Sumalee E-Book

Javier Salazar Calle

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 457

Beschreibung

A trip to Singapore to start a new life. Here, the protagonist will find hope, betrayal, pain, will live a torrid love story with a disconcerting woman. How does he end up in the hell of Bang Kwang, a Thai maximum security prison? What makes him become a completely different man, capable of the darkest atrocities?
A captivating mafia, mystery and violence story that will carry you through waves of feelings and adventures that will grip you from the first page. A novel filled with emotions and a surprising ending that will leave no one indifferent.
Sometimes life doesn't offer many options and those offered don't have to be the ones you are keen on. You don't even have to like them.
Readers say...
”Let yourself be captivated by Sumalee and Trakaul”
”A surprising plot”
”Addictive”
”A pleasant surprise”
”Intrigue, strength, romance and much more”
”You won't want to stop reading”
”I've been hooked from start to finish”
Synopsis
A trip to Singapore to start a new life. Here, the protagonist will find hope, betrayal, pain, will live a torrid love story with a disconcerting woman. How does he end up in the hell of Bang Kwang, a Thai maximum security prison? What makes him become a completely different man, capable of the darkest atrocities?
A captivating mafia, mystery and violence story that will carry you through waves of feelings and adventures that will grip you from the first page. A novel filled with emotions and a surprising ending that will leave no one indifferent.
Sometimes life doesn't offer many options and those offered don't have to be the ones you are keen on. You don't even have to like them.

Leseprobe

Sumalee

Stories from Trakaul

by

Javier Salazar Calle

Translated by Nicoleta Nagy

Cover Design © Marta Fernández García

Illustrations @Elena Caro Puebla

Photo of the author © Ignacio Insua

Translator: Nicoleta Nagy

Original title: Sumalee. Stories from Trakaul

Javier Salazar Calle

1st Edition (Revised)

Follow the author:

Website:

https://www.javiersalazarcalle.com

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/jsalazarcalle

Twitter:

https://twitter.com/Jsalazarcalle

LinkedIn:

https://es.linkedin.com/in/javiersalazarcalle

YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/user/javiersalazarcalle

All rights reserved. It is prohibited the total or partial reproduction of this document by any electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, magnetic and optical recording or any information storage system or retrieval system without permission from the copyright owners.

Dedicated to Rachel, the best friend one could have.

Acknowledgements:

Antonio Fernández for contributing his extensive knowledge of Singapore and for reviewing the book, Josele González for the fantastic web page he made for me (www.javiersalazarcalle.com) and to all my other readers which made the book a lot better: my wife, Elena Caro; my sister, Pilar Salazar and my father, Jose Antonio.

CONTENTS

Thailand 12

Singapore 1

Singapore 2

Singapore 3

Thailand 13

Singapore 4

Singapore 5

Singapore 6

Thailand 14

Singapore 7

Singapore 8

Singapore 9

Thailand 15

Singapore 10

Singapore 11

Singapore 12

Singapore 13

Thailand 1

Thailand 2

Thailand 3

Thailand 4

Thailand 5

Thailand 6

Thailand 7

Thailand 8

Thailand 9

Thailand 10

Thailand 11

Thailand 16

Thailand 17

Thailand 18

Thailand 19

Thailand 20

Thailand 21

Thailand 22

Thailand 23

Thailand 24

Thailand 25

Thailand 26

Thailand 27

Thailand 28

Thailand 29

Thailand 30

Other books by the author

About the author

Thailand 12

The first punch stunned me. The second knocked me to the ground. I got kicked for a couple of minutes. I tried to curl into a ball and cover my head as much as I could. One of them shouted laughing:

“You really know how to take a beating.”

When they got tired, they left the same way they came, walking calm and laughing. The crowd dissolved immediately and when I opened my eyes everything seemed normal around me, as if nothing had happened. Each inmate minding his own business. The silence law.

This wasn't the first time. They hit me over the marks of all previous beatings, bruises of a full range of colours and all stages of evolution. One of the beatings, a blow to the eye, left me with blurred vision for a couple of days but I ended up recovering. For two days I was convinced that I would be blind for the rest of my life. The thought was more frightening than the injury itself. In another one I got hit in the ear, I was dizzy for a week. My ribs were also damaged, I did not know if broken, and I had pain of all kinds in every part of the body. It reminded me of my young days when I was doing silly things and ended up in some sort of fight every day. I learnt that protecting my head was fundamental. The rest would heal; better or worse, but it healed. The scariest thing in all of this, the most humiliating thing was to see how the prison guards were spectators of the many beatings from a distance. They even laughed and made bets. On what, I did not know, because I could only focus on wishing they finish the beating fast. Perhaps on whether that was the beating that would kill me.

I tried to get up, but a sharp pain in the chest stopped me. There, on the floor of the corridor, kneeling, I tried to open my mouth as wide as possible to get the maximum amount of air to ease the feeling of distress, of asphyxiation. I focused on breathing slowly and deeply, but I couldn’t. It took me a while to lower my heart rate and for my breath to return to a relative normal. With a tremendous effort I got up and wobbling, leaning on the walls and dodging other prisoners who ignored me, I got to my cell. Mine and of forty more inmates.

