The Easy Day Was Yesterday

by Paul Jordan

  ‘That’s great, thanks so much.’

  ‘Trevor is aware of the situation and I brief him a few times a day on any changes. He has also spoken to Dave. Between both of them they will keep an eye on your house.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good, but ask Trevor not to tell Mum or Dad. They don’t need the worry. Hey, I need to go. The Warden has been very kind to me and asked that I keep this very short.’

  ‘Okay, I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too, bye.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sing.’

  ‘It is okay, but it is against regulations to accept a call. She cannot call again.’ ‘Okay, I understand, thank you.’

  I wandered back to the cage walking ridiculously slowly and contemplating being in this dump for another night — unbelievable! I decided to have a bucket bath and wash some of the sweat off and then spend some quality time pacing my cage; there were areas of my new house that I hadn’t explored. At 7.00 pm Ugly Guard motioned for me to get inside the cage and locked the sliding bar. I stood holding the bars wondering if I should get my steel cup and drag it along the bars like they do in the movies. As I thought of this, I contemplated the bars and, more importantly, how I could get through them.

  The only time I could escape this rat-infested dump was at night and through the bars. The bars were painted a filthy red, rusty colour. I thought that if I had a small hacksaw (perhaps baked inside a cake) I could cut 90% of the way through two bars and then fill those cut marks with some putty made from ground rust, paint and water. On the night of my escape I could simply cut the rest of the way through and be outside my cage. Another option was to only make one cut through the sliding bar, although with all the movement of the sliding bar the putty could fall out of the cut and might be noticed by a guard. And anyway, that would only get me outside my cell. I would then have to get past the guards and over the five-metre flat concrete wall. Sure, I could free climb the sections where the concrete render had fallen from the brickwork, but the reality was that I was crap at climbing in the Regiment, and had spent most of the time as the second climber hanging from the protection rather than the rock face. There was one section of the wall that offered a better chance of scaling. Next to the big door to access the administration building there was an outdoor kitchen where some prisoners churned out hundreds of chapattis every day. If I was able to get on top of the kitchen roof then I would only have a three-metre wall to climb, which would be easier given that I’m 6 feet 2 inches (188 centimetres) tall and so would have more than half the wall covered. But I would still have to get across the yard and over the wall without being seen by the patrolling guards. Without outside help, this would be a challenge. However, I believed I’d only be here for a day or so and therefore I didn’t need to spend too much time planning my escape. But it was always good to have a plan just in case.

  About 15 minutes after lock-up, the Hari Krishnas opened up with their tambourines and happy songs, so I leaned against the bars and enjoyed the nightly chant. The Warden arrived at about 7.30 for his nightly rounds and a quick chat and, shortly after, Manish came with three chapattis and a bowl of vomit — well, that’s what it looked like, anyway. We had a quick chat, then Manish was gone into the darkness. I threw the food into the plastic bag hanging from a nail which was my daily bin and dragged my hessian sack and pillow up against the back wall to lean against while I worked on the Sudoku puzzle. At around midnight I decided to try to get some sleep, so I removed the light bulb and stored it in the pocket of the Calvins, then pulled the thin cotton sheet over me to try to fend off the mosquito squadron during the night.

  10.

  NIGHTMARE DAY FOUR

  Wednesday 28 May

  At 3.00 in the morning a prisoner in the hospital cell next door started singing. I use the term ‘hospital’ loosely as that’s what it was called. There were eight prisoners crammed into a cell the same size as mine with no special care or treatment. They were sleeping on the ground just like me, only they were jammed in where I at least had space. In fact, compared to the rest of the prisoners, I was in the penthouse while they were in the shithouse. The singing was bloody awful and enough to prevent any further sleep, so I got up, dug out my light bulb from my Calvins, connected it and did some more Sudoku. In the last six hours of Sudoku, I’d managed to add one number. I’m crap at Sudoku, but it certainly occupied my mind. Obviously some prisoners in the hospital cell thought as much of the singing as I did, because about 30 minutes into it, an argument started. There was yelling and screaming and then it stopped, and I could hear someone copping a solid beating. The beating was ruthless and the sounds of the hits were joined by the victim’s screams of pain and cries for help. Those damned guards shone their torches in my eyes every hour, but didn’t appear when someone needed help. How had this become my life?

