The Easy Day Was Yesterday

by Paul Jordan

  We couldn’t move far because it was as black as dogs’ guts in the jungle, and our night vision had been destroyed by the gunfire and torches, so we propped and waited. One of the pretend enemy soldiers called out for us to make our way back to the track.

  We followed the soldiers back along the track that would take us to a small township. When we arrived we moved into a military camp and were shown a piece of lawn to sleep on. More cats. They were everywhere. There were kittens all over the place and, while John was taking a piss, Tony shoved one into his sleeping bag and, less than a minute later, John crawled in after it. The kitten obviously decided to crawl up onto John’s chest to get comfortable and warm. John screamed, and I thought he was going to kill it. Instead he just threw it about 10 metres away while we all sniggered like kids under our sleeping bags. Even exhausted we still had a sense of humour. John didn’t seem to have one, though. Stop laughing and you grow old was our theory.

  We slept in until about 5.30 the next morning when we were woken by the ritual call to pray at the Mosque. Over a loudspeaker a man would wail a prayer that seemed to go on for ages. None of us could sleep during this so we just lay there waiting for this guy to stop, but he just kept going. I knew the other blokes were awake when Tony said, ‘For fuck’s sake, stop mumbling, say what you’ve got to say.’

  When the cleric stopped momentarily, John said in his best Elvis voice, ‘Thank you very much, now here’s a little number, I wrote on the way in tonight.’

  Well, that was it, we all got up, and I went to find the Captain.

  ‘Morning Sir, what’s happening today?’ I asked.

  ‘Good morning. At around 1400 a long boat will pick you up from here and take you back to HQ.’

  ‘No problem, we’re going to secure our guns and kit inside the barracks and have a bit of a look around town, if that’s alright with you.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine, there are some good restaurants for breakfast and lunch.’ That was all I needed. To hell with the ration packs, let’s get a decent feed.

  We had a bit of a clean-up as we hadn’t shaved since leaving the jungle camp and were all looking a bit rough. We threw all our kit into a spare room and headed for town and some breakfast. We were in luck. There was a guy cooking some roti with egg, so we lined up and grabbed a couple each. That certainly filled a bit of the gap, so we went for a walk around town.

  The place was like any other Asian town with the smells of food cooking in cafes and stalls on the footpaths, the open sewerage drains constantly moving with high rainfall, the markets selling vegetables, and fresh meat hanging in the windows or along the verges. We started to get a bit peckish again and found a small cafe. We sat down and ordered coffee and tea all around. We still had a few hours to kill, so there was no rush to eat. A young lady told us we could have nasi goreng (fried rice) or mee goreng (fried noodles). In conversation the name ‘mee goreng’ is often shortened to ‘me’, and when one waitress approached Cleve and asked ‘You want me?’ Cleve looked at the stairs going to the second floor and thought the woman was making him an offer of sex. ‘No, no, no, no, I’m okay, thank you, just some food, thanks.’ The poor woman had no idea what this crazy white person was saying, so she just smiled and walked away.

  We made our way back to the jetty and sat around waiting for the boat which eventually arrived at around 3.00 pm. It was about 10 metres long, about 1.5 metres wide, and had a huge outboard motor hanging off the back. We gingerly loaded all our shit into this death trap and then slipped into a seat ourselves. Funnily enough, the boat was quite stable and, shortly after moving away from the jetty, the driver got under the bitch of a thing and we flew across the water heading for the Special Forces camp, which was an hour away.

  The trip, though fast, was uneventful and when we arrived at the camp we unloaded our weapons and handed in all our ammunition. All leftover food was thrown to the shithouse and we sat and cleaned our weapons. Once that was done we put them back in the trunk and stored them in the armoury, then went to get cleaned up. We really needed a hot shower to get all the crap off our bodies and out of our skin, but there was no hot water, so we did the best we could with cold water.

  The good Warrant Officer came up to our room that afternoon and asked if we’d like to go to the yacht club for dinner. Would we? Bloody oath we would! I could already taste the beer and steak. He picked us up at 7.00 pm and we all piled into his Pajero and headed for the club. On the way he pulled into his mate’s place and said he would only be a minute. When he returned he had a bottle of scotch in his hand.