Once there I sat on the mat and I stayed there quiet for some time, trying to clear my mind and isolate myself from everything around me, including the pain that was running through my entire body. A body that screamed to lie down and not get up for hours, but I knew I could not do that. I knew it. My survival depended on it. I did what needed to be done. What was necessary. I got up and started my workout routine. Stretches, push-ups, sit ups ... Working every part of the body independently as well as together. The pain was almost unbearable, but I certainly did not stop; although I wept silently, wetting the floor with my tears. I could never show weakness. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to someday get out of there without it being in the sad cardboard coffin they used, I had to continue. I finished the training with both movements I had learnt from my former boxing coach as well as imitating the prisoners who trained in Muay Thai in the courtyard, learning to fight like them, with the difference that they were doing it in front of everyone, in broad day light, and I just trained when nobody saw me. Away from curious eyes. Preparing in the shadows.

Someday, which I hoped it would be soon, I will feel prepared and I would not limit myself to trying to minimize the damage of the blows, but I would respond in a brutal manner, accurate and without compassion. Killing if it was necessary. Yes, I would kill without hesitation. That day I would earn their respect and this nightmare I was living would end. Yes, I had to be sure to win, because if I stood up against them and did not succeed, they would kill me without a doubt. That much was certain. Meanwhile, I had to be patient and try to keep myself alive and without any irreparable damage.

I had visualized that moment in my head thousands of times. With a thousand variants, with different endings, in all kinds of scenarios, trying to anticipate every possibility. Soon, very soon, my time would come. Or die.

But how did I end up in this situation if a few weeks ago I was David, an uninspired computer geek in the offices of a financial institution in Madrid? What circumstances had pushed me into this unthinkable situation not long ago?

While fighting against suffering, as I continued with the ordeal of training, I was reflecting on the dire circumstances experienced. The ones which pushed me from a quiet life in the IT department of a bank to preparing to kill the garbage that abused me constantly in the dreaded prison of Bang Kwang, seven kilometres north of Bangkok, Thailand. One of the most dangerous prisons in the world. The pit of damnation in which I found myself. My end if I was not able to invent a way to save myself.

Singapore 1

A few weeks prior...

It took me a few tries to turn off the alarm. On the second try I almost knocked it off the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed and stretched my arms as I took a long yawn. Another day of work. Like a robot, driven by the routine, I ate breakfast, showered, and dressed. Forty minutes later I was starting the car.

On the way to work I reflected on my last months. Marked by the breakup from my long-time girlfriend, I had not managed to recover yet. After seven years it seems she got tired of me and left me for a supposed friend to whom I introduced her myself and with whom she was actually having an affair for a long time. I was blind all this time without seeing what others had warned me. Ever since I walked around like a lost soul, always blue and sad. Devastated. I had taken refuge in boxing, practising it several times a week. I was hitting the boxing bag as if that adrenaline were able to give me back my life. In addition, I did not like at all the project I was working on at the bank. I was doing testing all day, with a boring tool and noting down the results in a standardized document. Result correct, result incorrect, incidence. Sometimes I looked out the window of the fourth floor, where my desk was, and I felt like throwing myself from it. Figuratively, of course. I have never thought of something as drastic as suicide. I was sad, not destroyed. Result correct, result incorrect, incidence.

What I did not know was that that day my life would change forever. So much so like I had never imagined.

After half an hour's drive and a round to find where to park, I arrived at my desk. I turned on the computer and went to greet a co-worker. Once back I quickly reviewed, like every morning, my email. Same thing just like all days: tests, tests, test results, questions about the tests, test requests, test reports and forecasting tests. Only one email was different from the rest. It was from my boss, sent the evening prior, asking me to call him to talk to me about something. I had no idea what it could be, but whatever it was, hopefully I could do something different, even if it were for five minutes, I would welcome it. I looked at the time. Half past 9. Perfect. I picked up the work cell phone, I looked for Valentine and called him.

“Yes, tell me.” Said Valentine.

“Hi Valentine. It’s David. I have just read your email and I'm calling to see what it is that you wanted to tell me.”

“Good morning David. How are you?”

“Bored. The project that you gave me is going to kill me. Tell me that you have something for me? I need a change.”

“I might possibly have. What do you know about Singapore?”

“Singapore?” He got my attention. I got up and went to a nearby meeting room that was empty. “Well... I don't know Valentine. A small country in Asia, with a good standard of living, very civilized, they speak Chinese and English ...”

“That’s where I wanted to get!” Yelled Valentine. “They speak English, just like you.”

Yes, I was bilingual. My mother was American. She fell in love with my father and came to live and work in Spain. A few years after I was born, my father disappeared without saying anything and we never heard of him. Everyone thought he had abandoned my mother, but she always believed that something had happened to him because they were madly in love. In any case, I grew up without a father from the age of two, which influenced my childhood and adolescence, and I spoke English since.

“What do you propose then?”