  At 5.00 am the cage was opened with a morning ‘arrggh’ from the caveman. I didn’t bounce out of ‘bed’ as fast as I did on the first day, but slowly sat up and got myself together. I could feel my body suffering from the effects of only a few hours’ sleep over the past few days and the dramatically reduced food intake. I threw on the sarong and my boots and joined my fellow prisoners at the drain. On the way I noticed that I was now getting nods and the odd ‘morning Sir’ from my fellow prisoners. ‘Morning,’ I would always reply, although I remained intent on keeping my distance as much as possible. I’d seen the film Midnight Express, so I knew what could happen in prison when a group of men is thrown together for years on end. I knew if any of that was pushed in my direction, it would be violent, people would be hurt and I could lose my single cage. So I stayed clear of the others as much as possible.

  When I wandered back into my cage the same old man was in there sweeping out. This time he had a bucket of water and was using his straw broom to mop the place. So I waited out the front until he was finished and watched the prison come to life. Some prisoners undid their bundle of blankets stored in the yard and spread them out for the day using the blankets to stake their claim over a small area of the yard. Some went for a morning walk around the yard, while others started the nasal-passage-cleansing process. At this point I retreated to my cage. The old man had finished and I thanked him and then wondered what the hell I was going to do. The old man reappeared and motioned for me to have a wash. I picked up my towel, small blue bucket and soap and walked to the pump outside my cage. It seemed the best location for a wash as the pump was positioned next to a raised slab of concrete which provided a relatively clean surface on which to stand or squat while bathing. The old man had the big communal bucket full of water waiting for me. So I dropped the sarong on a dry section of concrete and, in my massive jocks, began the process of bathing in front of an audience of 580. Even though I had a layer of sweat on my body and looked forward to a wash, the water was very cold and always a shock to the system — like when you first dive into a mountain stream. After emptying the first bucket to wet my body, I soaped up while the old man filled another bucket to rinse off. I lathered up to clean all the sweat off and placed the soap on the concrete. The old man grabbed it and went to wash my back. ‘Whoa there, mate, don’t even think about it.’

  He insisted and so did I and I’m sure he wasn’t going to try that again. I poured a couple of blue buckets of water over me to rinse the soap, then the old man picked up the entire big communal bucket and poured it over me. Bloody hell, I thought I was going to drown. I dried myself and forced my wet feet into my boots being careful not to touch the soles where I was certain some as yet undiscovered hideous disease was waiting to pounce. Perhaps I should donate my shoes to science when I got out of here. Back in the cage I hid from the prying eyes behind the narrow wall of concrete that supported the gate and changed into dry jocks. Then the old man came in, took my wet jocks, washed them and hung them on a piece of string in front of my cage. I protested, but he insisted. Okay mate, whatever rocks your boat. I started to think I had my own slave.

  Back in the cage, I
wondered what the hell I was going to do to kill some time. The Sudoku was good, but it was getting boring. A fellow prisoner wandered straight past Ugly Guard and into my cage and told me we should walk in the mornings. I had rejected all other offers and approaches by other prisoners, but this guy seemed genuine and certainly had the measure of the guards. ‘Okay then.’ I walked past Ugly Guard and nodded to him. He knew where I was going, but there was no indication he gave a shit. We did a very slow circuit of the yard and the other prisoner told me that most prisoners walked in the morning and evening as it was good for the health.

  ‘My name is Satya,’ he said, speaking reasonably good English.

  ‘My name is Paul,’ I said, shaking his hand.

