by Paul Jordan
They came back after a few minutes and told us we were going to the police station. When we left the immigration office I again thought of running, but there were a couple of police too close to be certain of success and if they caught me I’d really be in trouble. We were both placed in separate rickshaws and travelled about two kilometres further into India to the police station. They made Ujwal pay for the rickshaws. I noted that the angry man hadn’t come with us. The short, sheepish man had come and had been joined by another, stern-looking man who wore an expression of someone who had been insulted and was preparing for revenge.
We pulled up outside an old, dilapidated building. The only thing suggesting its role as a police station was the ancient World War II jeep parked out the front with a blue light bolted to the roof. We were ushered into the Police Station Commander’s office where Sub-Inspector Jai Shankar was sitting behind his desk. He looked at me with some amusement as though he couldn’t wait to hear the serious crime I’d committed. He was a well-presented man, immaculately dressed as if awaiting a uniform inspection. He had short, well-trimmed hair and a pencil-thin moustache. The sheepish immigration officer outlined very quietly what we’d done and then Ujwal told our side of the story. As Ujwal spoke, the Sub-Inspector glanced at me from time and then, when he was almost finished, the Sub-Inspector’s face assumed an expression of disgust. His pencil-thin moustache started to curl with the shape of his upper lip and a light sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. He turned to the sheepish immigration guy and the other guy with the pissed-off look on his face and let them have it with both barrels. He stood and screamed at them while poking his finger in their chests. They both shrank and, for a minute, I thought the Sub-Inspector was going to start beating them. The look on the face of the pissed-off guy quickly changed into one of pleading: ‘Oh God, please don’t hit me, master!’ I reeled back and nearly fell off my chair wondering what the hell had just happened. ‘Ujwal, what’s going on?’
‘He’s yelling at them for bringing you here because now he must follow due process. He’s saying that they should have just pushed you back over the border, but now they have caused you too many problems.’ They both looked like scolded children as they agreed to their mistake. Bit bloody late, you pair of arseholes, I thought.
The Sub-Inspector picked up his vintage desktop dial phone and spoke to the Superintendant of Police (SP) Siddiqui and explained the situation. He told the SP that we were not carrying any illegal substances and had strayed by accident across the border into India. The SP insisted on due process being followed. At the same time, the angry man tried to enter the police station to speak to me, but was told by the local police to bugger off. I later learnt that he wasn’t an immigration official after all, but an informer for the SP. Had this bastard not been around, the immigration officer would’ve taken the 500 rupees and I’d be back in my hotel room by now. Apparently the angry man wanted to see me to ask for money to get me out of this situation. So the prick got me in the shit and then was denied access to get me out of it. In hindsight I should have attempted to control things better and slowed the situation down so I could determine accurately who was who. Instead I tried to be a smart arse — but then there had been nothing to suggest that the guy wasn’t an immigration officer.
I sent a text to Sallie Stone, my partner and General Manager of the company I worked for, and told her I’d been detained at Jogbani police station but that everything would probably be okay. She thought I was an idiot and had a chuckle about my stupidity. Fair enough, I deserved to have the piss pulled out of me.
I’d been at the police station now for two hours and was starting to get mildly concerned. I pretended to be sick, hoping this might push things along a little, but it didn’t. Ujwal continued to work like a champion trying to get them to see sense, but something was holding the process back. Finally, the Sub-Inspector came to Ujwal and me and said that he was taking us back to my hotel in Nepal to check my passport and Nepali visa, and to confirm with the hotel staff that I really had been conducting journalist training in Nepal and that I actually wasn’t a terrorist.
We got into the back of the old jeep parked out the front and headed back to Nepal. I sat in the back with the Sub-Inspector while Ujwal sat in the front with the elderly sergeant driver. Once we were on our way, the Sub-Inspector turned to me and said in a very serious manner, ‘Mister, we will first visit the Nepal police out of courtesy, then go to your hotel to check your story. This is normal due process.’ I nodded in agreement. He continued, ‘When my investigation is complete, you must return with me to the border so I can inform the SP that all is in order, then you can go. Do you understand this requirement?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do not worry Mister, all will be okay,’ he said, smiling at me.