“David, a six months project has emerged in Singapore, which can possibly extend to two years, for which you are a perfect fit due to your knowledge and language. I know it is a bit hasty, but I need you to tell me sometime today or tomorrow because it is urgent to start moving the paperwork.” I raised my eyebrows excited. “I'll send you all the project information and the conditions. Call me if you have any questions. What do you think?”

“I don't know what to tell you Valentine. You cough me a bit off guard ...”

“I know, I know. Think about it and tell me tomorrow. Were you not sick of doing testing? Here's your chance. And if you do it well it will help you with a potential promotion this year. I’ll send you the email, you think about it and let me know tomorrow. Hey! If I didn’t think that you were perfect for it, I would have not told you.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you know tomorrow. In any case, thanks for thinking of me.”

After hanging up I remained thinking. When I got to my desk, I already had the email from Valentine. It was clear that he was in a hurry. I opened it and read all the information. Interesting project, a country with incredible references, good pay including housing and, above all, getting out of here for some time away from the memory of my ex and the damn tests. It was clear. Within five minutes of receiving the call I knew what my decision was. Still, I decided to wait until the next day to give my brain the opportunity to think about it, although, when I took a decision, and I used to do it quickly, I rarely changed my mind. When I got home, the only thing I did was to check my passport’s expiry date.

What I would really miss would be all the sports I was doing: running, basketball, soccer, paddle tennis, climbing ... I was passionate about everything that required effort or risk, especially if it was outdoors. On the other hand, in Singapore I could do water sports which in Madrid I could only do in the summer, such as diving, sailing or riding jet skis. Living on an island gave me the opportunity of doing it all the time. I got back to work. Result correct, result incorrect, incidence.

Next day, at noon, I called Valentin and told him my decision. I will go to Singapore. He sent me all the trip details and started moving all documentation. Personalized Employment Pass, EntrePass, Work Permit... There were lots of options and types of visas. In the end, it turned out that what I needed was a Work Permit. For this type of pass it was the company who had to request it on behalf of the candidate, but I had to translate my academic qualifications (although later in Singapore I had to get the original certified by an official translator there and wait until they were approved by the Ministry of Labour), fill out forms for the health insurance, passport photocopies, the work report from my company ... The fact that it wasn’t a new job but a transfer with the company and that the company took care of almost all the procedures made the process much simpler.

A couple of weeks later I was at the airport in Barajas catching a flight with Qatar Airways to Singapore. The rest of the team was already there for a couple of weeks preparing to launch the project and reading documents. The company was paying for a three-bedroom apartment shared with two co-workers, so I didn’t have to worry about finding a place to live and I had the opportunity to meet people from day one.

I bought a travel book about the country and read it during the flight. I did not lack time, sixteen hours with a stopover in Qatar. Lots of patience required.

The book began with the typical presentation of the history of the place. Apparently, Singapore was a city-state that passed from hand to hand and where now lived a jumble of races with unique languages. In fact, there were four official languages: English, Malay, Tamil, and Mandarin Chinese. Two more than I though.

What mattered to me was that it was the fourth largest financial centre in the world (after New York, London, and Tokyo) and the fifth most important commercial port given its strategic location. On paper, almost a paradise on earth and an unparalleled career opportunity. To be proved once there. At least, it looked promising. The book was full of all kinds of information that I enjoyed. I loved numbers and trivia about anything. I immersed myself in reading trying to absorb as a good tourist, all relevant information.

Finally, they announced that we were arriving in Singapore. An airport built on the sea. I was glued to the window to see it well. Below me I could see the whole agglomeration of the city, but I was pleasantly surprised by the number of trees. I hated the places where the only visible colour was that of cement. The airport was in a corner of the island and just below it a large naval port was visible. The sea around it was studded with boats of all sizes, but especially those giant ones that carry containers. I've never seen so many together and so organized, forming long parallel lines of ships. The city was full of skyscrapers and tall buildings. The edges of the island had long beaches with dense vegetation. Then I saw an area with houses, a suburban development which ran to the side of a wide river with many bridges.

The plane was flying very low over a grassy well-maintained area and I could see appear the track just below the left wing, where I was. I suddenly felt the blow of the landing gear touching the ground and the plane began to slow down. At the end, a few hundred meters away, was written with shrubs the airport name: Changi.

The plane exited the runway and headed for the terminal. From my side I could not see it, but I could see it through the windows on the other side. The stewardess announced over the loudspeakers, among other things, that the temperature was twenty degrees. Being in an equatorial zone, temperatures tended to be around that figure with high humidity and short but intense rain.

Before long we were allowed to get up and grab our luggage. I walked around the airport with one suitcase and a backpack on my shoulder. There were strange things compared to what I was used to see, areas with free internet and even laptops for those who did not have one. There was also a relaxation area with chairs, like those by the pool, facing the planes and where people were listening to music, sleeping, or reading.

I kept going in search of the train platform. The screens announced arrivals and departures from all over the world. Finally, I arrived. I took a streetcar named Skytrain that took you to Terminal 2, where you could get a taxi. When the train stopped at the platform it caught my attention the fact that it didn’t have a driver. Soon it left me in Terminal 2. In the middle there was a tropical garden with a small pond and beautiful flowers. Free massage chairs, hanging crystal tears rising and falling, orange fish ponds, places to receive Asian massages... They even advertised a pool in Terminal 1 from which, according to the photos, you could see the runway! Incredible. In the bathrooms there were touch pads where you could click on a smiley to rate the cleanliness of the bathroom. Of course, it was spotless. After all it was considered one of the best airports in the world. The first impression of a new person in the city was its airport and here they nailed it.

