*
As my flight departs and the tennis year draws to a close, I finally have time to kick back and relax, twenty-three countries, thirty-five tennis tournaments, a bunch of frequent-flyer miles and way too many games of tennis later. It will be strange staying in one place longer than a week or two. But it will also be a welcome relief. I’ve been away so long, coming home is a holiday in its own right. To be honest, I can’t wait – I’m exhausted and run down from almost eleven months on the road. I’ll have a few weeks to visit family and friends, to catch up on what I’ve missed during the year and to share all of the amazing experiences I’ve amassed on tour. It’s been such a hectic year that I haven’t had time to pause and take stock of my existence. Now is a great chance to reflect on what has been the most exciting, transient and incredible time of my life thus far.
I’m looking forward to the festive season with my family and friends, staying put for a change, relaxing by the beach and getting a surfboard back under my feet. The best part is I’m locked in to do it all again next year. There will be new locations to explore, tournaments to survive and matches to trade. The tennis tour will continue and the road will go on… In fact, forget staying put, I’m already planning a holiday to Sri Lanka for New Year’s Eve. Bring on 2012!
16
HIGH STAKES ON THE SUBCONTINENT
‘You’re under arrest’ is a sentence you never want to hear, especially in a developing country. Unfortunately for me, it’s exactly what I’ve just been told by a man of authority who has my wrist in a vice-like grip. Happy New Year to you too! The police in India carry bamboo sticks to beat people if necessary. Not to mention the guns. Human rights aren’t a huge priority in a place where over a billion people struggle for survival each day. I haven’t done anything illegal and I know it. However, as the menacing official is all too keen to point out, the police in Chennai will believe his side of the story. He seems hell-bent on painting a bad one. They take me to an office under the tennis stadium, block the door with an armed guard and grind me for information.
‘You’re a long way from home, my friend.’ Surprisingly, he speaks with a thick South African accent. ‘Now you need to make some smart decisions or you may never get back there. This isn’t a nice place to get into trouble, and once you’re behind bars in this country you may never get out. It’s very easy for you to get “lost” in the prison system.’
He’s bluffing, the smug prick. But, fuck me, it’s one hell of a bluff to call. I go for the middle ground. ‘I’m happy to cooperate with you but you’re taking liberties here and I don’t appreciate it.’
This does not appease him. ‘Listen to me, mate,’ he leans in and growls. ‘You’re not getting the picture. We’ll drag you into the back alley and beat the shit out of you right now if you don’t give us exactly what we ask.’
Silence hangs in the air while I digest this threat. ‘Wow’ is all I can manage. I’m a schoolteacher, not a career criminal; I’ve never heard that one before. How has it come to this?
Only a few days ago, I was in Sri Lanka, attending the wedding of one of my closest friends. We welcomed in the New Year with champagne at a raging beach party, photographed leopards, elephants and crocodiles on safari and sipped cocktails by the poolside of a five-star resort. Now I’m being held against my will by armed guards and threatened with a jail sentence!
‘Okay, I’m going to take my phone call now,’ I decide.
‘No,’ he replies, snatching my phone – the very instrument that got me into this fiasco – off the table and out of my reach. ‘The rules have changed. You don’t get a phone call any more.’
Motherfucker! This has been going on for an hour and I’m beginning to feel the pinch. It’s not every day you’re threatened with police corruption in an impoverished country. This is playing out like an interrogation scene from a movie. I thought this type of ‘bad cop’ game was only reserved for the scum of the earth. While I’ve tried to play it cool until now, things are getting quite daunting. So, do I give up my syndicate’s information or do I risk a beating and potential imprisonment in an Indian jail cell? As you can see, this is not an average day at the office. But, as I’ve come to learn, there’s no such thing in my line of work.
