[Kabar-indonesia] Australian Feature: Life Behind Bars In Bali

[Joyo at aol.com]

The Australian (Australia)
Monday, November 13, 2006

Feature

Life Behind Bars In Bali

By Emma Tom

Emma Tom goes inside the prison where the Bali Nine and
Schapelle Corby live and finds that despite the corruption,
cashed-up prisoners have a more comfortable existence than
in an Australian jail

THE motley crowd queuing outside the curved white walls and
wire-topped fences of Kerobokan prison carry giant plastic
bags stuffed with instant noodles, toilet rolls and bottled
water. These supplies may look modest but they provide
crucial life support to starving inmates whose rations are
often nothing more than a banana, some pawpaw, five slices
of white bread and half a bowl of vegetables a day.

Denpasar's notorious prison is said to have eclipsed Kuta
beach as the prime attraction for Australian tourists in
Bali. But no one would ever come here for fun. For starters,
entry is extraordinarily difficult, an intimidating contact
sport that mirrors the chaos, corruption and charlatanism on
the streets.

The desperation here is palpable, especially since
September, when it was revealed that the 20-year prison
terms of four members of the Bali Nine heroin gang had been
upgraded to death by firing squad.

''The day the Supreme Court announced its irrational and
arrogant judgments was like waking all day from a nightmare
that wouldn't go away,'' says Ed Trotter, the Seminyak-based
Australian pastor dubbed the the Bali Nine's spiritual
adviser.

Trotter has lived in Bali since 1989 and helps friends,
families and supporters of Australian prisoners navigate the
inscrutable and at times soul-crushing Indonesian judiciary
and penal system. Asked what keeps him going, the
Pentecostal minister says the cliche of biblical faith --
that and pirate Seinfeld DVDs.

Kerobokan's famous Australian inmates don't want to talk to
any more journalists, but Trotter has text messaged one of
his contacts behind the white walls and arranged for me to
see another death-row prisoner called Luke. This 31-year-old
foreigner is waiting to be shot for smuggling 400g of heroin
in capsules in his stomach. He was originally sentenced to
life imprisonment but -- like Scott Rush, Tan Duc Than
Nguyen, Si Yi Chen and Matthew Norman from the Bali Nine --
had his punishment upgraded to death by firing squad after
appealing the severity of his sentence.

The word is that Luke is in a bad way. Apart from waiting
for the knock on his cell door that is likely to announce
his death, the jewellery maker rarely receives visitors and
is desperately short of food and drinking water.
One of the few who knows Luke exists is Simon, a Balinese
Christian cab driver who once shared a quiet cigarette with
the condemned man during a jail visit. I've already packed
Luke a food-based care package but Simon helps purchase
additional supplies at the heavily guarded Bintang
supermarket: toilet paper, soap, anti-dandruff shampoo, Tim
Tams, bottled water and cigarettes.

Asked what's Luke's brand of cigarettes, Simon laughs wryly.
''He's in prison,'' he says. ''Everything's his brand.''

Once at the jail, Trotter helps with the sign-in, which
requires writing down Luke's name and offence in a
registration book. Visiting hour is approaching and the
crush of plastic bag-wielding visitors surges against the
prison entrance. Every so often a guard on the inside opens
the big wooden door a fraction and several of the most
violent pushers get in.

Trotter, 55, throws himself into this slam dance with well-
practised gusto, though he says the entry procedures change
every time he comes.

On the other side of the gate is another registration desk,
which requires you to surrender your passport, mobile phone
and bribes to a phalanx of sullen guards. I follow Trotter's
lead and put the cash down with our passports as if it's the
most natural thing in the world. The two of us walk through
to the visiting area, an agreeable white courtyard with
gardens, wall murals, a white and ginger prison cat and a
guy with a puppy. Like the rest of Bali, Kerobokan is home
to a plethora of relentless pedlars, many of whom are
entrepreneurial inmates.

A dodgy small-time crim from the nearby island of Lombok
opens a bottle of Fanta and plonks it down on the cement in
front of me before I have a chance to say I don't want it.
''Drink it yourself,'' I tell him.

''Why, thank you,'' he replies, skolling it then demanding I
pay him double the original asking price. ''But you offered
to buy it for me,'' he insists, scandalised.

