Visiting day

Liana pays a visit

I wake up at 3 am and I know I won’t be able to get back to sleep but I don’t mind because the jail is at its stillest and besides, it’s visiting day.

It will be an hour before the Muslims start stirring for their prayers and two more before we’re let out of our cells. It’s gloomy; there is no light in the cells and the dim bulb in the passage means you can only read or write if you stick your arms through the bars and hold your book at an angle. I can manage about ten minutes of this before my arms ache and I have to rest, but at this time I light my first smoke of the day, sit cross-legged and let my mind wander.

It’s been four days since the last visiting day (Tues and Thurs, 9-3!!) and I hit the hump sometime on Sunday afternoon. I’d spoken to my brother Simon via WhatsApp on my illicit “cell phone” and he was at a school gala watching his youngest, Emily, compete. I could hear the sound of splashing, and cheering, and the children squealing, and sensed the black dog stirring in its kennel. I only had about 10 minutes of power left on the phone, and it will be at least 12 hours before I can get it charged again, but I decide to go out on a high and so call the “tripod” of my supporters – Chris, Rob and Andrew – to cheer me up. Andrew doesn’t answer – he’s somewhere in Papua, I discover later, and Chris is in the middle of a round of golf, which he promises to play vicariously for me. I get hold of Rob at the third attempt and he tries to cheer me up despite clearly battling a cold himself.

By 4 am on Tuesday, the jail is slowly coming to life. We’re all locked up apart from the Dansel, or Boss inmate, and his Boys, who sleep in the corridors – usually outside the women’s cells, where they hold hands through the bars with their “jail wife”. In exchange for a sachet of coffee, the Boss gives me a mug of piping hot water to make my own. It’ll be the last decent cup of the day as demand on the sole dispenser means it’s rarely more than tepid – barely warm enough to soften pot noodles.

By 5 am the jail is a cacophony of farting, snorting, throat-clearing and hawking from the 90 inmates. At six we’re finally let out, but have to strip the cells bare for inspection while we sit in the yard for an hour. We’re locked up again from 7-8 before being released for exercise, muster and breakfast.

Today we also have to endure a 10-minute lecture from a group of senior policemen about the perils of crime. They’re in uniform – polished brass and leather and badges and rank – and to a man their bellies hang over their belts like a campaign medal earned in a losing battle against corpulence and corruption. Usually we have breakfast in the yard before lock-up at 10, but on visiting days we eat in our cells and while outdoors is off limits, we’re free to roam the corridors.

The guards run the “civvy” side of visiting day, checking arrivals for contraband, while the Boss and Boys look after the jail side, summoning inmates and exacting a “tax” on anything their guests have brought. There is a bank of four telephones in the yard, connected through a thick Perspex window to an airless room. You’re allowed 15 minutes per visit, but less if it’s busy and there’s invariably a queue. Inmates must pay 25k rupiah to the Boys regardless of how many visitors they have – it goes to the guards – and after 1 pm, depending on who is on duty, the guards will sometimes allow you to have physical contact with your visitor in their room. That sets you back another 25k ($2).

My name is called at nine and I dash out to see Rob and his girlfriend, Dona. Rob has brought coffee and a cherished copy of The Economist, which I’ll spend the next four days devouring, reading even the page numbers. As usual, Dona looks ravishing, but she can hardly look at me without tears welling. They’re off to Tanah Lot to be tourists after this, but promise to return at 2 pm when my lawyers are due in the hope of getting access to the guard house.

Half an hour later and I’m called again and it’s Deon this time, with a magnificent egg and bacon baguette which I devour greedily. We’re part of a circle of rugby fans who watch the TV games together in Sanur and while I’ve been guilty of sometimes dodging his tales of the mighty All Blacks in the past, I realise I’ve been unfair and truly appreciate the effort he makes to come and see me , and hang on his every word.

Martin East is next with a copy of Antonia Fraser’s “Gunpowder Plot” which he insists I read (gladly) because he has an idea for a TV series. You’re going to have a lot of time on your hands, he says, put it to good use!

I’m called again and this time it is a couple of caddies from the golf course, Fofi and Mega. They look stunning out of their usual uniforms and the lecherous guards invite us into their room so they can have a closer look. We hug tightly and they both break down in tears as we sit on the floor holding hands in a circle. Mega has been my regular caddie for about six months – my previous one, with whom I had an off-course relationship for about 18 months, dumped me for an Australian. They’ve brought me KFC and cold drinks and cigarettes – a lot of money for them – but their warmth and affection is worth far more to me.

Nigel is up next, who I’ve appointed my spiritual advisor given his past experience. He brings a pile of books which I exchange for the last lot and also a letter from Nico, his daughter, filled with schoolgirl gossip and anxiety and breathless news. I manage a shower before I’m summoned again to see Gary – who runs a sports bar and resto in Sanur – and his girlfriend Ana. Gary has brought a lamb shank and all the trimmings, but the guards order him to de-bone it before handing over following last week’s attempt by someone to smuggle crystal meth into the jail in a goat bone curry. Gary is someone else, I regret, that I undervalued because he shows up every week with something delicious from his kitchen.

After lunch, with the chance of quality time in the guardhouse, there’s a slew of visitors. David Fields comes bearing copies of the day’s Guardian and New York Times – an enterprising local company prints them on A3 paper off the internet. I’ve been starved of news and after he leaves I lay them side by side, not sure where to start, spoiled for choice.

Didier and Sonia are next, my original neighbours when I first moved to Bali. They’re as French as croissants – even though Sonia is actually Indonesian. Didier was back in France when I was arrested , but before he left we made a promise to try to watch the Ryder Cup together in Paris in 2018. Among the goodies they bring me on Tuesday is a casino chip ball marker for the event.

The ever reliable Chris joins them. His ever present smile never fails to cheer me up either in person or on the phone.

I’ve become close to my lawyers during this ordeal and Elizabeth gives me a motherly embrace and Eric a warm handshake while the boss, Pak Haposan, draws deferential greetings from all the guards and officials.

At 3 pm we’re locked in our cells, but minutes later I’m summoned again to see Patrick and Sven, who’ve charmed themselves in with their excellent Indonesian after being delayed on the way from the golf course.

I’ve had more visitors than anyone else and I’ve been showered with food and drink and cigs, but I know many inmates – particularly the non-Balinese – have seen nobody, so I make a point of sharing some of my spoils with the less fortunate. The “tax” the Boys impose is also divvied out that way, so everyone will get something, even if it’s just an apple.

When we’re allowed back into the yard at 4 pm a massive storm erupts – it has rained before, but only during lock-up. Thunder and lightning send the inmates scurrying for cover, but I’m suddenly inspired and in front of everyone I strip to my boxers and stand in the deluge, arms outstretched, feeling the thick warm raindrops pound my body.

Everyone looks at me as if I’m mad, but then one person joins me, then another, and in minutes almost everyone is standing in the rain. The guards put on some loud music and everyone is singing and dancing and splashing each other. It’s a torrential downpour and soon the tiled floor is awash and some inmates are flinging themselves down and body surfing on the slippery surface. It’s a joyous scene and I stand in the deluge, soaking it all up. It’s been a glorious day. I’ve experienced love and affection from unexpected quarters, concern and counsel from admired friends, I’ve felt the press of beautiful bodies and the embrace of true mateship.

And best of all, as the rain pours down, nobody can see me crying.