by Paul Jordan
As we walked back through the yard under the gaze of all the prisoners, Satya approached me for a final goodbye. Thankfully he didn’t extend his hand to be shaken, but did promise to keep in touch. Back inside the administration building the cops took control of all my possessions and then fitted the shackles. I complained that they were too tight. The police looked at me with an expression that said, ‘fuck you, white boy, suffer’. These guys were not the same friendly guys at the courthouse. They were clearly Siddiqui’s men. But the Warden intervened and told them to loosen the shackles a little. They weren’t built for comfort because they were perfectly round in shape, but unfortunately the wrist is not that shape so they dug in on the sides. Oh well, I was a prisoner after all. The shackles had a rope attached between my hands that was about six feet long. So the cops led me by the rope like a dog on a lead to the open police jeep parked in front of the administration area, but still inside the prison front gate. The cop car was similar to the old jeep that had brought me from the border three weeks back. I got in the back seat and a cop sat either side of me with their rusty old .303 rifles wedged in between their knees. The driver placed my plastic bags behind my seat and we drove to the hospital.
These cops were trying to be the bad guys. I sensed that Siddiqui had given them orders to make life difficult for me. I imagined them driving to some deserted spot where they’d shoot me in the back and then say I tried to escape. The cop sitting to my right just kept staring at me with a look of disgust on his face. I looked back at him a few times and then looked away as he continued to stare. Hang on, I thought, I’m not going to cower to these fools, so I stared back at him with a look that said ‘fuck you’. These blokes were going to give me a touch-up for sure, but I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of beating me mentally. ‘Anything wrong, mate?’ I said to him while looking straight into his eyes. We seemed to be locked in a staring competition until he eventually looked away. It was strange situation — like a Mexican stand-off. It reminded me of the time I was a security adviser for a gold mine in the Solomon Islands. But that was a completely different sort of stand-off.
26.
PREPARED TO DIE
I finished working in PNG at the end of 1999. In fact the managers decided to give my job to a qualified local. Of course I was pretty pissed off, but these things happen for a reason and, given the adventures that followed, I’m glad it happened. Armed with the Bachelor’s Degree that I had just completed after four years as an external student, I found myself looking for a job for the first time in 15 years. That’s when reality struck: very few Australian companies were concerned about security and most had no need for a security adviser. It was a good thing for world peace I suppose, but crap when you needed a job.
A few months later I jagged a job as the security manager for a gold mine in the Solomon Islands. You bloody beauty, I thought. This looked like a great opportunity and I couldn’t wait to get stuck into the job. As my then wife, Toni, and the kids drove me to the airport I heard a news report on the radio about a sectarian war erupting between the two main tribes in the Solomon Islands. They went on to say that the airport was closed, Honiara was on fire and the Australian Navy was mobilising to evacuate foreigners. Unbelievable. Just my luck. I turned the car around and went home.
A few months later, the Administration Manager from the mining company called and said they wanted to get back to the mine, but the first step was to get back to Honiara and to the office to make preparations and could I go with them? Of course I could; I needed to work and thought that I could still salvage a job out of this. I learnt that I would accompany the Mine Manager and the Administration Manager; the navy had evacuated both during the unrest.
Landing in Honiara was like flying into a set from an old Vietnam movie. There was smoke, buildings were burning and the streets were generally deserted. Men patrolled the streets in Toyota 4 x 4s with machine-guns strapped to the roll bar. It was chaos and I wondered how the city functioned at all. Anyone with money or thought to have money was told very clearly they had to give it to the Malaita Eagles Force (MEF — the group from the island of Malaita that controlled Honiara). Anyone refusing to pay was savagely beaten or murdered.
We stayed at the Mendana Hotel which was located right on the beach. It was actually a nice place and, on the beach side of the hotel, it was easy to forget a war was going on. One night the Administration Manager knocked on my door and showed me a note he’d just been given by reception. The note demanded that $40,000 dollars be paid to the MEF tomorrow at 12.00 noon at the office. The payment was compensation for the police officers who had been killed or injured when the Isotabu Freedom Movement (IFM — the tribe controlling the areas surrounding the mine and most of Guadalcanal) had attacked the mine site. We convened in the Administration Manager’s room to discuss the note and our response. We decided that compensation was not warranted and that this was obviously just an attempt to extort money from the largest company on the island.
The next day I sat in the office as the Mine Manager worked on his computer. The office was located at the King Solomon Hotel in an annex that fronted the street. The Administration Manager was chatting to an Australian turned local in the restaurant. I looked up and, through the glass door, saw MEF members walking towards the office. I told the Mine Manager what was coming just as the MEF member pushed the door open and said, ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ the Mine Manager replied, still typing away on his computer. ‘Compensation bilong mi,’ replied the MEF guy in Pidgin.
‘We won’t be paying compensation,’ the Manager said as he turned to face the MEF guy.
‘YOU PAY! YOU MUST PAY!’ The MEF guy was now screaming.
I remained seated watching all this happening, mentally willing the Mine Manager to just go easy.
