No More Tomorrows (18 page)

I also took care of my face and body by eating well, doing twice-daily exercises, twice-daily cleansing and moisturising, plucking my eyebrows, dying my hair and wearing make-up. Like I said earlier, just because I felt like crap it didn’t mean I had to
look
like it!

I threw myself into a bit of a routine to help pull me through the days until I went home. Usually I got up around 5.30 a.m. to use the bathroom first, while the girls were still asleep and before the heat of the day stewed up the mess on the floor. It was back to basics: no basin, no shower. I had to spit into a hole in the floor when I brushed my teeth and I took a shower by ladling dirty cold water over myself from a bucket. God only knows exactly what was in the putrid water but it stank and gave me enormous red itchy rashes. Often it was black, full of sooty dirt, or dark-brown with mud. Centipede-type creatures also swam from the tap. Even the Indonesian girls who’d grown up using the local water got skin rashes from this foul jail stuff.

After showering, I’d rub cream into my rashes and then sit on my bed to do my little exercise routine for about forty-five minutes: sit-ups, stretches and weights using two water bottles that I’d filled with pebbles. Then I’d eat a couple of slices of bread spread with jam or peanut butter before the cage was unlocked at 7.30 a.m.

The focus of my morning was to collect a bucket of the filthy water to use during the day to flush the toilet. It was a pretty simple task but it took up to an hour, as we all shared one slow dripping tap. Even if we had two buckets, we were only allowed to fill up one at a time – it was the law of the jungle. I’d queue again in the afternoon to get water for the next morning’s shower.

My afternoon exercise routine was pretty similar to my morning one. I’d work out in the cell after lock-up with Sofie, a 26-year-old local girl. We did weights and she’d sit on my feet while I did sit-ups, and vice versa.

It was survival of the fittest. You had to stand up for yourself or you got trampled. Girls would just brazenly steal your clothes or your food right in front of you and rip a water bucket out of your hand or kick it over for the sheer hell of it. In the first few weeks, I was a soft target. I got hit often. I was too scared to react. What would they do to me? Who were these people? I’d seen plenty of girls suddenly turn very nasty. If prisoners or guards asked me for something, I’d give it to them. But often they’d just take it. My bucket of water frequently got snatched as I filled it up. A girl would tip the water into her own bucket and hurl mine back empty. I’d timidly start filling again, thinking,
Grrrr . . . I hate this place.
It only stopped when I finally had the guts to scream, ‘No!’ But I couldn’t stop girls in my cell from sneaking water during the night. Those too lazy to collect their own just stole. I regularly woke up to find no water left to shower. Very annoying.

The most important part of my routine were my visits. They were vital. They were my lifeline. They brightened my soul. They helped me to keep a grip on my sanity by giving me a line to the people I loved and to the life I loved. Without those visits, I would have crumpled in a sad lost heap.

Merc, big Wayan, little Wayan and Nyeleigh surprised me with a visit. I had such a great day, Wayan and Nyeleigh both drew picture collages for me. They are so cute. I said to Wayan, ‘Do you know where you are?’ His reply: ‘The police station.’ Afterwards when we were saying goodbye he asked me, ‘Do you sleep in the cages like the tigers do at the zoo, Auntie Pelle?’ And that’s exactly how I feel!

Diary entry, 5 December 2004

Merc visited me every day, bringing food, toilet paper, cleaning productsand anything else I needed, including updates on my case. Poor Merc had lost her old life, too. She’d planned to return to Australia at Christmas so little Wayan could start school in Queensland, wherehe was enrolled. I’d assumed they’d still go, but Merc refused to leave without me. She’d stay to look after me, like she’d always done, until I could go home, too. My beautiful devoted sister was going to do this sentence with me, negotiating the essentials of her own life – her kids and Wayan – around her daily jail visits, dealing with the lawyers and fending off lots of harassing journalists.

I tried not to burden Merc unnecessarily with my pain and fears. She was stressing and hurting enough; she’d already spent a week bedridden from stress. But my pain was her pain. If I hurt, she hurt. If tears uncontrollably poured down my face, it shattered Merc. I saw it in her eyes. It tore her apart to see me upset. But she’d always fight to stay perky and positive. ‘It’s OK, Schapelle, we’ll get you home. It’s OK.’ She held a vice-like grip on her own tears and fears in front of me, but I knew she often went home and threw up.

I couldn’t ask for a more perfect sister.

My mum also came every day when she was in Bali, usually bringing half the local supermarket with her. She felt helpless, so feeding me was at least something she could do. Often we didn’t say a lot; she’d just hold me or clasp my hand. She didn’t ask if I was OK – we both knew I had to be – and she could always tell just by looking at me. She was my mum; she knew me. When I came out shaking or crying, she never asked what was wrong. It hurt us both too much. She knew I didn’t like to burden her with everything I had to put up with in here. It was breaking her heart that she couldn’t fix this for her baby girl. She couldn’t put a plaster on it and kiss it better like she used to do. I love my mum so much. It broke my heart to see her hurting so badly.

Other family and close friends regularly flew in to see me, too. As the weeks passed, I even started to get visits from supportive strangers. It helped to heal my aching heart.

In the jail, we all had little ways of trying to make life a bit more bearable.

One of the girls is really funny. She’s twenty-four years old and each night she gets all dressed up, complete with the full face of make-up, and says, ‘See you, I’m going to a bar in Kuta. I’ll be back at 5 a.m.’ Then she takes her make-up off and that’s about as much English as she knows.

