Auld acquaintance be forgot

It will be 90 days this week since my arrest and I’m desperate for a change of circumstances as I’m becoming increasingly grouchy both with myself and my fellow inmates.

I’m longing for solitude – or at least some choice in the company I keep. There has been no point – not a second – in the past three months when I haven’t been in earshot or eyesight of someone else and the constant presence of other people has become irritating. The most privacy I can obtain is in the toilet, but even there the voices of my fellow prisoners is a constant. If I wake at 3 am, the jail may be at its quietest but my cellmate is just inches away from me and the sound of snoring – from him and others – never ceases.

My cellmate is as decent a fellow as I could hope to share with and spends most of the afternoon talking to his wife in the laundry. They’re both on a charge of running a dodgy spa, which in Bali means not paying off the right cop, but their respective families are at odds and as a result can’t present a united front to the prosecutor and bribe their way out of here. We’ll work on my Indonesian in the morning, but in the afternoon, when we are free to roam the cellblock but the yard is out of bounds, I like to be left alone in the cell to read or write in peace. Easier said than done.

My cell door is at the junction of an L-shaped corridor so probably has the best view in the house, but it’s also opposite the potable water dispenser and so there is always traffic, which blocks the only light by which to read or write – even during the day. It’s also the main sentry post as it has line of sight to the guardhouse, so there is always someone standing watch, shouting “La-La”, or whatever the week’s signal is, to warn when danger approaches, and “Pokemon” to give the all clear.

Indonesians are generally a social bunch – and forgive the stereotypes that follow; stereotypes usually have a basis – but they also have little awareness of personal space. You can be sitting alone in the waiting room of an office and if an Indonesian enters, they’ll invariably choose the seat right next to you and peer over to see what you’re reading or writing or doing on your phone.

In jail this is amplified by a factor of the prison population. I will be quietly reading when someone will sit in the cell doorway (you’re not allowed in another cell without permission) and I can rarely count to 15 without the inevitable question: What are you doing? Reading, I’ll say, although to myself I’ll add: but not anymore; you’re blocking the light. Another few seconds will pass before my inquisitor will crane to see the title. “Chat dua dua?” Catch 22, I’ll reply, and then comes the inevitable “what is it about?” My Indonesian has come on in leaps and bounds since my arrest, but it’s definitely not up to giving an accurate precis of Catch 22, so I’ll generally say something like “It’s about war”, or “politics”, thinking all the while, go away, please go away.

The same applies if I’m writing. My “guest” will peer at the page and insist I tell them what I’m doing – and usually ask if they are mentioned. It would be ok if this happened a few times a day, but it happens 15-20 times an hour – I forget sometimes that my fellow inmates are equally bored, but I’m the only person in the place that does spend time reading and writing.

It also seems to me that inmates can’t have a conversation without raised voices – even when they’re sitting next to each other. The corridor amplifies the sound, meaning there is a constant hullaballo. They’re always playing childish pranks – pulling each other’s pants down – and so there is constant shrieking and shouting.

In a way I have it easier than anyone else here. Along with Joe I’ve been here the longest and for most of the time I’ve shared my “solitary” cell with just one other – they are packed six deep in the other solitaries. I’m not sure how I’ve got away with it, but the other day I overheard a new guard asking the boss inmate why there were only two people in my cell. “That’s Mr Fox,” he replied, as if that was the only answer required.

Joe shares a four-man cell with 12 others – they sleep like spoons – and is constantly griping that I don’t do any cleanup duties or I’m the first to be let out of cells and the last to be locked up. His main problem is that he hasn’t bothered to learn a word of Indonesian since our arrest, so fails completely to make himself understood. He is also incredibly mean. I’ll share some of the treats my wonderful visitors give me and the other inmates are always inviting me to try their home-cooked specials, but Joe turns his nose up at local food and seems to survive on KFC and McDonalds which his girlfriend brings him – sitting in the corner and eating alone. He is in his fifth cell now, having been kicked out of the others for being anti-social.

Most of the inmates are harmless enough, and I tower over them anyway, but there are a few nasty pieces of work – bullies and scroungers. One I call the magician who has the habit of appearing out of thin air whenever I open a packet of biscuits, or sweets, or bite into an apple. He is fat with a weasel face and as soon as he has appeared he’ll rub his belly and motion eating gestures. No please or thank you, just “give me”. I deal with him by pretending to teach him English. “No, you must say it like this… please may I have a biscuit.” He’ll make a stab at it, and I’ll get him to repeat it a few times until he gets it right, at which point I’ll pat him vigorously on the back, saying “well done! See, it’s easy” and walk off.

The Hulk is another who pushes his chances. He squealed like a baby during initiation, but most of the witnesses have moved on and now he struts around flexing his muscles and although he isn’t “one of the boys”, he gets the kids to do his bidding. At least once a day one of the youngsters will approach and ask me for a cigarette. “Who is it for,” I’ll ask. If it’s for them, I’ll oblige, but make them light it in front of me (for some reason Indonesians don’t like sharing smokes) but often they’ll be embarrassed and say “it’s for him”. Tell him to ask himself, I’ll say (often he’ll be sitting just yards away). Usually pride will get the better of him and he’ll sit seething, but occasionally he’ll relent and come and ask himself. “I’m sorry, I’ve run out,” I’ll say.

The Snake is another of the bullies. He is completely hairless and when he walks his feet don’t seem to leave the ground. The youngsters complain that he is always taking their laundry off the line, then dumping it once worn and dirty. A few weeks ago he shoulder barged me in the corridor and sent me flying. I was certain it was deliberate, but gave him the benefit of the doubt until a couple of days later when he did it again. I didn’t react then either, but the next time we passed I took the initiative and sent him flying, then very deliberately apologized: “I’m so sorry. The corridors are very small. You have to be careful.” No problems since then.

They’re definitely the outliers though. Most in here are pleasant enough and only trying to get through the day and get to Kerobokan as quick as possible where there is much more to do to pass the time.

I should definitely be moving this week. By law the police can hold you for 20 days after which the prosecutor can sign a special order to extend for a further 40. It took a special court to get an additional 30 days added to my case and my understanding is that if you are not formally charged after that, you have to be released, but I’m not holding my breath. This is Indonesia.

As I write, it is New Year’s Eve and there is definitely a bit of a party atmosphere. Everyone has chipped in 20,000 rupiah (about $1.50) a head for which the guards say they’ll allow us to use the yard until 2 a.m. The boss is also claiming a further 20,000 from inmates for a kitty to buy local arak, but I’m not interested in drinking and so decline. There has been a lot of drugs around in recent days – another no-no for me – and I suspect a lot of people are going to be off their faces tonight.

Whatever happens, I’m sure 2017 can’t be worse than this year. Whatever you do (or did) I hope it was fun and thanks for being by my side as we move forward.