I pay the crook for the Fanta and give him another 5000
rupiah (70c) to rent two dirty cane mats to sit on, and
another 5000 rupiah to go into the main part of the jail to
find Luke.

Trotter says this is one of the big problems with the
Kerobokan visiting system. Just because you make it as far
as the visiting yard doesn't mean anyone will tell your
prisoner you're here. He says the relatives of detained
Australians who don't know the rules can sit for hours
waiting in vain.

Life in Kerobokan is harsh. The jail doesn't provide coffee
or tea, toiletries, clothes, medicine or work. Showers are a
bucket of water. Metal bunks or floor space are provided,
but not bedding. Those who can afford the room rent can
upgrade, but otherwise they're stuck in what's known as a
rat cell.

With sufficient money and outside connections, however, a
sentence here can actually be preferable to the rigidities
of the Australian penal system. Trotter certainly believes
that -- like Schapelle Corby -- some of the Bali Nine may
prefer to stay in Kerobokan rather than be repatriated as
part of any prisoner exchange deal struck between the
Australian and Indonesian governments.

Prisoners in Kerobokan can receive whatever supplies their
visitors bring in and are able to furnish their cells; run
mobile phones, fans, televisions and laptops; and buy beer
and even drugs. Most of these things are illegal, but in
Kerobokan, money moves mountains. A day trip outside for
medical treatment is said to cost about $120. Another
prisoner told an Australian newspaper he'd paid $35,000 to
get his sentence reduced from 12 years to five.

Matthew Norman arrives looking tall, slouchy and
extraordinarily ordinary. The 20-year-old's hair has only
just started growing back after he shaved it for his
sentencing, a measure he joked was to ensure he didn't have
a hair out of place in court.

Norman is annoyed at all the errors in the Australian media
coverage including a report that claimed he'd been watching
Police Academy DVDs. ''But that's just s..t,'' he says. ''I
hate that s..t.''

The pastor and the prisoner seem relaxed and fond of each
other. Trotter doesn't mention God and Norman doesn't
curtail his smoking or swearing. The swift Christian
conversions of Bali Nine members have drawn flak but Trotter
says he has great confidence in the spiritual commitment of
his two closest Bali Nine friends, Norman and Andrew Chan.

If they can avoid the firing squad, it is possible to
imagine these young Australians finding some solace in their
new religions, routines and relationships. Bali Nine mule
Renae Lawrence, for instance, is said to have developed a
strong friendship with Corby and a new lover, a Balinese
cellmate.

Luke finally arrives and I introduce myself awkwardly,
feeling as if I'm on a weird blind date. Luke's a man of few
words and is obsessed with his jail sentence. When he does
talk, it's usually about prisoners who got less time for
greater drug crimes. Asked what's been happening, he says
the electricity has been down for four days because one of
the Westerners is running a minibar fridge and it keeps
shorting the circuits.

As we chat, I can't help thinking about what will happen if
Luke's appeals fail. Under Indonesian execution procedures,
condemned criminals are taken to a secret location, usually
in the middle of the night, where a red target is marked on
their chests and they are blindfolded and tied to a pole or
tree.

A non-voluntary firing squad of either 12 or 14 policemen
then choose from a line of rifles lying on the ground. Only
two have live rounds. The executioners are told to aim for
the heart, but death does not always come quickly. A man who
helped with a 1995 execution told an Australian newspaper
that his victim kept gasping for breath for nearly five
minutes. ''It was like being part of a murder,'' he said.
''Everyone was quiet and everyone could hear him wheezing,
fighting for breath. You know, the heart was broken but the
body kept breathing.''
Before I leave, I slip some cash into Luke's care package so
he can purchase intra-prison food and contraband. I screw up
what I hope is a hefty wad and try to subtly shove it into
one of the Bintang shopping bags. Later I realise I
accidentally cleaned myself out.

Several days later, back in Australia, my phone rings and
it's Luke, calling from a friend's blackmarket mobile. He's
worried I accidentally left a stack of money in his
supermarket bag and wants to know how he can return it.

Bali: Paradise Lost? -- Emma Tom's book about Australia's
on-again, off-again relationship with Bali -- is published
by Pluto Press.

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Joyo Indonesia News Service
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