I finally got out and took a taxi. I showed him a paper with the address of my new home, and he headed there. I arrived on a Saturday and the company informed me that the house mates were expecting me at home to help me settle a bit and tell me everything I needed to know to adapt as fast as possible. There was no way to mistaken the place because it was called The Spanish Village... Pueblo español in the language of Cervantes. Curious place to put a group of Spanish. I don’t know if it was a coincidence or it was on purpose, but the name was perfect to make you feel like home. I looked it up on the internet and it was in the neighbourhood of Tanglin, but that, for now, it meant nothing to me.

My journey in Singapore was starting.

Singapore 2

In less than half an hour, the taxi stopped in front of the entrance of a building complex and the driver told me that this was the address on the paper. I looked and saw at the right of the entrance Spanish Village 56-88 Farrer Road and the same thing in what I assumed were Chinese characters. After exchanging a few words with the guard at the gate, he entered the complex and stopped. I paid with Singapore dollars I had brought from Spain and I watched him drive away.

I looked again at the paper where I had the address. I was in the right place. I started walking with all my luggage looking for the door. The complex was made up of a group of beige buildings with red tiled terraces. They were four storeys high including the ground floor forming the shape of an ellipse. In the centre there was a fairly large pool, a playground, parking, two tennis courts, a barbecue area ... It was clear that here the developments were perfect, not like the sad apartment in which I lived while looking for a better home to live with my ex. My ex, Cristina. She was now thousands of kilometres away from me and, although there were times when I felt her painfully close, even with frightening intensity, I had to forget her. I was so tired of so much sorrow, self-pity, and misery, I had to get back to enjoying life. I wanted to go back to being the crazy David from before I met her; unvarnished, uncompromising, not having to answer to anyone. To meet many women and enjoy with no strings attached.

While I was looking for the building, I was intercepted by a man with Asian features who asked me in a very strange English where I was going. I assumed it was someone from maintenance or the likes. I told him I was a new tenant and gave him the address. That seemed to reassure him. We shook hands and with a grin on his face he walked me to the door of my building helping me with a suitcase. He called my apartment, and someone answered, a voice that was familiar, he said that the new tenant had arrived. I stopped a moment to think about how smart he was, not questioning me, but rather accompanying me to the door to confirm my information with my roommates. When the voice confirmed that I was expected, he was satisfied, he said goodbye and I went into what would be my new home for at least the next six months. Or so I thought.

I rang the doorbell and pushed the door. I was surprised. I thought I recognized the voice of Josele, a co-worker, a friend with whom I worked side by side for three years. When we finished, he ended up in a project in the United States along with another co-worker from the bank. We hit it off from the beginning and we got along very well. I was sad when the project was over and we had to part ways, but we maintained regular contact and always met when he was in Spain.

At the door of the apartment, as I had suspected, Josele was waiting for me. He had not changed at all, he still had that hair that he grew like a toupee, a bad imitation of Elvis Presley. I left my suitcase and backpack on the floor and hugged him effusively.

“Josele, is it you?”

“Surprise! Come in and we will tell you. Look who's here”, he said opening the door wide.

“Damaso!”

I ran and hugged him lifting him into the air. Damaso was another fellow that the company had sent with Josele to the United States. A little quirky, but a familiar face in the end. The day could have not started better having these two characters as roommates.

“But what are you doing here? Were you not in America?”

“Yes, I was,” said Damaso. “The project ended and we both got sent here recently. Valentine told us you were coming, but we didn’t say anything because we wanted to surprise you.”

“And what a surprise, boys! It really can’t get any better. Together again and this time sharing an apartment. Singapore gets ready!”

“Yes!” Josele shouted excited. “We can play sports again together. Damaso and I go jogging twice a week and we are in a basketball league for expatriates. We've already entered you in the team.”

“Great!” I replied. “At least I will not get fat and I will meet new people. Well, tell me. What is life like here?”

“Tere and Diego are also here,” said Damaso.

“Them too! That's great, the whole gang together again. I didn’t think we would work together on a project again.”

“Yes, and we know something you don’t ...”

“I suppose, it is the fact that Diego is also on the basketball team.”

“Yes. But it’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“They're together.”

“What! Tere and Diego? Since when?”

“Well, we do not know because they have just told us, but certainly since before coming here, so at least two months.”

“I had never suspected it; although, in fact, if you think about it, yes they are very compatible given the way they are. Good for them! So, what do we do now?”