‘You have your answer, so goodbye,’ said the Mine Manager as he swung back around towards his computer.
Shit, this isn’t good, I thought.
‘YOU SMART MOUTH TOO MUCH!’ yelled the MEF guy.
‘You have your answer, now get out,’ said the mine manager with his back still towards the MEF guy. The MEF guy turned, flung the door open and left, but I knew this wasn’t the end of it, probably just the beginning. I got up and followed him through the door, telling the Mine Manager to stay and the girl in the office to call her contact in the police. The police contact was a bloke who had been in a senior position prior to the war, but it meant very little now.
As I stood in front of the office I watched the MEF guy run to his Hilux, rip open the passenger door and grab his SLR. Walking back towards me, he chambered a bullet by cocking the weapon. Fucking excellent, I thought, now I earn my money. The MEF guy stopped in front of me, maybe six or seven metres away. He pointed the weapon at my chest and said, ‘Get out of the way.’
‘No, I can’t do that, and you know you don’t want to do anything stupid either.’
‘Are you the bodyguard?’
‘No, I’m here helping them, so we can all get back to work. And that includes getting your people back on the job as well.’
‘Mister, get out of my way.’
‘You know I can’t do that. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the restaurant and we can discuss this problem?’
‘Mister, either move or die.’
I put my hands in front of my body saying, ‘This is not something you want to do, mate.’
‘Prepare to die, mister,’ said the MEF guy as I watched him twist his feet into the dirt in preparation for the impact. I took a half-step back to try to defuse the situation, but the weapon followed and I saw him move the safety catch to fire. He seemed to be mentally willing himself to pull the trigger.
‘Hey mate, think about what you’re doing. If you cause any problems for me or the boss, the Australian military will be here in force and you will be arrested and put in gaol for a long time. You don’t want that and neither do I, so let’s discuss this.’
Just then,
and right on time because I think my argument meant bugger all to the lunatic, the Administration Manager and the expatriate he was chatting to in the restaurant came around the corner and took in the scene. The expat guy came straight over and touched the MEF guy on the shoulder and whispered something to him. The MEF guy lowered his weapon and glared at me for what seemed like an eternity before returning to his vehicle. At the same time the policeman showed up but, as he had no power, his presence was useless. I returned to the office and saw that the Mine Manager had been peering through the window. He stepped aside and said nothing to me. I called the Australian High Commissioner across the road and got his answering machine. I left a message explaining the situation. It was vital that we had the High Commissioner’s support as he also had a team of armed Federal Police providing security to the High Commission staff and now I needed them to help me. The High Commissioner called back about 10 minutes later, which was about the time my pulse descended below 200 beats per minute. He agreed to help and offered four federal agents to assist when required.
The local policeman proved useful after all. He was able to speak to the MEF guys and arrange for a sit-down meeting at the Mendana Hotel that afternoon. We were due to go back to Australia the next day and needed to resolve this nonsense so we could come back in a few weeks and get back to the mine.
The hotel staff were aware of the situation and provided all the support they could. A table was prepared next to the bar in a quiet part of the restaurant. Four federal agents were discreetly positioned throughout the bar just in case the Mine Manager decided to use some of that great diplomacy again. The MEF guys arrived and got straight to the point. They wanted compensation for their efforts in protecting the mine. It was pointed out to them that, in fact, they had run away and this was why the mine had been overrun by the IFM. They would hear none of it and, despite the policeman trying to mediate, things got angry. Eventually, the MEF guys left with the comment, ‘if the money isn’t paid before you leave tomorrow, we will kill you all if you come back.’
That night, the hotel manager gave me a handful of keys for the empty rooms telling me he didn’t want to know where we were staying. I selected three rooms that offered good observation of one another and also easy escape routes. We entered these rooms after last light and didn’t use any lights. The next day we left Honiara without any further problems. A month later, we returned to another set of problems, although nothing like that near-death experience in front of the office.
The hospital was only a five-minute drive from the prison and I attracted a lot of stares. I suppose people didn’t normally see a white man in shackles in the back of an open police car. At the hospital we parked out the front and then walked to find my new cage. The cops had no idea where I was supposed to be, so they just led me all around the joint. I could see they were getting some enjoyment out of the attention and, by treating me badly, their status grew. It was humiliating being treated this way. I couldn’t walk as fast as the cops because I had lost the stamina, and I was supposed to be dying, so they pulled me along as if they were dragging a stubborn dog. Actually, I felt like a slave being dragged to a new plantation. My arms were now extended forward and I periodically stumbled as they yanked me along and forced me to catch up. They led me into one ward that had four beds on either side of the wall with women and kids occupying five of the beds. The cops pointed to a mattress suggesting this was where I’d be staying.
‘No,’ I said. I’d now had enough of these arrogant pricks. The mattress had old blood, vomit and shit stains on it and there was no way I was lying on that thing. Give me back my mattress at the cage. In fact, the original hessian on the wet cement would have been better than that filthy bloody thing.