  At the yacht club, we took a seat outside to enjoy the sea breeze. It was a wonderfully relaxing place to sit and spend some time. The wide landing we sat on protruded over the ocean. The steaks arrived and so did the coke, and that’s when the Warrant Officer pulled out the scotch. Now, I’m not a big scotch drinker, in fact I hate the shit, I’d rather have a beer — the only thing scotch does is destroy a good glass of coke. But the Warrant Officer had gone out of his way to get the bottle and I wasn’t about to offend the man, so I slowly sipped the poison.

  Once again, I’m buggered if I know how we got home because the Warrant Officer was so pissed he had trouble finding his car, let alone driving the bastard. But get home we did and, after a bit of a sleep-in and breakfast with the cats, the commanders decided we needed a day out downtown. This was beyond boring. There was very little to do or see. We couldn’t sit down and have a quiet beer, but we did decide to risk Kentucky Fried Chicken. We stood at the counter checking out the menu when a young local boy came in and stood next to us. No big deal, but suddenly this kid squealed like a cat having its tail stood on, then he meowed. Well, fuck me; I nearly shat myself. Initially we didn’t know where the noise had come from, but when he meowed again we were hard pressed to control our laughter. John could barely get his order out he was in such a fit of laughter. Two of the blokes walked into the toilets so they could laugh. I hoped he wasn’t making those noises from eating too much KFC. With that, we ate our order and walked around town for a while. Tony and I found a small cafe that was wall to wall with people, so we decided to sit and have another feed. The food was great so, with our bellies finally satisfied, we found the rest of the patrol and caught a taxi back to base.

  We said our farewells and, after a night of karaoke with Stuart thinking he was Barry Manilow, we headed home again, but this time with no beer for the trip.

  Well, that was that. It was bloody hot in those jungles, but not as hot as the Sub-Inspector’s office. Right now, I’d rather be in the jungle somewhere — anywhere but here.

  5.

  NIGHTMARE DAY ONE

  Monday 26 May

  At 3.00 am I decided sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I got up and sat at the Inspector’s desk. It was still very dark outside, but the power had come on and so had the lights. I sent a text to Sallie to let her know I was awake. She said that she’d spoken to a few people who’d advised her that this was a ‘nothing’ offence and I’d be released following court today. Well, that seemed to be good news and I certainly needed some right now. What a damned mess I’d gotten myself into. I should have been sleeping on the rock-hard mattress in the hotel instead of sitting here awake at 3.00 in the morning.

  At 5.00 am the door was unlocked and we wandered outside into the fresh, cool morning air. The Sub-Inspector had set up a table in front of the police station to take advantage of the cool air and he now began the paperwork. He had a statement from Ujwal, the immigration guys and his own statement. The morning chai arrived in the traditional small glasses, pre-milked and sugared. It was very hot and sweet and I was grateful for it. My cell phone was almost out of battery, so I asked if the Sub-Inspector had a charger. He did, but there was no power. He then asked me to sign a statement that was written in Hindi.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t read Hindi, so I have no idea what I’m signing,’ I told him regretfully. He seemed annoyed and considered this for a while. Then he said, ‘
Perhaps you can write that you were asked to sign this, but you did not know what it meant or said.’

  I gave that some thought and asked Ujwal to read the statement and confirm that it read exactly as it should. Ujwal told me that it did, so I wrote the agreed words and signed the statement.

  I still believed this would end and I would make my flight to the next course at 1.00 pm. In hindsight I realise that I was the only one who believed this. I’m pretty sure those around me knew what was coming but decided not to tell me. I’m glad they didn’t. After an hour or so, Ujwal and the others walked away to chat and it was just the Sub-Inspector and me at the table. I leaned over and asked for the Sub-Inspector’s support and told him I just wanted to finish the job I came here to do and then go home to my kids and Sallie. I reminded him that I’d done everything that had been asked of me and that he had told me many times yesterday that all would be okay. The Sub-Inspector looked me in the eye and said sincerely, ‘Mister, I will support you with all my heart. This is all wrong, and I will do all I can to help you.’ I hoped that would be enough, but I couldn’t ask for more from him.

