Finding my feet

Two weeks have flown by and I remain overwhelmed by the love and support I am getting from all of you. I am fine both physically and mentally and determined to get through this regardless of what comes my way.

I’m still being held in what we’d call “remand” in the West in Denpasar’s main Polresta police station while the investigation continues. By law they can hold me for 20 days without formal charge, then can apply for a court extension of up to 40 days, after which the case goes to prosecutors. We’ve managed to get my case separated from that of Joe, the bloke who set me up, as his also involves him trying to buy crystal meth from a police officer and military policeman. I’ve managed to engage a legal team I now have confidence know their way around the Indonesian legal system.

I had a second lengthy questioning session from police investigators last week, but my version scarcely changed apart from a few minor details. At this stage I am still threatened with a section of the law that could see me slapped with a life sentence and massive fine, but we hope to work the system and get the charged reduced to a so-called 127, which recognizes addiction and offers a more lenient sentence with the possibility of a rehab element.

My mitigation is addiction caused by self-medication to treat years of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) brought on by years of reporting from hostile environments. It is a risky option as PTSD is a relatively new concept in stoic Indonesia, and none of us are aware of it having been used as the basis of a legal defense before. Still, I have little else as a defense. Rehab as part of a sentence is also a new development here, and frankly I don’t hold out much hope for that given my age and that I’m not Indonesian.

This fortnight has gone by in a blur of bewilderment and confusion and my emotions have been in turmoil. I’ve spent much of the time in seething rage at the person who set me up, but received good counsel from a fellow inmate, a Brit DJ named Mark West, who advised me to channel that energy into my own well being and survival. My anger anyway has zero effect on Joe who continues to be a miserable wretch, constantly lying and changing his story, much to the frustration of the police.

Perhaps the sickest part of this saga is that I am forced to share a cell, meant for one person, with him, and we sleep literally inches apart. He cries himself to sleep each evening, after which he snores incredibly loudly until I lash out with my foot, waking him, after which the process is repeated. He farts constantly and is one of the messiest people I have ever met, which is playing havoc with my OCD. He is not in good shape either physically or mentally but despite me trying to be the better person, I do take pleasure in seeing him in extreme discomfort from having to sleep on the tiled floor. Conditions are Spartan to say the least.

The guards control who comes in and goes out of the prison, but the inside and day-to-day operations are run by the “Dansel”, or kommandan sel, (head inmate) and his team of “boys”. The current incumbent is the biggest man in here apart from me, but has an easy manner and appears a natural leader. He is responsible for assigning inmates to cells, a tricky balance given the mix of Muslims and Hindus, druggies and thieves, straights and gays and men and women. Yes, I said women. Much to my surprise, this is a mixed jail and while the sexes are segregated at night, during the day they can mix freely. It seems to me it takes a lot of the tension away.

I’ve seen no sign of violence — you need permission from the Dansel if you want to fight or you face a hiding from him. Discipline is very tight and transgressions, such as letting cigarette ash drop to the floor, are punished by push-ups.

The jail, built for 30 people, currently holds around 90 and the only time you are ever alone is when you are on the toilet. I usually wake at 5 a.m. with the Muslim call to prayer, and we’re let out of our cells at six and into the yard. If you’re lucky enough to have outside support, you might have some tea or biscuits stashed for a light breakfast before being locked up again at seven for inspection. We’re let out again at eight for a count-off and a compulsory exercise routine, after which the Warden will give a pep talk and make announcements. We’re locked up again from 10-12, after which we can roam the corridors but are not allowed outside until 4 p.m. when we’re free to use the yard until lockdown and checks at seven. Apart from the 8 a.m. and 7 p.m. checks, the guards rarely venture into the jail. If they do, they helpfully rattle keys, whistle and walk slowly, allowing inmates to hide their illicit phones. There are CCTV cameras in every cell and throughout the jail, but there are a few known blind spots where we can make phone calls. I’d say at least a quarter of the inmates have a phone. There are no electrical outlets in the jail, but the Dansel and his boys will mysteriously get them charged for a fee. The guards occasionally crack down and confiscate a few phones, but for the right price they mysteriously re-appear a few days later.

We’re fed twice a day, at 9 and 5, with a rice packet and thumb-sized piece of chicken or fish, but you can buy-in twice a day via an arrangement between the Boys and the guards, and visitors can bring you anything within reason twice a week.

Inmates must pay a one-off 500,000 rupiah rent (about $50) to the Dansel, which goes towards buying drinking water, cleaning materials for common areas and keeping the guards sweet. There are no tables or chairs or beds, but my team has managed to get a yoga mat in to me for sleeping. I pay one of the female prisoners 50,000 rupiah to do my laundry — I’d do it myself, but she is a long way from home, has no support network and is desperate for money.

It seems to me that most of the prisoners shouldn’t be here; they’re just kids caught doing a bit of crystal meth and while it is a genuine menace in Indonesia, they should be in some sort of a rehab facility, not sharing space with murderers, rapists and thieves and trapped in a judicial minefield that requires constant sweeping with wads of money.

I’m tested with a great deal of respect by my fellow inmates, including the Dansel, as I am the oldest here by about five years. Visitors can come on Tuesday and Thursday between 9 and 3, but you have to pay 20,000 for each session and you can only talk via phone through plexiglass. Depending who is on duty, for an extra 25,000 you might be allowed briefly into the guardhouse for a hug. My week centers on these days and I look forward to seeing a loving face — none more so than Chris Pedersen and Rob Bradley who have been pillars of strength since my arrest.

Emails sent to my usual address, fox@gavafox.com, will reach me by means I’ll reveal later. I hope to make this a weekly newsletter, but thanks to you all for your concern and support.