The prison doctor is due to testify on my behalf as an expert witness when my trial resumes on Thursday, and I’m intrigued as to what he’ll say given our interaction so far.
Being an expert witness is something of a full-time occupation for the doctor, as he seems to have little opportunity to practice medicine.
At first glance, the prison clinic appears to be rather well appointed. I had to register on my first day and was impressed that the process was actually computerised, although the compulsory medical check consisted of a tamping (trustee inmate) asking “sehat?” (healthy?) from the other side of a hole-in-the-wall cubicle.
The clinic is staffed from ten to three, seven days a week, by a civvy nurse, who treats the patients or refers the seriously ill to the doctor, when he is around.
I was cheered to see a modern dentists’ chair when I registered, but when I asked the technician to check a molar that had been mildly irritating since my arrest, he explained none of the mechanical parts worked, and examined my teeth using what appeared to mediaeval torture instruments, his assistant suctioning excess saliva with a turkey baster.
The prison doctor is the only one recognized by Bali’s courts as qualified to testify on behalf of the inmates, and while this service is supposed to be part of his job, he charges two million rupiah (around $200) per appearance. Last Tuesday he testified in six different cases in an afternoon, so it is a fairly lucrative sideline.
The clinic tends to run out of virtually every kind of medicine within the first week of every month, but for a price you can order in from outside.
When conjunctivitis spread through our block recently, the clinic had no eye drops so I asked for some from outside, saying we were willing to pay. A check of the three main pharmacy websites here showed they sell the drops in question for around 20k rupiah ($2) a vial, but the clinic charged us 50k.
Within days of my arrival, one of my block mates had his scalp cut open in a fight during lock-up, and it was clear nobody really had any idea what to do. Fortunately one of the things I paid most attention to during various hostile environment training over the years was the first aid, so I took charge and did the best I could with very limited resources.
The next day, the committee appointed me “Block Doctor” and showed great commitment and seriousness in building a decent lockable first aid cabinet, which is now actually very well stocked thanks to the kindness and generosity of Cathy Bolwell.
The first aid cabinet, thanks to Cathy Bolwell
While I always refer “my patients” to the clinic at first instance, I tend to do all the patching up myself, as any blood injuries have to be reported to the guards, which inevitably draw an investigation and cell checks.
My most regular patient is a French hypochondriac I’ve dubbed Mr Magoo. He is two years into a 15-year stretch for trafficking, but is so frail and helpless that I genuinely think he’ll die on my watch. He is incredibly needy, and if you show him a hint of kindness or assistance, he immediately attaches himself to you and starts making all sorts of demands.
Last week he entered my cell after midnight to say “there is a problem, can you come and see”. Thinking there was some sort of medical emergency, I dashed over to his room, but all he wanted to show me was the evidence of his explosive diarrhea in the squat bowl.
Being germaphobic, anti-social and with breath that comes straight from Satan’s bottom, he is incredibly difficult to deal with. The prison supplies us with bananas and boiled eggs every other day, but he refuses to eat them “because they’re dirty” and instead presses a well-meaning church group to bring him bananas and boiled eggs from the outside. It’s ridiculous.
The other day he asked me to dress a festering sore on his foot with lashings of waterproof plasters because he wanted to take a shower.
“Just put your foot in a plastic bag,” I told him. “The dressing has to come off straight afterwards because the wound needs to dry out and we will only be wasting the materials.”
“But all the plastic bags have been used before,” he moaned. “I need sterile bags.”
The TB isolation ward
Two of my cell mates are currently in isolation having been confirmed with TB (I’m waiting on my test results), but Mr Magoo, wretchedly thin with a permanently bubbling cough, refuses to get tested because he says the clinic is “too dirty”.
I convinced the block committee that we have to force him to wear a surgical mask at all times until he gets tested, and after two weeks of this he has finally agreed.
Trench foot, headaches, dodgy bellies and cuts from fights are my staple, and it looks like I’ll be kept busy in the months ahead.
The prison doctor summoned me last week for an evaluation ahead of Thursday’s court appearance. He had absolutely no idea what hashish was (“is it like shabu”?) and when told I was caught with 10 grams whistled “wow, that’s a lot”. It hardly inspires me with confidence.
I did another drug test using the high tech kits (passed again!) and the rest of the consultation lasted all of five minutes before he excused himself saying he had to pick up his wife.
“Don’t worry, everything will be ok,” he said, as he raced out the door.
His tamping assistant raised his eyebrows and then, pointing to the negative test card, waved an empty water bottle and asked if I could donate some of my “seni” (urine).
David — These reports are so gripping and well written, I feel as if I am there with you. Meanwhile, we in the USA deal with Trump World, which could not be more bizarre or concerning. Love Cousin Ann