  ‘You are very interesting for the other prisoners.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. I hope they get bored with me soon.’

  ‘Maybe. Why are you here?’

  ‘I mistakenly crossed the border by a few metres and they arrested me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeh, oh. What did you do?’

  ‘I was a politician.’

  ‘Oh, okay. But that’s not a crime.’

  ‘I fought against corruption.’

  ‘That’s admirable, but a challenge in this country. So, fighting corruption is a crime?’

  ‘No. But the magistrate in my district was very corrupt, a dishonest man, so I crushed him.’

  ‘What do you mean you crushed him?’ How?’

  ‘With a piece of wood. I hit him over the head. He bled a lot.’

  I had to stifle a laugh. This was brilliant.

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Three months. I only have four weeks to go.’

  ‘Do you think what you did was right?’

  ‘Next time I will take a different action, maybe diplomacy.’

  ‘Yeh, probably a good idea.’

  We completed three slow laps of the yard before he deposited me back at my cage. I decided to rest for a while. The old man entered the cage and, motioning with his hands to his mouth, said the word ‘kanake’.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said, ‘I’m not hungry.’

  The old man proceeded to give me his first lecture which went on for about 10 minutes. He knew I couldn’t speak Hindi, but that didn’t stop him from serving it up to me. To appease him, I picked up a packet of biscuits and ate one. He shook his head and walked out.

  My cage had dried from the morning mopping, so I lay down and tried another Sudoku number. As I settled in, the cage began to fill with smoke; it literally poured through the barred hole in the back wall. This hole was about three metres up and near the top and was about 30 centimetres square. I threw on my boots and walked around the back of the cell block to see who was making smoke signals. Three blokes were gathered around a small oven made from clay trying to get a fire going, but the thing was just spewing white smoke, most of which went straight into my cage. I didn’t actually mind because the smoke cleared out all the mosquitoes. The three blokes shared the oven and spent most of the day preparing food and chai. The oven itself was a simple construction and there were about five of them scattered around the yard, all owned by someone. The oven was about 30 centimetres square with a hole in the front for the wood and air intake and a hole on the top where the frying pan and pot sat. One man prepared the food, another sorted the coals, while the third cooked and sat in front of the oven fanning the fire. When they saw me watching them they smiled and offered me some chai. I said no, but thanked them and went back to my cage to continue with Sudoku.

  About an hour later, Manish came and told me to go to the Warden. I slipped on my boots and one and only shirt and wandered to the office. There were three people in the Warden’s office: the Warden and two others. A young Indian bloke introduced himself as the Sub-District Magistrate and the older bloke with him was his assistant. Both were clearly well educated and spoke very good English. I felt embarrassed that I was talking to these important men wearing my sarong. They told me not to worry about what I was wearing. Apparently the Sub-District Magistrate had seen the article in the newspaper and, as the prison came under his jurisdiction, he had decided to visit me. We spoke for over 30 minutes and he explained that his position was similar to the district Mayor, except that it was a government-appointed position. He told me not to worry. He had read the charge, Magistrate Triparthy was a friend of his, and both believed I’d only be here for a few more days. He told the Warden to send someone to buy lemonade and we all had a glass. It tasted good. As he left he asked if I needed anything. I couldn’t think of anything, so said I was fine.

  ‘What about a mosquito net, do you have one?’

  ‘No I don’t,’ I said.

  ‘I will have one sent to you this afternoon. You must treat me as a friend and ask for whatever you need; don’t hesitate. The Warden has my number and you can tell him you want to talk to me any time, okay?’ ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’

  I walked back to the cage wondering what all that had been about and whether the Sub-District Magistrate was just another guy who wanted money or something else from me. Frankly, at that moment, I’d have paid anything for this drama to be over. After a nap and a battle with the swarms of flies, I was again summoned to the office. On the way I asked Manish if one of the visitors was a white man.

  ‘I do not see, but I think.’

