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I
arrived here on Wednesday at Monkey Island Prison which is located
appropriately enough on Monkey Island just off the coast of South
Africa, and I've been hard at work writing my “Report from
the Field” ever since. To say that it is an island is
somewhat of a misnomer, because it is only separated from the mainland
by a channel about two feet wide and six inches deep. Really,
you could easily step over onto it, so I don't know why they call
it an island. Last year they built a million-dollar state-of-the-art
bridge across to it, which seemed like a waste of money to me. But
then what do I know about bridges? Unfortunately, I was not
able to use this wonderful new bridge because I was the victim of
a rare all-four-tire blowout while driving through the village of
Burgersdorp, and I only had one spare tire with me. The Tourist
Commissioner in Burgersdorp told me they didn't have any spare tires
for my type of vehicle so he had to arrange alternative travel for
me, which involved a train to Mt. Zebra, a bus to Rossingberg, and
then a taxi to the tiny airfield at Umtata, where I chartered the
African version of a Cessna to fly me over and parachute me and
my suitcases onto Monkey Island.
Once I floated down through
the salty South African air and landed, I found myself standing
in front of the notorious and evil-looking Commandant Dr. Oudtshoorn
Grootegraaf. He was carrying his trademark silver- handled
bullwhip and wearing his characteristic black felt patches over
both eyes, yet I sensed that he was watching me closely. He
evidently didn't remember how I tried to break into the prison back
in 1990, and promised that I would never, ever try to file a “Report”
from here again, and he introduced himself to me and offered me
a welcoming Brown Kroonstad Ale, then he snapped his bullwhip and
several primates in prison garb rushed out and grabbed my suitcases
and dragged them into the visitor's block. I was anxious to
question Dr. Grootegraaf about the reports I had heard of improper
treatment at his prison, but frankly he scared the daylights out
of me, so I didn't say anything. It was late in the day, and
after a hearty supper of boerewors and curry in the prison mess,
it was off to my cell and a 9pm lockdown.
I frankly avoided Dr. Grootegraaf
for the next several days, although I often saw him watching me
from the upper tier of the main cellblock as I wandered around taking
notes for my “Report.” I heard the bullwhip snapping
in his office, and I just couldn't get up the nerve to interview
him. It was eerie how he could appar- ently see even though
his eyes were covered by those felt patches. The guards told
me that most of the inmates had violated South Africa's Monkey Laws
and were here on long sentences. On Saturday I was allowed
to visit the fruit farm on the south side of the island and observed
the prisoners picking fruit. They seemed rather dejected to
me, but what do I know about fruit? Inside the prison, the
inmates boxed the fruit and carried the heavy containers out to
the truck bay. It appeared to be an extremely miserable existence
to me, but I was loathe to challenge Dr. Grootegraaf about it, and
on Sunday, after a parting Brown Kroonstad Ale, he said goodbye
to me and took his leave, snapping his whip in the air. Although
he had invited me to stay longer, I used the excuse of having to
meet a deadline to decline, and I gladly stepped over the channel
and walked quickly away from Monkey Island Prison.
That's about it for this issue.
Not my usual kind of “Report,” I must say.
Next time I'll try to get over the trauma of this experience and
make it to.... Oh, yeah, there's not going to
be a 'next time.' Bummer. Well, all you great readers,
this is it. Thanks for tuning in and sticking with me. Maybe
sometime I'll collect all of my exciting and educational “Reports”
and publish them as a book. Maybe I'll charge $29.99 for it.
Yeah, that's the ticket. So until then, I'll just say,
“So long.” |
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