next job. So impressed were Sten’s rich employers with their young Swede they promoted him to tour manager for packages of illegal emigrants hoping to leave Asia for a new world.
From China groups of a dozen or less would trek into Laos to quietly cross the Mekong River to northern Thailand. Assembling in Bangkok their photographs would be laminated into European passports stolen or sold by penniless backpackers. They would be given tickets to fly from Thailand to Japan and onward to the USA. Although the US Embassy kept twenty-five staffers in the capital to thwart illegal immigrants, the Chinese had moulded a silent army of corrupt officials at Don Muang Airport who would be blind to the small exodus of hopefuls.
These Chinese wisely assigned the task of dodgy paperwork to the Indians and Sten’s job was to shepherd the emigrants and to safeguard the passports. The documents had to be collected at Tokyo once the passengers had been issued with boarding passes for Honolulu. These passports would be recycled with new faces until their bindings disintegrated.
‘I’d take them to Bangkok Airport in a minibus,’ Sten explained. ‘Collect all their little bags of food they wouldn’t need and point them to the right counter for check-in. That would go all right. We had half a row of the passport clerks under control. The worst part was at Narita. They’d all wander off shopping and I’d have to round them up or they’d miss the next flight.’
Once found, Sten would redirect a Mr Landsburger to the correct gate or empty a Mr Stanley’s bag of the two dozen free travel guides and airline timetables. There had been the moment when one of Sten’s travellers had objected to being asked to abandon a stack of paper cups before boarding. ‘But I be businessman,’ protested Mr Tarkington. ‘Don’t worry,’ assured Sten, adjusting the gentleman’s tie. ‘Anyone can see that.’
Within minutes of the final call Sten would move his huddled mass to the boarding gate, collect their passports and wish them well. On arrival at Honolulu the first-time air travellers could be themselves: lost and confused. They would do what the law asked, fudge their origin, nationality and previous route; request sanctuary and freedom from hardship, persecution and fear. Their unknown status would see them sent to immigration detention prisons for questioning by distrustful officials.
‘I’d have to turn around and go straight back to Bangkok,’ Sten complained of his boss. ‘Not even a night on the town in Tokyo.’
‘How did the Chinese get on in the US?’ asked Eddie.
‘Who knows? In those days they mostly did all right. They were shitting themselves. But, you know, thrilled to bits.’
7
Having settled in Building Six it was then time to do a grand tour of Klong Prem to survey the openings. Eddie and I thought our cell bars in Six were sufficiently narrow at just over an inch but the building was deep within the prison, very far from the outer wall.
Calvin and Martyn had lately arrived from the Cure so we set out with trusty Charlie to roam the grounds. Our pretext was a bogus survey of Easter religious needs. We set out walking along a main road that fanned with others from the central administration block. This square building had a twenty-metre concrete post topped with a large glassed watchtower.
‘I’ve never seen anyone in there.’ I directed Martyn’s gaze to the top.
‘Probably never is,’ Martyn said. ‘Too many stairs.’
While Eddie and Calvin compared vices I asked Martyn how his case was going.
‘Oh, I had another day of hearings last week. All day spent chewing over two photographs.’
Martyn’s case was full of holes, now being heavily filled by his trial judge. The claim was that two Canadians had been plotting to export fifteen kilos of heroin by some unknown means. One of the Canadians was later revealed as an undercover narcotics policeman. He had long returned to Canada and since died
From China groups of a dozen or less would trek into Laos to quietly cross the Mekong River to northern Thailand. Assembling in Bangkok their photographs would be laminated into European passports stolen or sold by penniless backpackers. They would be given tickets to fly from Thailand to Japan and onward to the USA. Although the US Embassy kept twenty-five staffers in the capital to thwart illegal immigrants, the Chinese had moulded a silent army of corrupt officials at Don Muang Airport who would be blind to the small exodus of hopefuls.
These Chinese wisely assigned the task of dodgy paperwork to the Indians and Sten’s job was to shepherd the emigrants and to safeguard the passports. The documents had to be collected at Tokyo once the passengers had been issued with boarding passes for Honolulu. These passports would be recycled with new faces until their bindings disintegrated.
‘I’d take them to Bangkok Airport in a minibus,’ Sten explained. ‘Collect all their little bags of food they wouldn’t need and point them to the right counter for check-in. That would go all right. We had half a row of the passport clerks under control. The worst part was at Narita. They’d all wander off shopping and I’d have to round them up or they’d miss the next flight.’
Once found, Sten would redirect a Mr Landsburger to the correct gate or empty a Mr Stanley’s bag of the two dozen free travel guides and airline timetables. There had been the moment when one of Sten’s travellers had objected to being asked to abandon a stack of paper cups before boarding. ‘But I be businessman,’ protested Mr Tarkington. ‘Don’t worry,’ assured Sten, adjusting the gentleman’s tie. ‘Anyone can see that.’
Within minutes of the final call Sten would move his huddled mass to the boarding gate, collect their passports and wish them well. On arrival at Honolulu the first-time air travellers could be themselves: lost and confused. They would do what the law asked, fudge their origin, nationality and previous route; request sanctuary and freedom from hardship, persecution and fear. Their unknown status would see them sent to immigration detention prisons for questioning by distrustful officials.
‘I’d have to turn around and go straight back to Bangkok,’ Sten complained of his boss. ‘Not even a night on the town in Tokyo.’
‘How did the Chinese get on in the US?’ asked Eddie.
‘Who knows? In those days they mostly did all right. They were shitting themselves. But, you know, thrilled to bits.’
7
Having settled in Building Six it was then time to do a grand tour of Klong Prem to survey the openings. Eddie and I thought our cell bars in Six were sufficiently narrow at just over an inch but the building was deep within the prison, very far from the outer wall.
Calvin and Martyn had lately arrived from the Cure so we set out with trusty Charlie to roam the grounds. Our pretext was a bogus survey of Easter religious needs. We set out walking along a main road that fanned with others from the central administration block. This square building had a twenty-metre concrete post topped with a large glassed watchtower.
‘I’ve never seen anyone in there.’ I directed Martyn’s gaze to the top.
‘Probably never is,’ Martyn said. ‘Too many stairs.’
While Eddie and Calvin compared vices I asked Martyn how his case was going.
‘Oh, I had another day of hearings last week. All day spent chewing over two photographs.’
Martyn’s case was full of holes, now being heavily filled by his trial judge. The claim was that two Canadians had been plotting to export fifteen kilos of heroin by some unknown means. One of the Canadians was later revealed as an undercover narcotics policeman. He had long returned to Canada and since died
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