Josele and Damaso first showed me around the apartment. It had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. I was going to share the bathroom with Josele. Apparently, Damaso insisted on having one for himself and Josele didn’t care. The living room and kitchen were spacious. The house had Wi-Fi and a closed terrace from where you could see the pool. They also told me that the complex had 24-hour security. The man who had intercepted me in the garden was of Chinese origin and was called Nan Shao and was the maintenance person during the day. At night there was a Malay named Datuk Musa. There was also a gym, sauna and squash courts on the ground floor, and a garden with several barbecues, which I had seen a moment ago, where you could have a picnic without leaving the building. Although there was a big TV in the living room, each room had a small one as well as air conditioning, a desk with a chair and a large closet. I didn’t know if the rest of the people in this country identical houses have, but the standard of living here looked amazing. We had two shopping centres within twenty minutes’ walk; with all kinds of restaurants, food and clothing shops, banks, and places to have fun. Wow, our location was perfect.

They also told me about transportation in the city. The subway was called MRT and it had four lines across Singapore from North to South and from East to West. There were also buses and the use of taxi was common, as it was quite cheap. The company had given me a mixed transport card that I could use for both the MRT and the buses. Our company offices were by the Singapore River estuary and close to a large urban park called Fort Canning Park. We could get there by bus. There was a direct line than in less than forty minutes got us to the office.

Working hours were in spurts, like everywhere else. The normal thing in Singapore was to work forty-four hours a week and to have fourteen days of vacation, although us, fortunately, kept the holidays from Spain. The work culture in Singapore was completely different than that of Spain. I don't think that in Spain we would be able to have a forty-four-hour work week and only two weeks of vacation.

Josele gave me a bag with a box inside.

“What is this?”

“A gift from the company. It's your corporate phone for Singapore. Inside you’ll find the phone, the SIM card, and the instructions to connect to all the apps in the company, although, in reality, the only useful one is the email. Monday at work they'll give you your laptop.”

“OK, thank you very much. Later you can explain to me the tariffs and calls to Spain. What about eating? How do you do it? From the menu? In restaurants like in Spain?”

“Well, there are a lot of options,” Josele replied. “It's very rare to find people eating in restaurants because they're so expensive. The norm here is to eat in the canteens of the office building, in the hawker centres, which are kitchen groups with a small counter that share an eating area or in the coffee shops which are like the hawkers, but more expensive and beautiful...”

“And with air conditioning!” Damaso interrupted. “It's where we usually eat.”

“Yes, yes, and with air conditioning,” Josele continued. “Because Damaso can’t take the heat and humidity. In any of these places you can both eat and buy food to go. That depends on everyone and whether there is room to sit, because sometimes there are no sits due to the large number of people there. Also, quite crowded are the fast-food restaurants type Burger King, McDonald's or other Asian food chains that don’t exist in Spain. There are also people who bring their own food, but it's very rare to see Westerners doing that. People from Bangladesh or the Philippines do it usually because they like to eat their traditional food and cook it themselves...”

“Good, good,” I cut him off laughing. “I've only asked where you usually eat, not to give me a report on the Singapore society and their eating habits. What a detailed response. It gave me time to set up the phone. Wait a minute, I'm going to call my mother.”

“Say hello from us.” They both said at the same time.

They knew her from when we worked together in Madrid and one day they came for dinner. My mother is an excellent cook. She become passionate about Spanish food and loved to have guests. She had had a stormy youth, so to speak, and was delighted to welcome new friends who, at first glance, seemed like good people; nothing to do with the unrecommended friendships of my adolescence. I took advantage of the company phone to call to tell her that I was all settled and that I was again with my soul friends. She was very glad I wasn't alone and that I knew people here. She sent them both many kisses. I promised to call and talk more in a few days. When I hung up, I kept asking about things I was interested in knowing about the place.

“And, to entertain yourself, what do you do around here? I don't need you to tell me everything there is to know about the city today, OK, Josele? You must have some fun, too, anything worth mentioning?”

“A lot of things,” Damaso replied. “In Singapore you're not going to get bored, that's for sure. There are all kinds of activities: from amazing flight simulators, horse racing, casinos, amusement parks, hiking trails, museums, shopping malls and, of course, hundreds of pubs and clubs where you can go out and meet people, especially a girl after what Cristina did to you.” My face showed how much I agreed with the latter. I felt like getting back to my crazy times, when what mattered was to end up with a girl no matter who. “Close to work, on the other side of the park, is one of the main strips. A street called Mohamed Sultan Road which is full of clubs and discos. Twenty minutes’ walk. And there's also golf across Marina Bay, of course!”

“I was wondering when you were gonna mention golf. I'm sure you looked into it before you even got here. How to become a member of a golf club around here and where to buy bread in the mornings.” I laughed.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to shoot a hole in one? Neither do I, but I keep trying.”

“You know him so well David,” Josele said laughing. “As soon as he arrived, he asked the taxi driver on his way from the airport. And once a year they have Formula 1 races, of course. I think it's in September and we were told that it's amazing, because they race around the city at night; so, if we get a chance we should go, even if you don't like races very much, because the atmosphere alone I think it’s worth it.”

“But how long have you been here? You had time to do all these things?”

“No, man,” Josele laughed. The bars yes, of course; but the rest of the things we were told about by colleagues who have been here longer. Now that you're here, I'm sure we'll move more.”

“Man, I also hope to get out a little, too. Especially if it's in good company.”