  The Australian High Commission guys had arrived. Apparently they had a hell of a time getting to the gaol as Araria is so remote. They had flown two hours from New Delhi then driven for five hours. At the end of the day they would drive four hours back to a hotel. I felt for the poor bastards and cursed myself for a wanker for asking them to make this effort for me, but I really needed their help. One of the guys, Craig, was a consular officer and the other was a locally employed staff member. They didn’t have much for me at this early stage and really had little to offer. Their powers to intervene or influence were nil. I asked them to speak to Ujwal, the Sub-District Magistrate, my lawyer and the SP. I also had to sign some papers to say that I would pay back any money lent to me by the Australian government and to confirm the names of people to whom DFAT could release information. I confirmed Sallie’s name. Craig handed me an envelope containing paraphernalia offering assistance to those in gaol overseas. Many of the brochures I’d read during my time inside foreign embassies around the world and there I was scanning the brochure for any clue for a way out of this mess. Craig also gave me a bag with some bottled water, a bar of chocolate and a novel. He asked how I was being treated, but added that he couldn’t doing anything to ensure I received better treatment than the other prisoners.

  ‘Mr Sing is being very kind to me and I’m grateful for everything he is doing,’ I said, using the opportunity to suck up to Mr Sing in front of Australian government officials.

  ‘Thank you Sir, for your treatment of Mr Jordan,’ added Craig helpfully. Mr Sing just wobbled his head and said, ‘It’s our duty to look after him properly.’

  ‘Well, thank you again. Would it be okay if Mr Jordan used my cell phone to make a two-minute call to his family, Mr Sing?’

  ‘That would be fine,’ said Mr Sing, wobbling his head.

  Craig entered Sallie’s number into his cell phone and pressed call. I tried to leave the office for privacy, but Mr Sing asked that I stay in his office. Fair enough, I thought.

  Sallie answered and I felt myself plummet into depression. The visit from the High Commission staff had made me feel like Schapelle Corby or the Bali nine, and then hearing Sallie’s voice had made me lose focus on what I needed to say to her. But Sallie took control and described Amrita’s conversations with the SP and his reassurance that everything would be fine. The IFJ had gone into full swing in Australia, Nepal and India. The Federation of Nepali Journalists was visiting the Indian High Commissioner to Nepal and the Nepali Prime Minister demanding action. Sukimar, the IFJ representative in India, was talking to the Home Secretary daily demanding action, and my jour
nalist friends in Australia were calling government ministers there demanding intervention in this matter. In fact, Sallie said there weren’t too many federal ministers who didn’t know who Paul Jordan was. Bloody hell, more embarrassment. She told me she loved me, I told her the same and she was gone. Craig told me they had to go and visit a number of people, but would be back tomorrow, hopefully with some good news. I shook their hands and returned to the cage.

  About an hour later I was again summoned to the office. I thought Manish would be getting pissed off with all my visitors by now. It was Ujwal and I had to talk to him through the gate of the entry room. Ujwal had brought two other Nepali journalists with him for support. He had just come from Magistrate Triparthy’s office with good news. Triparthy had said I could be released today, but most likely tomorrow, if the paperwork from the police arrived in time.

  ‘That’s great news, mate. Let me tell you, Ujwal, I won’t be letting you take me for any more tourist rides,’ I said with a laugh.

  ‘Yes, we made a huge mistake and I don’t want to come to India again.’

  ‘Me neither. What will you do now?’

  ‘We will go to the SP’s office and ask him to write the report quickly.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. Hey, do you have my wallet?’

  ‘No, but I took some money from it to pay for the lawyer and some other things.’

  ‘No problem. Can you give me some money, but in small notes. I need to give some to someone in here.’

  ‘Are you being threatened?’

  ‘No, no, no. There’s an old guy helping me and I want to give him some money.’

  Ujwal handed me some notes and got smaller denominations from the other two journos.

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘Yeh, could you please go to my bag at the hotel and get my book and my thongs?’