Going to Prison

When I was 19 years old, I experienced one of those mystical situations where the universe seems to conspire, with conflating events, to test who you are.  Three things happened in curious succession.

First, I had this summer job where I'd saved what was a ton of money for a 19 year old in 1990 - $5,000. 

Next, I was dating a gorgeous girl I was crazy about. She'd done pretty well at this summer job, too, so we both had some money.  We impulsively agreed to bunk off college for the semester and spend a few months travelling around Europe together.  With the money we had saved we'd be living large... you know, eating at places called restaurants, that sort of thing. It would be a romantic escapade. We bought the plane tickets and started planning.

Third, I got arrested.

I was driving home after a night out drinking with friends when I realised I wasn't in a fit state to drive. So I pulled over to sleep it off. Unfortunately, when I passed out I left the car running.  A policemen noticed my car, and in America that still counts as a DUI. He takes me to jail and charges me - the crux of this story is the court date.  

If the court date is set for when I'm in Europe, no problem. Just show my plane tickets and I can reschedule when I'm back in the country. If it's before we leave, we have to hope it's at least two weeks before we leave.

Here's why. The penalty for DUI is either a $5000 fine or 14 days in prison. If I pay the $5k, I have no travel money. If I accepted the prison time, and the court date is less than two weeks, then I could still be in prison when the flight departs. 

Of course, fate intervenes and the court date is set for just 10 days before the flight is scheduled to depart. What to do.

There was only one hope. The prosecutor tells me if I plead guilty, and go to prison, I'd usually serve less than half the sentence for good behaviour.  So I could, in theory, just plead guilty, go to prison voluntarily, even though I had the exact amount of money in the bank needed to pay the fine.

As it's my only chance of making it to Europe with this girl, I say yes.  Send me to prison.

At the time I agreed it, I hadn't given one thought to the prison itself - Atlanta Fulton County Penitentiary. It is located in the centre of Atlanta, which has its fair share of rough criminals. But I didn't think about that. I just thought about being good, doing my time and getting to Europe with my girl. Besides, they're not gonna but some college kid on a DUI charge in prison with hardened criminals, are they?

Then I arrived at Atlanta Fulton County Penitentiary. Remember those amazing, beautiful shots of Shawshank prison, the textured stone, the grand architecture? AFCP is nothing like that. It's a huge geometric lump of cheap, dirty cement, with almost no windows - just an angular entrance which has a dark door at the heart of the angle, like you walk in its backside.

I start wondering, what have I done. They take your stuff, hose you down, strip search you, and give you a prison outfit.  

I stopped thinking about my girlfriend.

They took me to cell block H which was triangular, with 30 cells over two floors for 60 men, smaller than I expected.  Two sides of the triangle housed the cells.  The third was a large wall which would have had windows had the architect not been Franz Kafka.

Looking around the room, I see 58 African-American men staring at me, and a cold chill comes over for me. For this first time, I'm scared. I'd be lying if I didn't admit the racial card was part of that fear, but only part. These guys looked rough, and they're all just watching me walk into the room. Time slows down. I'm 19 and it was an intimidating situation.

So I walk over to the one other white guy in the room. Both then and now, I thought it was weak of me; why was I so magnetically drawn to this one other white guy, what made me think he would be any more supportive than any other man there. But I was just afraid, looking for something familiar.

The other familiar thing I saw, in a stack of other board games, was a chess board. Lamely, I ask the white dude if he plays chess. He doesn't. However, another man chirps out, helpfully, "hey man, ole LeRoy is the chess master in H Block..."

So before I could say a word, I'm sitting across LeRoy who is 5'10 and 300 pounds, with a chess board between us.

There's no game on the television, nothing else to do. And so it begins: all the other 58 inmates surround us in circular fashion, and start murmuring between themselves. A sense of suspense begins to build.

LeRoy grabs a black and white pawn, holds one in each hand, and asks me to choose.  I choose white. For the chess geeks out there, I start with e4, and he responds c5 - a Sicilian Defence. Interesting. Over the next few moves I realise LeRoy can play.

But he and I are the only people who can. They knew nothing about chess, but they knew who they supported. When each of us moved, everyone reacted loudly with enthusiastic cheer's or damning boo's. Just imagine. I move, and nearly sixty men "Booooo" in unison.  LeRoy moves, and they celebrate wildly. Repeat. No matter how good or bad the move, the same reaction. 

My heart is still beating through my skin. But I look at LeRoy, and LeRoy can tell I'm not giving him the game. I'm playing to win. His eyes, just slightly, smile at me. Leroy and I share some sort of bond, a mutual respect, and the situation becomes a surreal manifestation of transcendent beauty. I'm playing this really good chess match, in prison, in front of a screaming audience. Completely surreal experience.

My fear subsides. Looking at LeRoy I realise I'm more than safe, I've entertained them. I'm Golden. They all continue to hoot and holler, and it become a bit of a fun game, with everyone laughing. In the end, I won that first match. LeRoy shook my hand, and the crowd faded away.  We played another match, and another, and LeRoy won both. In truth, he was a better chess player than me.

When it came to meal time, that fabled crucible where the new inmate has to find a table to eat, LeRoy called me over. The boys on H block had reserved a spot for me. They were awesome.  They looked after me over the next few days, LeRoy and I played several more games of chess (he won slightly more than me, but I won a few more times).  As weird as it sounds, I had a great time in prison.  

LeRoy taught me a lot over those few days. He was quiet and intelligent. Mostly, he taught me to back myself, to have courage, and let the chips fall where they may.

As it turns out, they released me after about 5 days for good behaviour, and I had a great time travelling around Europe.

A Meeting In Harare, 1999.