“Do you mean us or some pretty girl?”

We all laughed hard. It was clear that the entire time they were in the United States we had not lost the complicity we always had in our projects together in Spain. Especially with Josele.

Good times were on the way.

Singapore 3

Next day we went out together for a walk around town. I really wanted to see the atmosphere of the country.

As I wanted to feel useful, I took the garbage bags to throw them away, but Josele intercepted me at the door.

“Where are you going with the garbage?”

“To throw it away. I saw a container out there.”

“My God, we have to explain everything to you. Here there are garbage treatment facilities on every block. You throw the trash down the kitchen chute, under the microwave, and it goes where it’s supposed to go. Like the pneumatic waste in Spain.”

“Interesting... and those on the main floors?”

“They leave it at the service door, and it gets picked up by the cleaning staff. No one takes their trash to the dumpster.”

“And they recycle?”

“There are containers for recycling if you want, but almost no one does it.”

“I see. All the trash down the kitchen chute.”

I threw both bags, and we went out. We started with our neighbourhood, Tanglin. The Singaporeans I saw on the street seemed mostly of eastern origin, Chinese, especially, although there were also many Indians and quite a few whose origin I could not identify.

“They are Malaysian,” clarified Josele. “Here people are quieter and more closed off than the Europeans. They also have very strict laws. There are countless prohibitions. Some can be shocking to us, and if you fail to follow them, you will be punished without hesitation. Everyone learns fast to be respectful, the easy way or the hard way.”

“I like that.”

“We already knew that. With how rigid you are....”

It was true that I was, but it hadn't always been that way.

We went to the right, leaving behind a pedestrian walkway covered with plants full of purple flowers. After a short while we arrived at a subway station. The type of construction changed, and single-family houses appeared, as if it were an area of semi-detached houses, but each different from the other, both in materials and design. A little further there was a junction with another important street called Bukit Timah which was parallel to a stream and had an elevated bridge.

“On the left is the mall we told you about, Coronation Shopping Plaza,” Josele said. “On the right the botanical gardens.”

“Let´s go right then, we will have plenty of time to see shops,” I replied.

We continued until we reached the main entrance of the botanical park or at least one of the entrances. None of them knew how many there were. I read out of curiosity the information to enter. It was opened from five in the morning to twelve at night every day of the year! In addition, it was free except for the orchids area. That was definitely good public service.

“Why don't we go in?” I said trying to persuade Josele and Damaso to go in and have a look.

“We have plenty of time to see things more thoroughly. For your first day it would be better to get familiar with the rest of the city. Besides, Josele already visited the gardens,” Damaso said.

“Is it true?”

“Of course,” Josele replied immediately. “Make no mistake. I might like to take cool pictures of flowers, but there was more to it. I came on a date with a Japanese woman that was really hot, and I thought bringing her here was going to lead to a sure success. And it sure was.” He winked at us and we laughed.

Truth was that he was absolutely right. There was plenty of time to see everything, so I gave in without complaining too much.

“Look!” Damaso shouted. The bus is coming, we could go see Little India, the Indian quarter of the city.

Josele and I thought it was a good idea and in thirty minutes we were getting off the bus in a whole different neighbourhood. There the demographic distribution took a total turn, with the majority being Indian (or Bangladeshi, because the truth is that I was incapable of differentiating them). The first thing that struck me was that in a park there were hundreds of them sitting on the ground, in small groups, chatting with each other. My friends told me that it was what they did every Sunday. It was their meeting point to talk about what had happened during the week. That said, there was not one single woman. Only men. Interesting. Was it because of their customs, machismo or women were meeting somewhere else? We kept walking until we arrived at a church where a group of Foochow Methodist were praying at the entrance, which surprised me considering we were in an Indian area and one expects to see Hindu temples. This demonstrated the uniqueness of this place. We also saw restaurants, these yes, Indian and, finally, we arrived at the Mustafa Centre. It was a fairly large shopping mall that was open 24 hours. Across from it there were two-storey houses, majority of them had restaurants, jewellery stores and Hindi schools. There was also a temple called Arya Samaj. This one did look Hindu, but I wasn't sure. The entrance had a poster with two men: one bearded with a kind look and the other with a turban and a saint like halo. At both ends of the street you could see the city's skyscrapers, which contrasted with this low area of houses. Everything was very different from what I knew.

Josele, who had always been more curious about things and who, in addition, was fond of photography and was always looking for unique locations to unleash his vocation, explained to me that these houses were called shop houses. They were old buildings with the upper floor intended as residence and the lower one for the family business, usually workshops, restaurants, or shops. Apparently, they were highly sought after, not only for their historical value or their beauty, but also for their exceptional location. They rented for three thousand five hundred up to almost twenty thousand dollars a month, depending on their location and condition; and their sale price was several million Singapore dollars. A fortune.

We went into the mall to see what kind of stores they had. It was over two blocks and on the first floor it had a glass walkway above the street that linked the two buildings. Inside there were shops of all kinds: a supermarket, a pharmacy, cosmetics, sportswear, electronics, post office and jewellery stores. They also had visa services for Indians and Malays and a currency exchange office. One euro amounted to almost one and half Singapore dollar. I had gotten a slightly better rate in Spain.

