me a wad of fifties inside.
Journal extract (written a few days later)
The guy was Albanian, but could speak English. I didn’t realise how many Albanians lived in Greece. He told me he was in for something that happened ten years ago. He was doing a friend a favour by giving him a lift home on his motorbike. It turned out the friend had shitloads of stolen goods in his bag. They were randomly stopped by the police and the guy ran off leaving him in the shit. I told him my story and he replied, ‘Wow, that’s one fucked-up story!’
The police in Patras were absolute cunts, they don’t care one bit. I was standing by the little hole in the door saying ‘Signomi Kyrie – Sorry Sir’, but they walk past the door and blank me, or hold up their hand. Didn’t get any water for hours.
It took a while for us to get the attention of one of the officers. When we finally did, Sean offered him some money to buy a range of sandwiches, kebabs, frappes , fizzy drinks, bottles of water and packs of cigarettes. I ate one of the sandwiches and tried not to drink too much, but he insisted that I did. I appreciated it and thanked him for the generosity. It must have been at least 5 p.m. and if it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have eaten or drunk anything for two days.
It wasn’t long before Sean Penn was released from the cell and I was on my own. Later that evening I managed to get the attention of one of the officers and asked him if he could open my bag and hand me my journal to write in.
‘This is not a market place, this is a police station,’ he said. The comment frustrated me – I was desperate for the escape that writing had started to give me.
‘Sorry sir, I didn’t explain myself properly. I wasn’t looking to buy the notebook, I already own it.’
‘Do you think you are funny?’ he said in his thick Greek accent.
‘Why won’t you give it to me!?’
‘I am a policeman, I do not have to answer to you,’ he blurted.
Journal extract – Day 3 – 25 July 2009
The policeman woke me up at 3 a.m. Finally, I was allowed some clean clothes to wear. He said, ‘It’s going to be Monday when you see the judge.’ Hearing that I would definitely be in custody for another two days was a crap feeling.
I carried all my stuff out of the cell and he told me to put it all on top of my bag, rather than inside it. He cuffed me, then made me pack my bag. He could easily have let me pack it before being cuffed. They all stood around and watched me attempt to do it, dropping my possessions. They laughed at me, saying, ‘Kane grigora, Angleh malaka – Do it fast, English wanker.’ I just about managed to pack it when he got annoyed and did it himself, deliberately scrunching up the envelope Riya had given me and squeezing my toothpaste in the bag. My clothes were covered.
They put me in the same kind of small police van that I was put in when I first landed in Greece. I was by myself, locked up in the back. There were lots of seats, but he pointed at one at the front and said, ‘Sit there, and only there!’ I didn’t know why. I later realised that the air con hole above me was the only one without a protector, the kind in cars that allow you to change the direction of the airflow. He turned the air con on and I was freezing. I had been sweating from the heat and it just froze onto my skin.
After a while a policeman opened the cage door and asked if the air con was OK. I asked him to turn it down and gave him the hand gesture to say ‘down, not up’. The bastard purposely turned it up. I closed all the other air holes and sat on the other side, even though he told me not to.
We had parked on the ferry, waiting for it to move – it must have been two hours before it did. With the engine turned off, the icebox suddenly became a sauna. I sat for hours, listening to the bastards laughing and joking. The sun began to rise. Looking out of the little hole at the side of the van – I could see blue sea and
Journal extract (written a few days later)
The guy was Albanian, but could speak English. I didn’t realise how many Albanians lived in Greece. He told me he was in for something that happened ten years ago. He was doing a friend a favour by giving him a lift home on his motorbike. It turned out the friend had shitloads of stolen goods in his bag. They were randomly stopped by the police and the guy ran off leaving him in the shit. I told him my story and he replied, ‘Wow, that’s one fucked-up story!’
The police in Patras were absolute cunts, they don’t care one bit. I was standing by the little hole in the door saying ‘Signomi Kyrie – Sorry Sir’, but they walk past the door and blank me, or hold up their hand. Didn’t get any water for hours.
It took a while for us to get the attention of one of the officers. When we finally did, Sean offered him some money to buy a range of sandwiches, kebabs, frappes , fizzy drinks, bottles of water and packs of cigarettes. I ate one of the sandwiches and tried not to drink too much, but he insisted that I did. I appreciated it and thanked him for the generosity. It must have been at least 5 p.m. and if it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have eaten or drunk anything for two days.
It wasn’t long before Sean Penn was released from the cell and I was on my own. Later that evening I managed to get the attention of one of the officers and asked him if he could open my bag and hand me my journal to write in.
‘This is not a market place, this is a police station,’ he said. The comment frustrated me – I was desperate for the escape that writing had started to give me.
‘Sorry sir, I didn’t explain myself properly. I wasn’t looking to buy the notebook, I already own it.’
‘Do you think you are funny?’ he said in his thick Greek accent.
‘Why won’t you give it to me!?’
‘I am a policeman, I do not have to answer to you,’ he blurted.
Journal extract – Day 3 – 25 July 2009
The policeman woke me up at 3 a.m. Finally, I was allowed some clean clothes to wear. He said, ‘It’s going to be Monday when you see the judge.’ Hearing that I would definitely be in custody for another two days was a crap feeling.
I carried all my stuff out of the cell and he told me to put it all on top of my bag, rather than inside it. He cuffed me, then made me pack my bag. He could easily have let me pack it before being cuffed. They all stood around and watched me attempt to do it, dropping my possessions. They laughed at me, saying, ‘Kane grigora, Angleh malaka – Do it fast, English wanker.’ I just about managed to pack it when he got annoyed and did it himself, deliberately scrunching up the envelope Riya had given me and squeezing my toothpaste in the bag. My clothes were covered.
They put me in the same kind of small police van that I was put in when I first landed in Greece. I was by myself, locked up in the back. There were lots of seats, but he pointed at one at the front and said, ‘Sit there, and only there!’ I didn’t know why. I later realised that the air con hole above me was the only one without a protector, the kind in cars that allow you to change the direction of the airflow. He turned the air con on and I was freezing. I had been sweating from the heat and it just froze onto my skin.
After a while a policeman opened the cage door and asked if the air con was OK. I asked him to turn it down and gave him the hand gesture to say ‘down, not up’. The bastard purposely turned it up. I closed all the other air holes and sat on the other side, even though he told me not to.
We had parked on the ferry, waiting for it to move – it must have been two hours before it did. With the engine turned off, the icebox suddenly became a sauna. I sat for hours, listening to the bastards laughing and joking. The sun began to rise. Looking out of the little hole at the side of the van – I could see blue sea and
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