Published December 21, 2014
Rowan Callick (Asia-Pacific editor)
My first night in jail was uncomfortable but educative.
And unexpected.
It had novelty value for the other inmates too, since the cell was in Papua New Guinea, where although it has its share of rough diamonds and remittance men, relatively few Europeans find their way behind bars.
I was heading home in Port Moresby after a long day at the local newspaper and magazine publishing house where I worked, in a car used by our advertising sales staff during the day. My own vehicle was being serviced.
There was an irritatingly long and slow queue of cars along Ela Beach road, due to a police check.
But the beer waiting in the fridge wouldn’t get warm, unless there was another blackout, and I was relaxed enough when I edged up to the checkpoint.
The officer took a look around the car, and then ordered me to get out, and raise my hands in the air.
What on earth could I have done wrong? I thought as he patted me down.
“We’ll be taking you to the police station sir,” he told me in a spirit of some excitement. He gave the impression, as he handed me over to his colleagues, that he’d landed a big bad fish.
“But what have I done?”
“A very serious offence, sir. Your registration is a day overdue.”
I explained that this was not my own car, that it was a work vehicle, that there must have been an unfortunate oversight.
But to no avail. The arresting officer – who took on the righteous demeanour of Sean Connery in The Untouchables – issued me the standard warning, and escorted me to a police car which drove to the Badili police station.
My arrest excited no small interest there. After I was led to a back room, a parade of police walked past to inspect their prize catch.
The friendly sergeant there took my part, however. He said there would be no need for me to spend the night in the cells – the first time this grim prospect had occurred to me – as long as I could be bailed out.
I was allowed to make the statutory single phone call. I rang our accountant, an Englishman who was responsible for keeping the car registrations up to date – and who would, hopefully, have some cash.
But no, I was out of luck. Everything was banked, and he only had a few kina on him – not the K250 needed for my bail.
Don’t worry, he told me jovially, I’ll drive round some friends and collect together enough cash.
So the wait began. And the countdown. The sergeant told me that if the money didn’t arrive soon, he’d have to take me down to the main police station, at Boroko, where the cells were located.
It occurred to me to start a conversation about the perversity of my position.
Port Moresby suffers five times the average global murder rate, but a large proportion remain unsolved. People drive fully drunk, with impunity. Cars and minibuses remain on the road that appear to be death-traps as they belch out acrid black smoke.
And I was being charged with driving a car with a rego a day overdue.
But I still figured that my prospects of liberty would be better served by lying low, by confessing my crime(s) and craving the indulgence of the legal system.
That didn’t work, though. When the sergeant concluded that our accountant was a categoric no-show, he put handcuffs on me – apologising, as he did so, that this was a requirement for every prisoner taken down to Boroko – and led me out to a police van.
At Boroko, I emptied my pockets, signed for the items, and was escorted to the male lock-up.
Fortunately, it was “lus wik” – the week after people received their fortnightly pay – so few of the usual drunks had enough money left to do sufficient damage to get banged up.
Nevertheless, they proved an attentive audience. Most, to judge by appearance and accents, were highlanders. Never has it been so beneficial to speak Tok Pisin, the local language.
What on earth was a white man doing there?
As I unfurled my mournful tale, they begin to smile, then snigger, and by the end they were in helpless laughter. Too good!
My cell-mates began to recount what had brought them to this city-centre free accommodation too: a pub brawl, an attempted break-in that went wrong, a car theft that ended in a crash.
The long night wore on, surprisingly entertainingly if uncomfortably – the cell was a raw concrete box, with a drain for obvious purposes running through.
As the tropical dawn approached, I heard the shout from the front desk: “Bail for prisoner Callick!”
Then… nothing. The cry was repeated, followed by: “Sergeant Kila, em I go long we?” (“Where is Sergeant Kila?”)
I peeped through the spy-hole in the door, and eventually spied Sergeant Kila emerging from the women’s cells opposite, tying up his belt as he did so, then searching the mass of keys until he eventually let me out.
Free at last. The accountant? He remains a friend. The registration charge? A modest fine, and a word of advice from the magistrate: Don’t let it happen again.
No, your honour. And I meant it.
