Freedom interrupted

Walking out of the gates of Kerobokan on Monday was a bit of a false dawn, as I was released straight into the custody of immigration officials and within hours was behind bars in the basement of another government building.

Jailhouse lore and popular wisdom had it that the immigration police were very open to allowing their charges the opportunity to meet friends or family for a leisurely lunch before being deported, but the chance never arose, and so I was disappointed not to be able to catch up with perhaps a dozen or more who were on standby.

Still, for the first time in seven months, I was out in public without handcuffs.

The block gave me a very warm farewell and a couple of the big softies were actually in tears. For the first time, apparently, they had a presentation for a “pulang” and I was given a block T-shirt signed by every inmate — with one exception, of course.

As a final act of self-imposed penance, I spent most of Sunday afternoon on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom to within an inch of its life. I’d managed to get hold of some mystery solvent that would clean even the most stubborn stains — given I’d spent the final four nights in a sparkling new renovated room, I wanted the bathroom to match.

I’m glad to say it did. Most of the inmates thought I was nuts, asking why I would bother when I was leaving the next day, but a couple of them got it.

I gave almost everything away before I left, but made sure it went to decent, responsible people who I know keep an eye on the less fortunate.

Most went to Massam, the Iranian lifer and number two on the committee. More than anyone he works to make sure the bullies don’t get away with too much, and that the vulnerable aren’t left to rot. He’ll make sure my rice cooker and gas burner become communal property, and while he’ll keep the ice box for himself, he’ll pass on his older model gratis to the newly arrived Peruvians to share.

I didn’t have a “eureka” moment on walking out — being accompanied by uniformed immigration officers meant my situation didn’t feel that different. Still, the feeling of liberty came on slowly: being able to use my phone in the open, taking a selfie.

I was inundated with messages and I could feel the love and pleasure everyone was getting from knowing I was finally out. That did give me a Cheshire Cat grin for the entire morning.

I was taken to the holding cells in the basement of the Immigration HQ, and while I knew my journey was over, there was still some adventure to be had.

The cell I was put in would have been very spacious by Kerobokan or Polresta standards, with just two other occupants lying on thick sponge mattresses.

As soon as I entered, I lit up a cigarette and one inmate shouted by way of introduction: “put that fucking thing out, this is a no-smoking cell” and said to the guard “put him in another cell, this is no smoking”.

The guard just shrugged and walked off.

I have to say, in the seven months since this ordeal began, nobody has spoken to me with as much aggression or venom as this bloke. “You can’t fucking smoke in here,” he said, standing up. “Put that fucking thing out.”

I literally looked him up and down — American, thick-set, about 50 years old. I could take him, I thought, then took a drag of the cigarette and said:

“I’ve just got out of doing a year in Kerobokan (poetic license there). Do you really want to start something with me?”

Inside I was laughing at just how corny that line was, but he sat straight down.

I decided to keep up the image.

“You could have introduced yourself by name and asked politely if I could refrain from smoking, but your first words to me were aggressive and rude.

“But I tell you what, I’ll give you the opportunity to start again. Pretend I have just walked in and have lit a cigarette.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Hi, my name is Shaun O’Shea. I’ve got an allergy and would appreciate it if you could only smoke by the door or in the bathroom.”

He turned out to be the biggest bullshitter I’ve met in seven months — and coming from jail that says something.

Within an hour he claimed to be a medical doctor, airborne fireman, ex U.S. Marine, hotel owner, CIA agent, U.S. embassy employee, round-the-world yachtsman, lawyer, priest and psychotherapist.

He flashed me the cover of a passport and claimed it belonged to Lindsay Sandiford, the British woman on death row in Kerobokan.

“They’ll never be able to execute her because I have her passport,” he said.

When I asked for a closer look, he declined, saying “I’m not allowed to show it to anyone.”

I was quickly growing tired of this, and when he claimed he had worked on Matty Norman’s defense teams I said: “Cool, I’ll call him up right now and you can say hello.”

You could see the panic in his eyes.

Matt said the guy had actually visited him in prison once, adding “he is a total nutcase, a complete bullshit artist”.

Some of the visa overstayers had been there for weeks, trying to get money for a ticket out, but each day adding another 300,000 rupiah to their fine. Apparently it hits maximum at six months, after which time they are deported by the state and banned from returning for two years. Some were riding that out.

Sonia brought me plenty to eat for the evening and I slept well before seeing Chris, Putu and Didier the next morning, getting my luggage and all-important golf clubs.

Then it was off to the airport, accompanied by two immigration officials in civvies. They handed me a letter saying I was now on the immigration blacklist but could apply to be taken off after six months. Approval would be dependent on a letter from the police and prosecution, but the officers told me this could easily be “arranged”, and we exchanged numbers.

At Ngurah Rai I actually felt more like a VIP than a prisoner as we jumped every queue before having lunch (I had to pay, of course) and then being escorted right to the gate.

As I settled into my seat, I finally felt free for the first time. If the plane hadn’t taken off, I’m sure the butterflies in my stomach could have done it for me.

Next stop Bangkok.