The guards have made small changes to our regular routine, but they ripple through the jail as if a stone has been thrown into a still pond.
Despite the monotony, the inmates like routine. The overcrowding means strict timetables must be followed to carry out even simple everyday activities such as showering, shitting and washing your clothes. If a routine is changed, you could lose your turn at the tap, miss out on precious hot water for a cup of coffee or be unable to make a pre-arranged phone call to a loved one or lawyer because you’re suddenly in lock-up.
It isn’t really the prison guards who’ve upset the balance, but rather the police. While the police are responsible for our crimes, the prison service is responsible for our incarceration, and the two organisations have an uneasy relationship. The police are far harsher — they routinely shoot thieves through the left calf to discourage recidivism — and as “first responders” to crime they have great opportunity to share the spoils.
Most of the inmates are poor and so have slim pickings for the prison guards apart from a “tax” on everything brought in from the outside. The guards literally guard the perimeter and leave most of the policing of the the jail to the Dansel, the “Boss” inmate and his “boys”. This morning, however, the police brought a new inmate to the jail, as usual, he was locked up alone in a solitary cell next to mine to stew for a few hours before undergoing initiation. Just minutes after being locked up, however, the guards stormed his cell and emerged with a mobile phone. He had been spotted using it by CCTV on a bank of monitors in a room where the police formally pass custody of prisoners to the guards. A furious row broke out; the police accused the guards of not searching him properly, while the prison officers blamed the police for not checking him before handing him over.
All this happened while we were in the yard, a 20 by 5metre area used for exercize and recreation. The police insisted on a spot check of all cells – the guards usually give us advance warning of raids — and the unearthed another three phones. The Boss was furious and after the guards left he and a few of the boys entered the newcomer’s cell, and for about a minute I could hear the sound of fist on flesh as they administered punishment.
We are locked in our cells from 10am until noon, but from noon-4pm we can roam the entire cell block – and sexes can mingle – largely left alone by the guards. Today, however, the guards keep patrolling every 20 minutes, peering into the cells and laundry and mosque area, throwing everyone off kilter. The inmates have a system of codes that change every week so we know when danger is approaching – this week it is “La-La” and so the corridor echoes with the sing-song phrase throughout the day. A phone is known as a pesewat or airplane, and one of the boys, the “pilot”, is responsible for hiding them for three hours every day when cell checks are most likely. It is a great responsibility for which we pay 40k rupiah ($4) a week. He is also responsible for getting them charged for the same price.
At 4pm we are given access to the yard, and the newcomer – like all fresh arrivals – is given initiation. He is mobbed by shouting, snarling inmates and made to squat and duckwalk with his hands behind his head for the length of the yard and back – it’s excrutiating on the thighs. He’s then led to stand against a wall while a beefy inmate picks up and drops a big bag of rocks weighing about 15kg as the newcomer is pinioned to the wall and blindfolded. A few slaps on his ample belly make clear the bag of rocks is going to be thrown at him and, depending on their mettle, the newcomer either stands stoically or is reduced to a quivering wreck. At the count of three, the burly long -timer flings the bag, but deliberately misses, although the rocks make a terrific racket. To hoots of derision he is ordered to do it again, but of course throws wide. At this point the newcomer’s blindfold is removed and the wide-eyed novice ordered to shout his name, hometown and crime. If it is “narkoba”, a cheer goes up from his fellow druggies, if “reskrim”, then the thieves all hoot. An alert newcomer would probably notice that many in the crowd are laughing and smiling when they do the duckwalk, but they’re usually too disoriented and scared.
Today, however, there is genuine venom among the inmates because of the phone disruptions. Still, after he nervously shouts his crime, Denzil approaches him, puts his arm around his shoulder, and leads him into the throng. The ice is broken and he is now one of us.
Perhaps aware of the tension the day has brought, the guards give us a treat by blaring music over the loudspeaker. It’s mostly romantic rock ballads by Indonesian bands, and the prisoners alternatively join in hastily or grow quiet as a particularly poignant song reminds them of loved ones. There are also some English songs, and as Bon Jovi’s “Lay you down on a bed or Roses” blares out, I notice Joe the grass has slipped off into a corner of the yard and is sitting alone, his back to everyone. I realise he is crying — deep sobbing that moves his shoulders — and for an instant I’m tempted to go over and offer comfort, but that brief sympathy is swiftly replaced by one of loathing and anger. He composes himself and looks around, but when he sees my expression he turns away again and his shoulders heave anew.
The red mist lifts and it dawns on me that it isn’t Joe I’m angry at, but rather myself. I’m angry at wasting the past five years feeling sorry for myself, for squandering my potential, for seeking short-term pleasure at the expense of long-term happiness, for valuing acquaintances over friends. I’m angry at the huge disruption I’ve caused to people who have shown they genuinely care for me. I prefer to be angry with myself than wallow in self pity, but I nevertheless feel a tear well, which I blink back.
I look to the other side of the yard and see the Boss looking at me as intently as I was at Joe. We hold each other’s gaze until he gives me a slight nod, then a knowing wink and sad smile. The moment passes.