I’ve had many happy birthdays over the years and I’ve had a few miserable ones too, but I don’t think I’ll ever have one as memorable as the last.
On Monday I was sitting reading in my usual spot at the end of the bench by the visitor room. We’d just finished counting off, and the entire jail population was in the yard, waiting for the breakfast “rice bombs” to be delivered.
Monday was a public holiday, and so in theory was a bonus visiting day, although this wasn’t certain. All the previous week the guards had insisted it was business as usual, but on Sunday they announced we could have visitors after all. How we were expected to let family and friends know? Oh, never mind.
Out of the corner of my eye and through the visiting booth window, I suddenly saw Chris Pederson hove into view., followed by Stu Bolwell and his daughter Olivia, all carrying tiers of cake boxes. I had an inkling what they were carrying, but so too, clearly, did the rest of the inmates who all gathered and sang “Happy Birthday” – in Indonesian of course – with the guards joining for good measure. I have to say it must have got a bit dusty in there because my eyes were suddenly rather moist.
Stu, the GM of a hotel in Sanur, had brought the most wonderful cupcakes for every inmate and guard. They didn’t get to see the aftermath, but inside were all these tattooed and muscled criminals delicately trying to eat elaborately iced chocolate, blueberry and fruit cupcakes, most ending up with a dollop of cream on their respective noses. To say I was popular would be the understatement of the year. On top of that, Chris had also held back a packet of biltong, a birthday card from my brother and family and a bottle of Mazoe orange from when he visited six weeks ago. For non-Zimbabweans, Mazoe is to us what Vegemite is to Aussies, or Apple Pie to Americans – it’s a taste of home and a trip down memory lane in every sip, and the distinctive bottle immediately familiar.
The guards were cheerful and friendly all day, but the next morning was a reminder of how easily it is to fall into the trap of Stockholm syndrome. Tuesday was a normal visiting day and I was called out to see the angelic Fofi, a friend and caddie at my local course, with four other of the girls. They were in tears, because they’d brought me a birthday cake and the guards said it wasn’t allowed and they would have to confiscate it. Actually, Fofi had been kind and thoughtful enough to bring two cakes – a big one for me and a smaller one for the guards. They took both. I was furious, but suddenly Pak Anton, the deputy commander, showed up. He couldn’t let the guards lose face, but told them to allow the girls to give me the small cake. I was allowed into the guard house for hugs (I can’t properly describe the joy of physical contact with people who care for you) and blew out the candles, which were promptly confiscated lest I sell them to one of the smack heads!
I’m still in remand, however, and it looks increasingly like I’ll be here until the New Year. Here or there doesn’t really matter, but it is frustrating because they can move you at a moment’s notice, so it’s difficult to tell friends if or where they should visit.
As advised, I’d also run down most of my supplies of basics, as apparently you’re only allowed a small bag of clothes and toilet stuff when you arrive at Kerobokan – so you can pay the guards inflated prices to restock, of course. I had finished my last book on Monday, but fortunately Ken – who kindly transcribes my handwritten Foxhole report into a more readable PDF each week – showed up with a couple more. Then the great Steven VL sent a message – showing true Dutch efficiency – with a numbered list of dozens of books from his shelf, so all I have to do is reply with the numbers and he brings them in. This kind of thoughtfulness is displayed by so many of my friends that every day I give thanks for them, but I know I can never repay such generosity.
I’m glad, however, they also retain their wicked humour. My friend and golf buddy Ocean showed up on Thursday to give me a copy of “Hotel K: The Shocking Inside Story of Bali’s Most Notorious Jail”. I’d read it a few years ago, but re-reading it was not a particularly pleasant experience. That said, it is a hit with my fellow inmates who spend hours looking at the pictures. At 4pm a couple of dozen of them gather around me in the yard while I read selected extracts, translated by one of the lads who speaks a smattering of English. The book is terribly written, and nothing but sensationalism (meant mostly for an Aussie readership) but still gets the youngsters wide-eyed in terror. Ocean also brought me a copy of “How to make friends and influence people”. In Indonesian…
Relying on disparate friends for reading material has certainly expanded the menu. They have some eclectic tastes. Nigel has supplied me with a few self help titles (“The power of now” etc) but I can’t read more than a page without giving up. They seem so obvious, but perhaps there will come a time when the message hits home. There have also been a few Dan Brown “Da Vinci Code” type novels, and I’m afraid to say I’ve been so desperate I’ve read them. I wouldn’t mind his success, but God they’re terrible. Nigel also gave me a Graham Greene compendium, which was wonderful. They’re very dated now, but the writing is so sparse and the stories so ordinary that they become something else. Gary Bevan and Andrew Laughlin keep providing rock biographies, which are fun to read, while Pam Dorrian supplies more quality literature, such as Salman Rushdie. All are appreciated, I’m sure once I move to Kerobokan there will be a ready market for hand-me-downs.
My ‘file’ is apparently now with the prosecutor, but I have no news to report in that regard. I’m physically fine, although I could do with some exercize, and thanks to all of you, who continue to inspire me with your love, friendship and support, I am fine mentally.