  The Sub-Inspector asked if I’d like to take a shower.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, thinking that I had better spruce up a bit for court.

  ‘Okay, wait and we will prepare it,’ he said.

  I wasn’t really sure what all that meant, so I just sat there until told to do otherwise. Ten minutes later, Ujwal gave me a plastic bag that contained a towel, a pair of massive boxer-style underpants, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb and this bizarre piece of thin metal that looked like half of a paper binder — the type of binder where one flat half slides over the two metal ends that have been pushed through the holes in the paper. I soon discovered that the strange device was a tongue scraper! Why they thought I needed a tongue scraper was beyond me. I asked Ujwal what the story was and he told me it was a common Indian bathroom item.

  Ujwal directed me to the shower which turned out to be an old-fashioned water pump out in the open for all to see, and when the big white man had a wash everyone came to look. Ujwal told me how the shower routine was to work. I wrapped a sarong around me, pulled down my jeans, took off my shirt and, in my underwear and sarong, I poured water over my head and washed 24 hours of sweat off. When I was done, I dried myself as best I could with a wet sarong and underpants on. I then removed my jocks and pulled on the massive new jocks and got dressed. Bloody hell, what a drama — a shower would be easier and, by the time I was dressed, I would be covered in sweat and need another wash. This is shit, I thought. I wanted to strangle that old prick at the border for fucking me around like this. I should have had a nice sleep-in this morning followed by a lazy walk around town before going to the airport to fly west for another training course. Bastard!

  Again I called the High Commission guy to keep him updated. He asked if I’d like them to find me a lawyer. I agreed, but they rang back and said I was too remote and they couldn’t find one nearby. They also needed me to confirm who they could pass information to. I gave them Sallie’s details. I also spoke to Sallie to tell her the latest and sent her my son Sam’s contact number in case I was going to gaol. Sallie told me to stop being so dramatic. I hoped I was being dramatic, but I had an uneasy feeling. I also sent her my brother Trevor’s cell number just in case. Again, Sallie gave me the standard reassurance that I’d normally give people in sticky situations like this. So I wasn’t sure if she actually believed what she said, although I thought she probably did.

  By now my cell phone was almost flat, so I asked the Inspector if he had a charger for my hardened Nokia. The good news was that he did and lent it to me. The bad news was that there was still no power, so the charger was useless. So I decided to turn my phone off until after court to preserve the battery.

  The same police jeep that was used to take me back to the hotel last night pulled up, driven by the same old police sergeant. The Inspector motioned for me to get into the jeep. I grabbed my plastic bag of worldly possessions, including my new tongue scraper, and slipped into the back seat. The jeep was pure vintage and looked to be straight out of an old World War II movie. It had no doors, a canvas roof and bugger all room in the back seat. The Inspector jumped in the front seat and turned, handing me a lunch box full of sandwiches. Ujwal sat next to me looking very glum as I started munching on a sandwich.

  The small compass on my G Shock (watch) told me we were heading south and, while we crossed the railway line several times, we generally followed it the whole way to the courthouse in Araria. I wanted to know where I was going in case I needed to make my way back to the border. I just had a feeling that this wasn’t going to work out too well, so I needed that back-up plan. Always have an escape plan … I could still hear myself telling my students that yesterday. The railway line ran conveniently north–south. If the opportunity presented, all I had to do was to parallel the line north and I’d get to the Nepali border.

  We only drove about 40 kilometres, but the roads were absolute shit. The potholes were so big that it sometimes took a few minutes to drive out of them. I was absolutely knackered, but even if I could have slept, the seats were uncomfortable and the continuous bouncing would have had me pissing blood by the end of the day.

  We arrived at Araria courthouse at 10.30. The place looked terrible. It was very poor, crowded, run down and filthy. Everyone stared and pointed at the white man in the police vehicle. The Inspector led me into an overcrowded administration room and pushed me into the corner telling me not to move. One policeman stood outside the crowded room to ensure I wouldn’t escape. The clerks all looked at me with disdain from behind their desks which they clearly assumed gave them some sort of power. I suppose in this case it did. I noticed folders and papers being placed in front of them and also noticed the only folders and papers receiving any attention had money discreetly attached to them.