Diary entry, 16 December 2004

I wasn’t the only one dying to get out of this hellhole; we all were. But while we couldn’t escape in reality, we could in fantasy. I sometimes did. I’d throw on my bikini and sarong and sing out to the girls in my cell, ‘Bye! I’m going to Turtle Island today. I’ll keep an eye out for cute boys. See you tonight!’ Then I’d walk down the muddy pebbled path to my little blow-up kiddies’ pool at the end. It had been an inspired gift from Mum’s brother, Uncle Shun, who knew I was a water baby.

Went down near Salma’s room to fill my bucket this morning, and the pool was already out on her grass. She’d blown it up last night. How exciting. We’re trying to fill it up with the hose bit by bit in between people’s buckets being filled.

Diary entry, 22 November 2004

I shared my pool with Salma, the Mexican girl, who was the only other foreign female prisoner and someone I’d become friends with. We started to spend some afternoons together, hanging out by the pool, drinking cans of soft drink and snacking on her homemade popcorn.

In her three and a half years in Hotel K, Salma had made life as comfortable for herself as possible. She kept to herself, obeyed all the rules and had slung the guards some cash to get the best-located cell at the very end of the path. No one walked past, so she had the luxury of privacy. She’d also transformed her cell, painting it white with blue trim, putting tiles down and shelves up. She’d furnished it nicely and planted her own little garden out the front. But most enviably she had some say in who shared with her. Usually, it was no more than two others, but sadly I had to stay in the pre-sentencing cells. I didn’t ask how much she’d paid for her upgrade.

Trying to create a bit of light-hearted fun whenever I could was vital to me. I knew I needed it to stay sane. I didn’t want to be sad or angry all the time. Most days I tried to spend a bit of time in my little pool, lying back, soaking up the rays, reading a book and listening to my iPod. I also spent time playing badminton, chatting to the girls, plucking their eyebrows and my own, cutting their hair and enjoying pampering sessions with the girls in my cell – doing face masks, hair treatments and massages.

The other girls had their own tricks to lift their spirits. Every Saturday night, Puspa went to another cell for ‘party night’, some girls had regular sleepovers in other cells or spent afternoons drinking arak, the local brew, and playing cards. Quite a few of the girls just got out of it smoking drugs. Naturally, I steered clear of them.

Sonia found her own unique ways of filling in her time, usually annoying the hell out of everyone else.

All the grounds of the girls’ block were so flooded, idiot Sonia went swimming and doing backstroke!

Diary entry, 20 January 2005

6.30 a.m. woke up to Sonia singing at the top of her lungs. By 10.30 a.m. I had just about had enough of her singing the one verse, ‘One day at a time, sweet Jesus – that’s all I’m asking from you.’ I went to her, asking if she could please stop or sing a different song. She does not understand how irritating she is! She thought for a bit then said to me, ‘Oh, these words, same like in jail, yeah? One day at a time!’ She sang a different song, still at the top of her lungs, but came back to the first song about ten minutes later. Luckily Merc came at 11 a.m. and saved me. When I returned at 12 she was still at it.

Diary entry, 6 December 2004

Being continually stuck with all these women often did my head in. I was never left alone. I never had any personal space. I was endlessly fascinating, with my blue eyes and white skin. They’d sit on my bed, stroke my arms, offer to wash my clothes, massage my feet and ask incessantly, ‘Skepel, you shower, you eat? You have shower, you eat?’ If I cried, it got worse. ‘What wrong, Skepel? What wrong?’ Sometimes I just wanted to strangle them. I wanted to scream out: ‘Leave me alone . . .
Fuck off !
’ But I didn’t. I knew afterwards I’d feel too bad. I’d just breathe and walk outside, sometimes down to Salma’s cell, sometimes to my little pool.

Sat in my pool for an hour. That’s the only place I can be alone because it’s in the sun and I lie down and pretend to be asleep, so I don’t have to answer them when they yell out, asking if I’m hot, telling me, ‘It too hot’, or telling me to get out of the sun, asking if I’m showering.

Diary entry, 6 December 2004

I also started going to church, as an escape from the women’s section and a place to cry. Church and visits were the only times we were regularly allowed out. Initially at least, church gave me a bit of privacy.

I cried throughout the whole service: two hours. I found myself staring at Jesus – whether sitting or standing, my eyes never left the painting, as if he were drawing out all my pain and fear. Halfway through the service Chris Currall and an Indonesian prisoner joined me in the back row. Chris patted me on my back and let me be. After the service I met three of the African prisoners, one had already been sentenced to death.

Diary entry, 3 December 2004

Church and visits were the only time the sexes mixed, though prisoners did find ways around that rule. Talking to men was a good change, a nice rebalancing. I grew close to one guy, Eddie, who was in here for possession of eight Ecstasy tablets. I first met him at Polda. He was an Indonesian Buddhist but converted to Christianity. We could meet at church. He had a miraculous effect on me, always instantly turning my tears into a smile. I started to lean on him emotionally. On my black days when I cried inconsolably for hours, the guards would bring him to the women’s block to calm me down.

I started having more black days: more days when I couldn’t get out of bed or stop crying. I just wanted to go home. This was so, so unfair. It was not my crime. I was trying so hard to be patient and positive, trying so hard to do my best. But I was teetering on the brink. I couldn’t hold my tears back. I cried for whole days. I got exhausted and dizzy. My heart ached. I had to get out; I had to prove my innocence. I had held on tightly to hope, but as the weeks passed, my grip started to slip.

This is my life. I know I’m innocent – so hard to prove. Really we are guilty until proven innocent, which hurts so deeply.

Diary entry, 30 November 2004

Lily and Vasu had returned from Australia, from all their meetings with Qantas, the airports and politicians, with zilch. My case was going nowhere. I knew I wouldn’t get home for Mum’s birthday in January. I had no idea when I would be going home. I just
had
to prove my innocence in court.