At lunchtime we ate at one of the many Indian restaurants in the area. One specialized in northern Indian food. Like I could tell the difference between the food from the north and that from the south! I went along with the advice of Josele and Damaso and we ordered several dishes to share. For starter Aloo Gobi, which were spiced potatoes with cauliflower, and Chaat, a type of very crispy dumplings with various spicy fillings. Then we shared Chana masala, which looked similar to a Spanish dish but had a completely different flavour due to the spices, a rice with lentils called Khichdi and chicken Tandori, a roast chicken with yogurt and spices that gave it a bright red colour. All accompanied by a bread called Kulcha and for dessert some rose petals with sugar called Gulqand. Lots of exotic names and food that sometimes was a bit too spicy. I could eat it once in a while but every day I would end up fed up with so much spice. Besides, I wasn't quite sure that my stomach could take it on a daily basis since it was used to a different kind of food. What I was sure of was that I wouldn't remember the name of any of the dishes.

I asked about the typical Singaporean food and I was told it was also very spicy, but to not worry about it because there were all kinds of restaurants to choose from. I liked spicy food, but only once in a while and not too spicy. I had a friend who liked hot food, but to me it seemed that with the mouth on fire you couldn't really taste the flavour of the food. Anyway, there was also a lot of Chinese influence in their food, which I liked a lot better. I had to try it soon.

After lunch we returned home. I had to finish unpacking and I wanted to get some rest. I didn't know if it was jet lag or what, but I was exhausted. Anyway, I had received so much information since I arrived in the city and I really wanted a little peace and to plan for the next day and to get into some routine.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at home, watching some English news on TV and chatting about the things we would do in the coming weeks.

We had dinner from what we had in the fridge and shortly I went to sleep. Next day I was starting my new work adventure.

Thailand 13

My thoughts about my stay in Singapore were interrupted when I felt that someone was watching me. I stopped the series of punches I was doing and looked at the cell door. A man named Channarong was looking at me weird. I had heard of him from other prisoners that talked about him, always with respect. His name, as I had been told, meant something like "fighting to win," which was exactly what I was preparing for. I wasn't quite sure why people respected him. I didn't know if he were a member of a mob, a famous fighter or the son of a rich businessman who could pay someone to kill you if you bothered his offspring. The thing was, he had been staring at me quietly for who knows how long. I tried to pretend by stretching my arms and making some stupid moves trying to imitate what in my head would be Tai Chi. I was sure it was too late and that Channarong could tell that I was training in martial arts. He would have to be stupid to believe that what I was doing was Tai Chi.

I felt ridiculous trying to throw him off, so I stopped and stared at him without saying anything. Channarong fixed his eyes in mine and examined me closely. His face was completely blank. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. After a few minutes, which seemed like hours, he took a few steps toward me. Instinctively, I stepped back and raised my arms to defend myself. I was used to all who came near to hit me although this time it was a bit soon considering the last beating was just an hour ago.

Channarong came within twenty inches of me and looked at me funny. He raised his hand and I shrugged waiting to take the first hit, but instead, what he did was grab my arm and stretch it imitating a punch.

“Not like this,” he said in a pretty decent English as he shook his head. “Not like that. No, no, no.”

He grabbed my arm and stretched it again, this time with more force. Forcing me to turn on my hip so I don't fall.

“Move hip, hit hip. Move hip, hit hip. Do you know what to call this prison? The Big Tiger because they say, “it hunts and eats.” Want to be prey or hunter?”

He kept repeating that phrase as if it were a mantra, over and over again, as he moved my arm and patted me on the waist. He was correcting my movement! Not only did he not want to hit me, he was teaching me to hit the right way. He let go of my arm and encouraged me with a hand gesture to keep trying. I threw a new series of punches using my hip in the punches as Channarong corrected my movements.

“Muay Thai's tenth lesson,” he told me very serious after a while-training and exercising regularly. “You continue, I watch. Very good. Muay Thai are eight-armed warriors. Fists, elbows, knees, and feet. Train everything, look for balance.”

So, he had been watching me training without me knowing. It was clear that I wasn't hiding it as well as I thought. Just a minute! Did he say tenth lesson? What about the previous nine? Anyway, I did another series of punches focusing on doing everything perfect, as he taught me, paying attention to every detail of the movement, trying to not allow the pain in my body to influence me. I turned satisfied to see what he thought, but Channarong had already left. He disappeared the same way he showed up. Quietly and without warning. It left me puzzled. Why was he helping me, why did he leave without giving me the opportunity to thank him? I didn’t know the answers or had the chance to get them at the time, so I did what was expected of someone practical like me. I kept training my punches, using my hip to hit harder. Trying to ignore the pain caused by every move in the places where I was hit in the beating.

Next day I looked for Channarong to thank him, but I couldn't find him. I also did not go searching the entire complex, because with my background it was better not to be seen too much to avoid problems. When you were used as a punching bag, the wisest thing to do was not to be found. I kept training my punches and the rest of the moves. I would have loved it if he decides to be my mentor as Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid or as Angel, the boxing teacher who taught me what respect for others and myself was, but I doubted that this so loved man and with whom I had never talked had any interest in me. On the other hand, he had helped me, hadn't he? In any case no one ever spoke to me; so, I felt grateful at least for that.

