Keep your guard up

Pak Agung is one of the nice guards, which means he is a grasping, conniving opportunist who wouldn’t think twice about taking the last rupiah from the most impoverished prisoner in the place.

The Bali native has worked at Kerobokan Prison since it first opened its doors in 1979, and retires from 37 years in service just a week after I’m released.

In that time he’s seen murders and countless fights, suicides and escapes, caught prisoners having sex with visitors (and each other) and been held hostage during a massive riot which saw inmates take over the jail for days.

“This place is crazy,” he says, smiling a toothless grin for which he is constantly soliciting funds for a mythical trip to the dentist.

“These days it is more peaceful, but every year Kerobokan changes. Next year maybe it will be bad again.”

Kerobokan is actually lightly guarded, as befits a Class II Prison meant for low-risk inmates convicted of minor crimes. Anyone sentenced to more than 10 years is supposed to serve time at a Class I facility, but chronic overcrowding across all Indonesia’s prisons means this rarely happens.

There are currently around 1,500 inmates, but within the inner perimeter you rarely find more than half a dozen guards. The convicts mostly police themselves.

The prison is headed by the Kalapas (governor), with two deputies — one in charge of security and the other administration. This triumvirate is usually changed or rotated every few years, ostensibly to prevent corruption, but in reality it makes little difference who is in charge; the graft continues through every iteration.

There are two routes to becoming a prison guard in Indonesia, via the national academy for the career minded or employed locally by the jail direct. The former tend to be better educated while the latter — especially at junior level — are little different to private security guards.

Pak Agung, 60, joined off the street when the prison opened, and never left — outlasting every inmate who has stepped through the imposing gates.

“I am the longest serving prisoner,” he jokes after cadging a coffee at the foreign block canteen, his favourite hangout for the rich pickings he believes the inmates offer.

He’ll show up at Block B about three or four times a shift, provoking grumbling from the inmates who have to stash their phones.

Most of the guards follow an “out of sight out of mind” rule when it comes to phones, but anyone caught using one in the open is likely to have it confiscated. If it is a good smartphone, you can buy it back after a day or two for 200,000 rupiah (about $15). A cheap burner is likely to be smashed on the ground.

When Pak Agung is in the vicinity, however, most prisoners will stash their phones in their rooms, as his eyes are always wandering to your pockets, which he is fond of getting you to empty.

He’s also partial to a good grope, and has no hesitation in giving you a spontaneous pat down — his hands frequently wandering as freely as his eyes.

If he finds a phone, you have to pay, although at least he only charges 50,000 a time. If you can’t pay, the phone is confiscated.

“It’s to pay for my teeth,” he laments through a crooked smile, but the old lags in the prison have heard the excuse for years and have never seen an improvement despite, well, paying through the teeth.

The relationship between the inmates and the guards is nothing like you see in prison movies in the West. Both parties just want an easy life, so the guards expect the prisoners to police themselves and will only get involved in the case of fights.

The key rule is do nothing to embarrass them or make them look stupid, so in this regard each block pays around two million rupiah a month to be warned in advance of any raids by external agencies such as the BNN (national drug agency) or police.

If nothing is found, it will appear they are doing their job. If the police or BNN uncovered a trove of phones or drugs, there would be hell to pay for the guards.

Pak Agung’s worst moment came three years ago when prisoners took over the jail for four days following a riot sparked by clampdown on rules. Pak Agung and six other guards were overpowered and locked in a cell, where they were taunted and slapped around by the ringleaders.

The riot was sparked by the introduction of pay phones in each block operated by cash cards which could only be bought at inflated prices from the guards. At the same time, authorities had also introduced electronic blocking units that stopped mobile phones from working.

By the time the riot ended and guards regained control of the prison, the phone booths had been smashed and the blocking mechanism dismantled and buried. They were never reintroduced.

“We got our revenge,” he said. “All the ringleaders were moved out of Kerobokan and they all got a good hiding when we transferred them” — a claim verified by one inmate who returned last year minus an eye he lost at the hands of the guards.

Pak Agung waves his finger mock-sternly as “natural born killer” Tommy Schaefer walks past, and tells how he caught him and his girlfriend having sex in the vestry of the church.

“Yeah he did,” says Tommy, “but I reckon he was watching for at least five minutes before he stepped in.”

Pak Agung makes no apologies for the corruption and endemic drug use in the prison, saying it is all part of the system and cannot be changed.

“It is better if they use drugs here because they cannot hurt anybody else,” he says.

“The police and prosecutors are all making money from the prisoners or else they give them long sentences. It is right that we also get our chance and makes their lives easier.”

The father-of-four is looking forward to his retirement, but laments that on a monthly salary of just three million rupiah a month he’ll still have to work for a few more years.

“If you come back to Bali, you can give me a job as a guard,” he says.