Ugh. I did not like this at all. I checked out the other link you provided and I like this even less. And the title, oh man. If you are in a Thai prison and this is what gets your goat, it is probably not that bad. Not to mention the fact that he ate chicken for most of the time he was there. Whole, young chickens are much more expensive than rice husks (which are basically free). Also, in what third world prisons do prisoners have "the right" to medicines? I've been to hospitals in that part of the world that immediately stop treatment if it's clear that no payment is forthcoming. For hours! Hours, I say! If he was that concerned, why didn't he take it down himself? There are many things that can prepare a person for the experience of being shackled. For example, setting the shackles around one's ankles before they are fastened together. Or someone saying, "hey, you're about to be shackled." That's a sad coincidence. However, most people are capable of feeling more than one complex emotion at a time. There's even a phrase for it. Shockingly, the phrase is "mixed feelings." Everyone who has traveled to Thailand knows just how revered the royal family is, even if the populace doesn't really care for the prince. I mean, the king's face is all over the place. It's not like any literature on the royal family would fail to convey the reverence the Thai people have for their royals, either. Perhaps this really was an ordeal, but the way that was written has rendered me entirely unsympathetic to the guy.The cell I had been placed in was filled with heavy smokers. At night I wore a facemask, sleeping only fitfully, waking each morning with eyes and throat burning. I was staggered to learn that all prison cells are non-smoking and that to complain was to suggest the prison officers were not doing their job properly.
On yet another, the body of a young man who had hanged himself in the hospital dangled from the rafters for hours before it was removed.
Nothing can prepare a person for the experience of being shackled. In front of us was a giant iron pincer bolted onto a slab of wood the size of a sleeper.
Before I boarded the flight to Melbourne, my brother called to say he would meet me at Tullamarine. My father would come too, but not my mother: she had suffered a severe stroke. My jubilation at being released vanished and, ever since, my life has been in turmoil.
That Sydney Morning Herald article really does alter the perspective on the entire affair, doesn't it? I've since found this piece, printed while he was still behind bars, which leaves little doubt about where ultimate responsibility for Nicolaides' imprisonment lies.
I have met so many of these people. Not one gave me the impression that I would want to read a single word of what they've written. Fond as I am of some of Thompson's work (and mostly because I read it at a certain time and place in my life) it is disheartening to see some people take his schtick and try to live by it especially in that part of the world, which is so forgiving to any manner of outlandish behavior. For one, it undermines the credibility of serious foreign journalists and writers in the region and adds to the already fairly lame ex-pat scene out there. I don't mean the foreigners who are out there to create lives for themselves, but rather the guys who proudly proclaim to be ex-pats, the kind that sit around all day drinking imported beer with other ex-pats with the most beautiful girlfriends, wives or mistresses money can buy. Anyway, Nicolaides got his attention, but ultimately what came of it? In the vein of many of the Thompsonesques I've encountered: not much.Reading Harry’s missives in a weekly column for a tourism website in Phuket, it’s clear he rather fancied himself as a Hunter S. Thompson-type, rattling around Thailand, indulging in all the bimbos and booze a few western dollars can buy. He thought he was being dangerous and edgy. In reality, it was all a bit sad.