I thought my concern must have been written all over my face, so I relaxed my facial muscles slightly and began a conversation about the police, his rank and his equivalent in Australia. As we crossed the border I asked the Sub-Inspector to show me where the border markers were. He pointed to a raised boom gate jammed up behind a building and a clump of mango trees and said that we were now in no man’s land. I told him that the hidden boom gate had been impossible to see from the rickshaw which had approached from the other direction. He agreed.
Just over the border, the Sub-Inspector stopped at the Nepali police station and explained the situation. The Nepali Inspector looked at me as if I was a condemned criminal and agreed to follow us. By the time we arrived at the hotel I had an entourage of about 20 police from two different countries.
At the hotel, the staff went into meltdown at the sight of all these cops. They walked around me quietly and stared more than usual. I raced to my room to pretend to get the passport that I actually had with me. The Sub-Inspector examined my passport thoroughly and then asked for it to be photocopied. The hotel workers were interviewed and confirmed that I’d been living there while working for three days teaching journalists.
Ujwal asked the hotel manager to bring food and drinks for the police because I wasn’t confident about the situation and wanted to soften the coppers up a bit by filling their (generally) fat guts with food and drink. Several of my former students arrived to offer support. They were great and all told me not to worry, that it would be sorted.
While all this eating, drinking and in-depth discussion was going on, I was up and down the stairs to my hotel room pretending to be suffering from chronic diarrhoea. While in my room I also took time to update Sallie. It was very early in the morning for Sallie, so I told her it was all sorted and she should get some rest. Ujwal appeared at my hotel room with some former students and said it was time to return to the border.
‘I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying here,’ I said. ‘You guys can go back to the border, but I’m not.’
They all looked concerned and said it would be better for me to go back and show that I’m an honest person, and that if I didn’t go back, the Nepali police would have to arrest me. I walked downstairs and the Sub-Inspector could see my reluctance and told me not to worry as all was in order. So back we went. Once again, I informed Sallie of my movements.
At the border, the Sub-Inspector used the phone at the immigration building to contact the SP, but seemed to be having problems getting through. I stood with Ujwal and the Nepali police who had become my number one supporters. They told me not to worry because the SP owed them a favour and they were calling it in. My Nepali journalist friends were putting some weight on the Nepali police, as they owed the journalists a few favours. I was fortunate that I had so many contacts who had contacts and most were calling in favours on my behalf. The Sub-Inspector approached our group and told Ujwal that he couldn’t get through to the SP and that we’d have to go to the police station. This was not good news, so I told the Sub-Inspector that I’d wait here with the Nepali police. No, that wasn’t happening and I had to go back to the bloody cop shop as well. I delayed and spoke to the Nepali police
who said their SP was on the way to assist. But eventually I had to get into the police car and accompany the Sub-Inspector back to the police station.
At the police station we waited and waited. The Nepali Inspector and his boss in Nepal continually harassed the Indian SP to let us go, arguing that it was a minor issue and just a waste of everyone’s time. The Sub-Inspector also told the SP that there was nothing in this and he should let me go. At this time I also had about 10 former students with me, and a few Indian journalists whom I’d never met, all trying to assist in some way. I was starting to become concerned, but continued to feel like a real dick. I hated that I had put myself in this position. Periodically I walked into the Sub-Inspector’s office to ask when I could go back to my hotel. He’d tell me it would just take a little time; just a little more time.