*
I’d been excited to trade the Indian tournament. I’d even requested to be sent there because my friend’s wedding in Sri Lanka tied in so well with the schedule. I was well aware of the threats that such a place presented, but, with my usual optimistic expectations, I simply assumed I’d get away with it. A lot of my friends had been to India and loved it. They’d travelled to remote places and enjoyed those enriching and inspirational cultural experiences one can only attain by traversing developing nations.
Sri Lanka had dished up this type of emancipation to me in many ways. I’d let off fireworks on the beach for kids to watch, and set up my slackline by the pool and taught people how to tightrope walk. I’d been privileged enough to see a leopard tackle a mongoose in the jungle, shared some of the richest food I’ve ever eaten in my life and learnt about the crippling civil war that had lasted over twenty-five years and ostracised this beautiful country from the world. The old name for Sri Lanka – Ceylon – was derived from the word serendipity; a wonderful and fitting homage to this island nation, in my opinion.
At the wedding, the bride’s father asked me where my next port of call would be on the tennis tour.
‘I’m off to Chennai,’ I answered.
‘Ah, from the paradise to the shithole!’ he replied with a laugh. Everyone around us joined in – it seemed all the Sri Lankans shared this opinion. For such a gentle and easy-going group of people, I found it surprising to hear such negativity. It wasn’t until two days later when my taxi veered out into the thronging traffic of Chennai that I understood.
India is a huge country, in every way. Most people know it has the second-largest population on earth – at 1.1 billion people – but it’s not until you get there that you really begin to comprehend this behemoth proportion. Picture cars, motor rickshaws, pedestrians, bicycles, scooters, taxis, buses, people and animals of all types all over the road, all making as much noise as possible, all trying to get to their destination as quickly as possible. It is the definition of mayhem. Blaring horns and shouts ring through the sweltering heat as the sun beats down on the dense jungle of dirty concrete and glinting, bumper to bumper steel. And it goes on and on and on. It never stops!
My initial experience in this land didn’t really remind me of those romantic notions I’d read about in Gregory David Roberts’s Shantaram. Speaking of which, Doug the cockney trader had told me of a comparable adventure he’d survived out in India during the nineties. He’d followed the hippy trail through beach towns such as Goa and fallen into the labyrinth of opioid obsession that so many travellers succumb to. He recalled how he’d fled the place in a desperate moment of clarity and flown back to the United Kingdom just to straighten out … only to fly back again to rescue a friend who had fallen deeper into that consuming well of oblivion.
Kingfisher beers would be the strongest substance I’d partake of during my time in India, and I felt like I needed one after my shock introduction to the place. I grew up with parkland, greenery and beaches all around me. I’m used to hearing birds chirp in the mornings and water trickle or crash in its natural state nearby. This urban maze offered quite the opposite. The filthy grit of dust, rubbish and concrete gave me the same feeling you get from listening to fingernails screech down a chalkboard. It was a sobering thought to realise I was looking at the future of our world if overpopulation continues. It sure ain’t pretty.
The hotel is, though – it’s a shiny new building that gleams among the inner-city debris that typifies the urban sprawl of Chennai. I meet Archie there, and, being a fellow optimist, he is also excited to give this new country a chance and explore the sights. We go for a wander around the st
reets to get our bearings and discuss the week ahead. Barefoot children run by and the occasional beggar asks for spare change. We’re comfortable walking the streets here. The area appears to be a regular, diverse neighbourhood of inner-city Chennai. We agree that security is a serious concern for both of us in this country but we also agree to push it to the back of our minds and focus on the positives of our first visit to India.
The cuisine is similar to (and almost as delicious as) the Sri Lankan fare. Being a little wary of catching ‘Delhi belly’, we err on the side of caution and stick to an upper-class restaurant for dinner. While this option is a lot more expensive, we are rewarded with a veritable feast for the senses. Tandoori chicken, onion bhajis, garlic naan, mint yoghurt, basmati rice, spicy sambal and a delightful array of other Indian treats are all enjoyed. The hectic streets are a world away as we enjoy beers by the poolside of a rooftop restaurant that happens to be hosting the tennis players of this week’s tournament. We notice a few pass by but opt to keep to ourselves, and retire to our hotel down the road for an early night and a fresh start to the week.