By November 1999, Robert Mugabe had ruled Zimbabwe since the early 70s .  He was a leader of the native African power grab as the colonial powers departed the continent.  Despite all the talk of democracy and fairness for the people, we now know these leaders just enriched themselves.

By the time I was travelling through Zimbabwe, these tactics had transformed themselves into 'land reform'.  In real terms, this translated to Mugabe arming gangs to intimidate white farmers, in some cases murdering them, until they agreed to leave their farms, or sell them at a fraction of their worth.  (The politics are more complicated than that, but I'm simplifying it as the politics aren't germane to this story).  The point is, there were active communities of gangs acting in anarchic ways all over the county.

Living in London, I'd seen articles in newspapers about Mugabe, and the unrest in Zimbabwe. I knew there was turmoil.  I'd scanned across photos, full of civic mayhem. But I hadn't read the articles - I was on my way to the sports page.

So when I decided to hike about 5 miles into Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, from the Backpackers Lodge on Kilwinning Road, I was relatively ignorant, or näive. I assumed it all happened elsewhere.

At that point, I'd been travelling through Africa for about two months, and travelling with Anniken, who I would later marry and have three children, for about a month.  African towns were often heart-wrenching visits, full of children begging for anything.  Mostly, these kids were full of life and humour, and nothing like the pathetic images the charities use to raise money. The kids were fun!  But behind the curtains, one could find the horror stories.  I didn't blame Anniken for not wanting to go into town, and was glad she hadn't later that day. So I went alone.

The route into Harare along Airport Road is pretty flat - it's a divided highway, fairly straight, with some neighbourhoods on one side and large fields on the other. It was a typical day in Africa, sunny and a bit humid. I set off early, maybe 9am.

I don't remember much about the journey into Harare. I did a little shopping. And as I departed, I held a plastic bag. I remember it dangling by my side. I know it was before lunch, as I was hoping to get back to the Lodge before the heat of the day. I wore cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and pair of flip-flops, for which I would soon be grateful.

I was probably about half-way back when I noticed, across the divided highway, a group of about 30 young African men who all looked pretty fit, like in their late teens or early 20s, turn from a neighbourhood side street onto the opposite side of the highway I was walking. The divide on this highway was pretty wide, and they were ahead of me, maybe 100 yards away.

A tingle chilled my spine. Like some sort of primal warning system, something about this group of young men felt menacing. I'd been travelling around Africa for weeks, through Kenya, Tanzania and Zambia. Even hitchhiking occasionally. I'd seen plenty of groups of young men. I'd never felt anything like this. I made an effort to neither quicken nor slow my pace. I was walking my direction, opposite side of the highway, and they were...

Just like that, running directly toward me.  Surely not, I thought, and looked behind me to hopefully find something else. Nothing but fields. They were definitely sprinting towards me.  I don't remember hearing them shout or holler anything; it's all very silent in my memory.  

Time slowed. They crossed the opposite side of the highway, and were racing across the grass median. Right at me. I dropped my bag. I looked along the highway for hope of rescue. No cars coming. They were closer now... what was happening? Getting nearer. I looked down at my feet, and realised that a) I've never been a sprinter, in the best of conditions I wasn't going to outrun these guys, and b) running makes you look like prey, and predators love a chase; even still, I needed the third fact, c), that I was wearing flip-flops, and running through the thicket would hurt like hell, to realise running was futile. 

In that moment, my heart seemed to stop racing, a calm came over me, and I made the decision that I believe saved me from... something.  

I walked toward them. Smiling. With my hand extended, to shake theirs.

By this time, they were nearly on me, and as I walked toward them, closing the distance, we met in the middle of my side of the divided highway, where about 30 men encircled me.  I'd been right - they were all pretty young and fit. One guy, about 6'4" and 250 lbs, with an Aaron Neville birthmark, looked and screamed at me in Shona, the local language. I couldn't understand what he said, but I tried to shake his hand. He wouldn't take mine, but the guy to his right would. I smiled. He didn't smile, but he took my hand. I then turned to the next guy, who also had an angry expression, but I flashed my gormless grin... and he accepted my hand, and even shook it, too. I smiled even bigger. I kept finding a hand to shake, avoiding the big guy, and smiling, as if I were a politician on some sort of tour, welcoming them to this side of the highway. You'll love it here boys, it's sunny!!

As I was looking for another hand to shake, a little guy broke through my extended arm, and pushed the big guy with the Aaron Neville birthmark - hard!  Started really yelling at him, and getting in his face like the piercing approach of a small dog you can't ignore - it has teeth, after all.

Even now, I don't know who was more shocked, me or the big guy, but I remember looking in his eyes and feeling a bit of relief.  For whatever their reasoning, his aggression was more in keeping with the situation than the little guy's protection, who was was clearly berating the big guy. Even if he spoke in Shona, so I will never know for sure, I believe he said, "Can't you tell this guy's retarded! Look at his stupid smile! He's not a farmer, and he's too stupid to know when to run. Now, come on you big oaf, let's go smoke a cigarette." 

Then, as quickly as it began, they dispersed. Melted away. I stood there for a moment, somehow vacantly calm. I'm glad Anniken wasn't there - who knows how I would have reacted if I'd felt the need to protect someone (although they may not have bum-rushed me had she been there). And I'm glad I wore flip-flops.

Mostly, though, what I learned on the side of that highway in Zimbabwe in November 1999 was this: even when there are genuine reasons to be afraid, acting through fear is the wrong thing to do; and if, when you are afraid, you can look down, gather your nerve, and then raise your hand with a smile to greet the world, you'll be surprised by the sort of situations that will actually work.  

Thank you, crazy gang in Harare.