At about 10.00 pm the Sub-Inspector called me into his office and asked me if I knew the phone number for the Australian High Commission in New Delhi. Oh shit, now this is big. I didn’t know the High Commissioner in India but, having previously worked as the security adviser to the Australian High Commission in Islamabad, Pakistan, I did know the number for the High Commissioner there. I wasn’t sure if she was still there, but I needed someone to call the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) in Canberra and tell them that I needed a hand. I managed to get through to the High Commissioner in Pakistan who, despite being at an official function, took my call and agreed to call back very soon. She did and I explained the situation. The High Commissioner was true to her typically professional form. She was precise and direct in her response, agreeing to call the right people in Canberra. I felt bloody embarrassed having to call anyone for help because I’m normally the one being called, and I normally help people in situations like this — or at least teach them how to avoid situations like this. I decided that I might have to attend my own class!
I sent a text to Sallie telling her I was now being officially arrested. Sallie, being totally organised, had the DFAT contact details prepared and rang them straight away. I also sent a text to the Chief Operations Officer from my company, asking if he had any contacts in this part of the world. He wanted to know if this was a serious situation. I said it was now and he agreed to start contacting his network in India and seek their intervention. Five minutes later, I received a call from DFAT and the lady said both the High Commissioner in Pakistan and Sallie had contacted her.
Ten minutes later, a consular official named Craig from the Australian High Commission in India called. His advice, once I explained what had happened, was to try to get out of this as soon as possible, to do what needed to be done to resolve this situation because, in his experience, it could reach a point at which it would have gone too far to be easily resolved.
‘Have you been charged yet?’ Craig asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of, but they’ve just told me that I will go to court tomorrow in Araria,’ I replied.
‘Okay, we will try to help with legal representation. Have you signed anything yet?’
‘No, and I won’t be at this stage, but could you send a letter to the Superintendent of Police in Bihar explaining that I am an Australian citizen and I have your support?’
I gave Craig the number for the SP and the Jogbani police station. Craig advised me, ‘You need to be aware that the Australian Government will not interfere with the legal processes of any country, despite how ludicrous the situation or charge might be. All the government can do is see that you receive legal representation, let the local authorities know we are interested in this matter, and ensure you are treated fairly. This means that you must be treated no worse than any other person arrested.’ ‘That’s great,’ I said. It was nice to know I had the support of the Australian government when I needed it, I thought. ‘Whatever you can do, Craig, will be appreciated.’
It was now well after 10.00 pm and my Nepali journalist friends and police had to leave so that they could get their vehicle back across the border. They promised to return in the morning. They told me that I would be fronting the court in the morning at Araria, some 90 minutes’ drive south. Naively, I asked what time I’d be in court, as I still thought I’d be able to make the flight to the next training venue at 1.00 pm. ‘You will be in court around 10.00 and we will leave here at 8.30,’ the Nepali police inspector told me. They left, promising to return in the morning to accompany me to court.
Ujjwal remained behind with another Nepali journalist to keep me company. I told them it wasn’t necessary and that they should go to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep, but they insisted. We sat around some more in front of the police station with a few coppers hovering about. I entertained the idea of escaping, but knew that it would be useless. I had no doubt that I could make it back to my hotel, but what then? The Nepali police, despite their support for me, would be left with no choice but to arrest me and return me to India. Then I’d really be in the shit. I still believed that this was a joke and surely someone of authority would step in, slap a few heads, and order my release and return to Nepal.
It was now 11.00 pm. It was beyond hot and very humid. I was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. We were invited by the Sub-Inspector to dine at his house, but I needed a curry meal right now like a needed a solid kick in the balls. Despite this, with Ujwal and the other guy in tow, I wandered over to the Sub-Inspector’s house and we sat on stools in a courtyard. Under instructions, a boy ran away and prepared food. We just sat there in silence. The Sub-Inspector had changed into a very long shirt (like a Pakistani shalwar kameez), but I sat there in the clothes I’d worn all day and sweated some more. The food arrived but, due to a power blackout, I couldn’t see what it was, so I ate very little. The boy handed around glasses of water and, while I gratefully accepted it, there was no way I was going to drink it. Then the Sub-Inspector finally spoke.