The next day, we are greeted with typical muggy Indian conditions as we make our way to the tournament. Tuktuks or rickshaws are the major mode of transport in this part of the world. We jump on the back of one and are at the venue in no time. I take a video of the traffic along the way – I can’t help myself. It is a heaving mass of gridlocked congestion that somehow flows through the blaring horns, dust and exhaust fumes.
Upon entering the grounds, my apprehension ensures I take it easy to begin with. I wander the venue, keeping my eye out for potential threats, get the lie of the land and find my way to an outside court where Janko Tipsarevic´ is playing a practice match against Milos Raonic. As this match-up unfolds, I realise it is almost a guaranteed precursor to the final. They are the two top seeds for the tournament and certainly the two most talented players here. Milos is bombing down enormous kicker serves that are bouncing up to Janko’s shoulder height. While Janko might be the better all-round player, I figure he’ll have great difficulty breaking Milos’s serve, especially returning the ball on his backhand at that height. I put a chunk of money on Milos to win the tournament … eager to see whether my homework will pay off at the end of the week.
By then, it is time to get among the action. I make my way over to the large, concrete centre court and find a spot to trade from. I’m deflated to realise it is a nightmare court for traders. There are no blind spots, every seat is wide open to prying eyes and I’m the only Caucasian in the place. I try to ignore these ominous factors and concentrate on my first match for the day.
About an hour in, I receive a worrying text from Archie.
Archie: Mate, just survived a pickle. Be careful of a big South African guy who is the head of security. He’s one mean bastard.
Me: Shit, that’s not good. But you got out of it?
Archie: Just. Told him I was a county cricket player over here to play some matches and wanted to check out the tennis.
Me: Ha ha, he bought that?
Archie: I told him I was texting my girlfriend, and luckily I had just been texting a bird from back home. He saw the messages and let me go after that. Beware, though, pal. He’s onto it.
This is troubling news but at least I know I have a chance of talking my way out of it if things get heavy. The conversation leaves me felling a little conspicuous on court. I am the only white guy in the crowd and I’m sitting by myself. The worst part is a security camera at the top of the media booth seems to be directed at me. I can’t quite see well enough but I could swear it’s zooming in on me. I dismiss these thoughts as demons of paranoia, figments of my isolated imagination. I am so wrong. The longer I pursue my career in tennis trading, the more I learn that sometimes it just pays to be paranoid and act on instinct.
It’s not long into the second match when a heavy hand comes down on my right shoulder and I hear a thick South African voice behind me say, ‘Stop what you’re doing right now and come with me.’
I spin around in surprise and counter with the standard, ‘Sorry, what’s going on?’
I’m met by the silhouette of a large man who means business. His face darkens and I realise this is a bad situation. I’m caught red-handed – who knows how long they’ve been watching or even standing behind me?
‘Don’t give me any of that bullshit, mate. I know exactly what you’re up to and it’s not going to work out well for you here. Now come with me – you’re under arrest!’ he says, grabbing my wrist and yanking the phone from my hand before I even have a chance to react.
The other spectators all look around in shock and begin whispering among themselves. Once again, I’ve become the embarrassed and vilified talking point of the crowd. Their gossiping is the least of my worries, though. As I’m dragged to the exit, I see an armed-police officer join us. He has the standard-issue lathis (bamboo beating sticks) and AK-47s slung over his shoulder. This is no ordinary eviction. This is heavy.
My protests and pleas are ignored as I’m hauled under the stadium into a guarded room for interrogation. My stomach plunges as the door slams shut behind me. Left alone with these two shady individuals I realise just how nasty this situation could turn. The Saffa is around six foot four. He probably weighs twice as much as me. He’s a big, black, bald man with a menacing leer. His police guard isn’t as big, but he’s armed and standing by the only exit of this concrete room.