‘What’s the problem, mister?’ the senior copper asked.
‘The problem is that I am not staying here.’
The cop gave me a ‘we’ll see about that look’ and I thought I was about to get a beating from these four pricks. Fuck it, I thought, do your best, you pricks, I’ve had enough of all this shit. I took a step back and got ready to defend myself and try to get a couple in with the shackles on when a doctor walked in and asked what the police were doing there. The cops said something in Hindi and the doctor yelled at them, also in Hindi, and I was dragged on another journey around the hospital. They seemed pretty pissed off with the crap they had got from the doctor and seemed intent on taking it out on my wrists by trying to pull the shackles straight through them.
Eventually we arrived at an office building with three guards standing out the front. They had been waiting for us and I was hauled into an office. Inside the office the police left me to the guards who told me to sit on the bed. There were two beds in the room; a bench ran along the length of one wall with a sink at one end and a fridge in the corner. So already it seemed I’d gone from the shithouse to the penthouse. I now had a hospital bed, actually two, which were off the ground, with a mattress that was about 50 millimetres thick — good times.
People paraded past the door to stare at me without shame. It was bizarre that people had no problem coming right up to my face to look at me as if I was an animal in a zoo. I just ignored it now, or sometimes I might say, ‘Have you lost something, mate?’
Sallie and Martin arrived to find me sitting on the bed still shackled. Sallie asked the guards to remove the manacles. I rubbed my wrists to get the blood flowing back into the pressured areas. It was bloody strange having Sallie and Martin just wandering around without being searched or having guards supervise everything we did. Sallie and Martin made a list of all the supplies that would make life more comfortable and then told me that Bala’s cook would be over later with some food. The guards didn’t really know what to make of Sallie and she also drew a lot of attention from the locals. The local women stared at her as the men did me. Sallie and Martin left with their list in hand and began their long journey back to Nepal. As they got into the vehicle, a crowd gathered to see what was going on, so Martin made an impromptu speech which no-one understood and then told everyone to give themselves a clap and they followed his lead with hearty clapping. It was funny — then they were gone.
I was supposed to be on death’s door, but I couldn’t live in this old hospital room with potentially unknown bugs and diseases attached to everything, so I started to clean. Everything in the room had a solid layer of dust settled on it that quickly became mud. Everything I thought I’d touch I cleaned with bleach. It took me about an hour and, at the end of that, the place was a little better.
I made my bed using the mattresses from both beds and my mat and sheet from the gaol. A fan was rigged up on the ceiling but had little impact on the horrendous humidity. I sat on my bed and felt grateful that people had helped me to get this room, but I was still a prisoner. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. I decided to spend the night reading and doing Sudoku. At night I had a bucket bath and found I missed the old man’s help and company. I had been with him constantly for 17 days and he had helped me with everything I did. I wished he was here.
Back in my room I discovered they’d rigged the fan with the light bulb. If I turned off the light the fan turned off. So, just like the prison, I had to remove the light bulb and, just like prison, the guards freaked out. There was an urgent knock on the door. I now had the ability to lock the door from the inside which was novel for a prisoner. I unlocked the door and had to show the guards what I’d done. They accepted that I could sleep with the light off. It was a hot night and I missed my little fan, but the thicker mattress meant I slept better than I had for the previous 16 nights.
27.
NIGHTMARE DAYS TWENTY AND TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday 11 June
I was awake at about 4.00 am and read a little while waiting for the guards to kick on my door at 5.00 am. I had unbolted my side of the door, but the guards had locked the other side as well. But 5.00 am came and went, so I just lay there reading until about 7.00 am when the guards finally opened the door.
>
I walked to the end of the hallway near the doorway to the bathroom and had a bucket bath with freezing cold water, but it was good to wash the layer of sweat off. It was strange washing without the help of the old man and without the 300-strong audience watching.
Bala sent his cook with some breakfast. He brought some porridge, which wasn’t like our porridge and made with oats; it seemed to be made with another type of grain. It was bloody beautiful. He delivered it in a hot plastic container and motioned for me to scrape it onto my plate so he could take the container back to Bala.
Sallie and Martin arrived at about 10.00 am. I’d spent the previous hour looking out my window for their black Pajero. It was hilarious when they arrived. They had so much gear for my room that they looked like they’d been to Biratnagar’s version of Ikea. They had two thick foam mattresses, sheets that were really just lengths of white material purchased from a fabric shop, four pillows, towels and food — it was great and really made this ridiculous existence comfortable. Sallie had also bought me a replacement cell phone in Biratnagar. It was a classic phone and almost an antique, but I loved it. All the phone did was make phone calls and send text messages. There was no camera or internet connection and I really liked that. Plus, it was small which made it easy to hide. I was finally able to contact my daughter Sayge, and it was a dream to hear her voice. I’d sent her repeated text messages while in the gaol, but she had never replied. Obviously I thought I’d been forgotten, but it turned out that her mother had stopped paying her ever-increasing phone bills — not a bad idea, but crap timing.