‘Don’t worry, mister, you will be okay, I will not lock you in the cells tonight. Instead, I will supply you with a bed. Don’t worry, you will be comfortable,’ he said, trying his best to be reassuring.
‘Thank you, Inspector, but with all due respect, you have been telling me not to worry since we first met. You told me in the car that it would be okay. The Nepali police have been telling me that it would be okay and my Nepalese friends have been saying the same, yet I’m still here and all because I mistakenly wandered a few metres across the border. So, I am worried, Sir, very worried.’
At midnight we were led back to the police station and to the Sub-Inspector’s office. This was where we were going to sleep and a sheet was laid out on the floor as a bed. No pillows were supplied, but they did turn on the fan so that, when the power finally returned, we might have a breeze. It was still unbelievably hot and sticky. Ujwal and the other guy made themselves comfortable on the floor and seemed to fall asleep within minutes. I lay down but, despite being beyond shattered, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing with concern tinged with a level of embarrassment for having allowed myself to fall into this situation. The process of reliving the day started, as did the continual self-inflicted kicks in the arse. The insects started to bite and that momentarily took my mind off my situation, but only momentarily. Damn, it was hot. I felt as if I was on patrol in the jungle. When you’re wearing all your kit for a 14-day patrol and you first walk into the jungle, the humidity and heat under the canopy is horrendous — it’s like walking into a wall of heat and humidity. Your sweat glands hardly get time to open as the sweat rushes out to fight off the assaulting furnace. The sweat comes so fast it actually hurts as the sweat pores are forced open and some people contract prickly heat — a rash on the skin caused by swollen sweat glands. In minutes you’re soaked through with sweat and you spend the rest of the day fighting to replace the lost fluid.
4.
STANDBY PATROL
In the SAS, one of the squadrons maintains a standby patrol to respond at a moment’s notice to any global or domestic threats involving Australians or Australian interests. A few years ago, I w
as fortunate enough to be the Squadron Standby Patrol Commander. We’d just returned from a two-week troop exercise to the Nullarbor Plain and were cleaning weapons behind the Q store when my Troop Commander approached me. ‘Are you the Standby Patrol Commander?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, picturing myself doing a night parachute jump into some shit hole in the middle of nowhere as part of some bullshit exercise.
‘The OC [Officer Commanding] wants to see you.’
The OC was a pretty good bloke, known as a bit of a micro-manager, but one of the smartest men I knew and I thought he was a bloody good boss. I’d known the OC for nine years; we’d done our selection the same year and had developed a pretty good working relationship.
Straight away the other blokes started suggesting an overseas trip and calling me a lucky bastard. Overseas trips were few and far between, so everyone was keen to get on whatever was going. I made my way back through the Q store, walked up the stairs and headed down the hallway to the OC’s office. It was getting too close to the end of the year to be carried away with this warry stuff.
The blokes were right. The OC told me that my patrol was being deployed to an Asian country on an exercise with an Asian Special Forces unit. I’d heard some terrible stories about these exercises, but an overseas trip is an overseas trip, so I was prepared to make the most of it. The squadron had deployed a patrol a few months before to Rwanda as part of the United Nations Assistance Mission, so everyone was pissed off that they had missed out on that and we’d heard that only patrol medics would be going on the next trip. While I was a trained patrol medic, my job was now patrol commanding, leaving the patrol medic work to the newer blokes. So, for now, this trip was as good as it was going to get for me.
It was Thursday and we were leaving on Tuesday morning. So I got together with my 2IC (second-in-command) Tony. Tony was a good soldier and mate; we had both come from the 1st Battalion and had completed the SAS selection course together. We put our heads together and finalised all the logistics associated with sending a patrol overseas for three weeks. I warned out the rest of the patrol who were more excited about flying business class than anything else.
