutes to let adrenaline dissipate.

My Malaysian companion tells me stories about the other side of the credit card business which got him here. It’s a long one. To my stuffy head, he talks with an echo, as if we’re inside a huge can, which we are, haha. I listen with a friendly smile and hidden regret. Should have waited till I’m in a better condition to ask the intro question.

In principle, I don’t approve of credit cards. I avoid using plastics with small businesses such as local eateries as much as possible. Having been a small business owner myself, I know how much work and risks it takes to run one. Not many successful shops in Hong Kong can manage a net profit of, say, five percent of turnover, after paying two arms and a leg for rent. Credit cards collect about two percent of transactions, rain or shine. That’s roughly forty percent of net profit for doing nothing other than offering petty bonus points to users.

That’s blatantly criminal.

Forging credit cards makes Malay half a Robin Hood. He steals from criminals but doesn’t share with the poor.

He’s enthusiastic and proud of his work — a real pro. According to him, the best place to steal embedded info is North American gas stations. Many of these petrol outlets do not accept cash because of armed hold-ups; plastic is mandatory, especially at night. Bribing the minimum-paid cashier for an additional insertion into a reader is easy. Malay’s gang has collected a huge database of these potentially stolen cards, but won’t act just yet. They would hack into selected accounts and monitor spending pattern for up to six months before deciding which ones to replicate. The long lapse of time makes it difficult to trace where the card was dubbed.

Malay would make an excellent software salesman. What he wants me to understand he explains clearly. On critical technical details, he explains eloquently without giving away proprietary information. Like a typical urban professional, he’s passionately knowledgeable about his specialised trade, and a sucker for brand-name products. He was ‘buying’ a few lavish bags too many for his wives but a wrong card got him into trouble. When arrested at the Prada boutique in Central, he had more than forty cards with his own person. He’s very well travelled. Three international jailing experiences qualify him to compare the relative merits and demerits of prisons in Malaysia, France, and Hong Kong.

He has a joke to tell.

‘A prison joke?’ I say with a sore throat. Wish I could ask for a rain check.

‘Yes. A true story lah. The most stupid fucker I’ve ever met in jail. Really fucking funny, I tell you.’

So, this jailmate of his in Malaysia had bought two counterfeit bank drafts for a bargain price of RM1000. When he tried to cash the smaller one, the bank teller politely asked him to please wait, Sir. So he did, patiently, tapping his briefcase which contained a bigger check, anticipating the good life ahead, planning his shopping list. When the cops arrived, they seized his bank draft made out for One Billion pound sterling. The other one, in his briefcase, saved for later days, was ten times the value.

‘I tell you lah, Ah Cheong’ — most See Hings call me by my Chinese middle name –– ‘in any fucking jail, you’ll find at least one super idiot.’ He sounds like solicitor Derek.

‘In every big corporation, you’ll find at least two super fucking idiots,’ I say, also speaking from experience.

Naturally, I take my first insider prison joke with a grain of salt, until chancing upon a news report years later that a man in Yunnan tries to cash a RMB1.9 billion fixed deposit coupon which he has purchased for RMB166 on the internet.

Human stupidity doesn’t seem to have a reasonable limit, especially when magnified by greed.

* * *

Next episode Death Orientation