A couple of days later I met Channarong in the cafeteria line. I approached to thank him for his interest, but he sent me away from him with rapid hand movements and a snake-like sound.

“Lesson number two” - screamed as I walked away confused, “to make oneself useful to others.”

While eating, I tried to unravel the meaning of those words. Did he want me to help people in the prison, did he want me to think of myself? Eastern people sometimes liked to talk like this. Was it not easier to say what you meant? Make oneself useful to others... to defend others from thugs instead of myself? Cheap philosophy. With how useful it is to say things directly. I looked toward Channarong and he was pointing toward my table and telling something to his teammates, who were laughing hard. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I was completely lost. Maybe he was just laughing at me, but then why help me?

I noticed that the group that had it in for me was coming into the cafeteria, so I got up, left the tray with everything I had left to eat and exited quickly. As my mother would say, “Whoever avoids the occasion avoids danger.” That was useful advice. And... of course.

I went to the cell to train. It's not that training after eating was a good idea, but it was one of the few times when no one was there, and I had to take advantage of it. I did what needed to be done. What was necessary. I started my workout routine. Stretches, push ups, sit ups ... Working every part of the body independently and together. Then I continued with the blows in the air, first punches, then kicks, finally, knees and elbows like I saw the prisoners training in the yard. As Channarong said, the eight-armed warrior. As no one spoke to me for fear of also becoming the target of those who beat me, I had a lot of time to think. In one of my daily reflections, I had considered that, apart from building up my body and trying to improve my technique and my speed, I should also condition my body to blows. Which is why I added to my routine a series of punches with fists, elbows, tibia and back of the hand to the wall covering myself first with pieces of fabric and starting gently. Sometimes I exaggerated with the blows and I had some part of my body inflamed for a couple of days, but I considered it necessary to teach my body to overcome pain. When I was messing up in training, I only had to remember one of my antagonistic enemies from youth or any of the beatings received; me on the ground being the target of kicks and punches, crouched like an animal and waiting for it to all to end. Like this I increased the momentum of my blows, the effort of training drawing forces from fury, fear, and the intensity of despair.

I also had to greatly increase my stamina, so I spent my time running non-stop in the yard; which my stalkers celebrated with taunts and laughter because they must have thought I was training to run away from them. At the same time, it served me as therapy. I didn't always like running. Shortly after I started boxing in Madrid, I had to add running routines to gain endurance and to be able to stand up through a full fight. It was exhausting, but necessary. In the end, running half an hour every day turned out to be a forged balm to indoctrinate my body and mind.

Soon it would be my time and the situation would change completely. Soon that laughter would turn into screams. Screams of pain. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. It was that or death.

There were no other alternatives.

Singapore 4

At last Monday. First day of work. I got up at six-thirty in the morning, had coffee with cereal and a glass of juice. A full breakfast. In the meantime, my roommates told me that what they used to do, and also a lot of people, was to have breakfast at work in the company cafeteria, where there were free drinks, fruit and pastries, or in the places in the building if they wanted something different. This way they could chat with their co-workers before they started the day. Sometimes there were people having for breakfast, especially the foreigners from Asia, things like noodles, soups, stir fried vegetables... It was very strange to see them eat that for breakfast. I got dressed and waited ten minutes for the others to be ready.

We were a bit disorganized and decided to take a taxi to go to work. For just ten Singapore dollars, paid by Josele, we were at the door of our building in fifteen minutes, an entrance like that of hotels where the cars stop to unload the bags.

The area was a complex of four white octagonal skyscrapers called Raffles City Tower. Apparently, it had a giant shopping mall, offices, convention centre, restaurants and two hotels occupying two of the towers. Each skyscraper had to be forty or forty-five storeys. It was impressive. To the right of the entrance where we were there was a bar called Salt Tapas & Bar, a premonitory name for the Spaniards, like those back home. Fate, in which I did not believe, seemed to tell me that I was where I needed to be.

Our offices were on the 36th floor of the Raffles City Tower office tower. The views must be spectacular. At the entrance, since it was my first day, they had to identify me and give me an access card. Once I had it, we took the elevator to the office. Our floor was diaphanous, with almost no walls except for the meeting rooms. On the way to my supervisor, I ran into Teresa and Diego. We greeted each other quickly and said we will meet later in the cafeteria on our floor. Afterwards, Damaso went to his desk and Josele took me to Amit Dabrai, the Indian who was my new boss.

Amit was a very dry and smug person. He told me broadly what the project was about as if he was doing me a favour and showed me to my desk, where my laptop was already waiting for me. I signed all the laptop and cell phone papers and settled in my spot. Amit shared with me a cloud folder with all the documentation and told me that Jerome, who was my partner in the project, would tell me what was most important to read first. He insisted that I had to catch up very quickly and that he wanted me to start working at full speed that very week. What a serious and stiff boss I had! It reminded me a lot of one that I had in a project in Spain.