Stay cool, you’ll be right, I tell myself. Despite my efforts, I can feel my heart rate rise from the adrenalin. On any other occasion, I would love that feeling.
‘Look, guys, I—’
‘Sit down,’ the big Saffa demands.
I sigh and take a seat across from his desk.
‘The police officer here is going to search your personal belongings,’ he explains. ‘You’d be wise to cooperate – it’s not like you have any other options.’
I watch as my bag is emptied onto the desk in front of me. A spare phone and bunch of batteries are among the pile of personal belongings photographed as evidence.
‘Do you want a bottle of water?’ the Saffa asks me.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
‘Take a bottle. You’re going to need it.’ He places it on the desk in front of me, next to my phone. ‘Now, you’re going to explain to me how this phone of yours works, how you’re gambling and who you’re doing it for. This can be as easy or as difficult as you like. But I promise, you will not leave this room until you’ve given me what I want.’
My heart really starts to hammer. It’s never come down to this before. There’s no way I’m turning my syndicate in after all they’ve done for me. There’s also no way I’m going to jail. But what other options do I have?
I’ve only ever seen this type of scenario unfold on the television screen. This is a full-blown interrogation, straight out of Law & Order. They grill me with questions, trying to find cracks in my story and make me slip up. The examination is fast and unrelenting. They repeat their questions and try to make me second-guess myself. I can feel my nerves rising and my mouth starting to go dry. That bastard was right – I’d love a sip of water right about now. But I’ll be damned if I show him any sign of weakness or guilt by taking one. The bottle remains on the table.
My ordeal lasts for over an hour. During this time, I grapple with my predicament. Is my job really worth this kind of pressure? I love trading but I’d give it up in a second if I had to choose between this lifestyle or an Indian jail cell. Captured drug dealers get put through this kind of horror. I definitely don’t need it. Guys who run drugs are lowlife scumbags trying to get rich by ruining other people’s lives – I find it hard to draw parallels.
My job doesn’t hurt anyone. It’s given me so much, and offers so much in the future if I can just survive this test. They want phone numbers, names, email addresses and personal de
tails of anyone I’m involved with. They’re willing to make very big threats to get them.
‘This is wrong,’ I insist. ‘I haven’t done anything illegal and you know it.’
‘Fine, have it your way,’ the South African replies. ‘Some of these cops can get very nasty and I’m going to let them take it from here. If they decide to lock you up and throw away the key, nobody back home will ever hear shit. Good luck.’ He stands and utters a few quick words of Hindi to the armed policeman.
‘Wait!’ I interrupt. Both men stop at the door. ‘Okay … I’ll answer the questions.’
In the end, I give them a collection of vague facts and fabricated lies. It’s a huge bluff and a bet that I cannot afford to lose.
‘You’d better be telling the fucking truth, mate,’ the Saffa says. ‘Because I’m going to call this number you’ve given me and check that this guy is really your manager. If you’re lying to me – and I’m only going to give you one chance here – you’re fucked.’
I want to take a hard gulp and bury my face in my palms. I want to grab that bottle of water and down about half of it to cure my cotton mouth. I want to shake this neurotic prick and tell him it’s just not that big a deal, and ask him why he enjoys causing me such grief. I do none of the above. Instead, I look him in the eye and say, ‘Okay, go ahead.’
It’s a colossal gamble. Most traders would stay well away from that bet. While the odds aren’t horrible, the stakes are astronomical. I’ve given him Jethro’s number. Jethro retired from trading a few months ago, and divulging his phone number will not disturb his livelihood. He’s probably unwinding at a local pub back in Australia after a regular day of work. I just hope he picks up the phone and plays along with my story. It’s the longest wait of my life.
Luckily, my mentor and old mate knows the perils of trading. He convinces my interrogators they have the full story and I’m finally released. As we walk out the door, the big interrogator radios his security team and tells them to stand down.
Game, Set, Cash! Page 16