  The Inspector brought an old bloke to me and introduced him as my court-appointed lawyer. God help me. This guy had to be 50 years old. His teeth were badly stained with red betel nut juice. His white collar was severely sweat stained and his breath made me feel faint. But apparently he was the best, so I was grateful to the Inspector. My new lawyer, Mr Debu-San, told me I’d meet the Magistrate then have a bail hearing tomorrow. At that time it didn’t occur to me that I’d spend the night in gaol.

  ‘What?’ I said, ‘No, no, no, this can’t be right. I’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours and work to do tomorrow.’

  ‘This is not possible,’ said Debu-San. ‘This is the system.’

  Ujwal just looked at me with blank eyes and I sensed he already knew this but had kept it from me — probably not a bad idea.

  My lawyer disappeared just as the Inspector took me to front the Magistrate. I expected to walk into a courtroom and see the magistrate at the bench, but instead I was taken to the Magistrate’s office. The Magistrate’s office was unbelievably small — about 1.5 x 1.5 metres and made even smaller by a bookshelf on one wall supporting old, tattered law manuals that appeared to be holding more mould than law. It was dark and miserable and I could see by the scowl on the Magistrate’s face that the office had a pretty ordinary effect on him too. Well, I hoped it was the office that gave him the shits and not my presence. The Inspector spoke to the Magistrate in Hindi for a minute or so and, when he finished, Ujwal came into the already overcrowded room only to be told to get out by the Magistrate. The Magistrate was Mr Triparthy and he was the senior man in the Araria court. Triparthy stared at me for a while and then said, ‘Well, what’s your story?’ with a tone that said, I’ve heard them all, now what bullshit will you come up with?

  Fuck you, you dried up old has-been, I thought, and then launched into my rehearsed speech.

  ‘Well, Sir, I took a rickshaw ride with my Nepali friend to look at the border between India and Nepal when my rickshaw driver accidently rode across the border. As you may know, Sir, the border is very open and crowded with people and shops, so I didn’t even s
ee something marking the border. I had no intention of crossing the border, but the rickshaw driver didn’t know that the border is only open for Indians and Nepali and not foreigners. This was an honest mistake. I barely crossed the border and didn’t even get as far as the immigration office. I have the support of the Nepali senior police who have agreed to accept me back into Nepal if you would be kind enough to release me.’

  Triparthy continued to read the police report for a few more minutes without saying anything, while I stood in front of him like a school kid shitting himself in front of the Headmaster’s desk. Then he said, ‘Well your story is unbelievable and I have no choice but to wait for the police report from the Superintendant of Police. You will have to be remanded until this is completed.’

  Oh shit, that didn’t sound too good.

  ‘No, Sir,’ I said in disbelief, ‘I can’t do that. I have work to complete and need to be on a plane in a few hours. I can’t stay here, surely this can be dealt with now — it was a simple mistake.’ Now I was pleading. I didn’t want to be remanded anywhere.

  ‘My hands are tied and now that you are here I must follow the law. The best thing for you to do is to get your High Commission to talk to the Home Office Secretary who can order your release.’

  He then motioned for the Inspector to remove me.

  As the Inspector and I walked back through the staring throng of people, Ujwal rushed to me to ask what had happened.

  ‘The Magistrate thinks I’m a liar, so I have to go to prison,’ I replied in a tired and ‘I’m over this shit’ kind of tone.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ujwal and, although I waited for him say more, he didn’t.

  The Inspector told me I could keep my cell phone until we got to the gaol and then I would have to give it to Ujwal. He told me that, in all other cases, the phone would have been removed when I arrived at the police station, so I was grateful. I asked if I could charge it somewhere as it was nearly flat and I needed to call the High Commission and Sallie. We got back into the car and drove to the police station. All the young police jumped to their feet and one raced off to find a charger in response to the Inspector’s demand. When it arrived, I plugged it into the nearest power point and had to move it around the get a flow of power through the line. This was getting a little tough. Finally it worked and I quickly made a call to Sallie.