Story for performance #641
webcast from Sydney at 07:03PM, 23 Mar 07

And now I stood on tiptoe at the edge of paradise, as a line of pelicans heaved themselves off the water and, beating their wings slowly, banked with the utmost languor over the bay. Out fishing for the day. The water was silver and flat, barely a ripple. From the thick mangroves across the way the conversations of birds tickled my ears. Over the hills of the Cuban hinterland, the clouds remaining from the night’s storm had ensnared the early morning sun in brilliant orange and pink billows, piling high up into the heavens.

When the Hercules had landed, had I been asleep, or unconscious? The metallic racket of the forklift coming up into the hold to deliver it of its cargo scarcely stirred my torpor. The guards, who had been waiting for me on the tarmac came up to unchain me. They kept their distance, deterred no doubt by the torrent of puke down the front of my orange overalls. They stirred me with long-legged pokes. There was a brief discussion amongst them as to whom befell the task of approaching me to unlock my chains. The most highly ranked man had that on his side, another bought his way out with the promise of a round of beers. No, two rounds. Finally the unlucky candidate took a deep breath, darted in, and hurriedly unlocked the handcuffs and leg irons which had kept me spread-eagled and attached to the bulkhead during the hurricane. Without them I would have been flung about the hold: they had undoubtedly saved my life. A life I preferred unsaved. As I rose, unsteadily, the men stepped briskly backwards, swinging their weapons around to keep me at heal. I stumbled down the loading bay ramp, gasping at the crisp, cool sea air which ignited the burning acid of the vomit encrusted in my throat.

And there, a surprising thing happened: for a brief instant I was taken under the wing of a compassionate American—the only one to exhibit feelings other than hostility or contempt since my arrival in New York. He was an air traffic controller, who had come down to discuss the conditions of the flight with the pilot. He had rank, and let it be known in no uncertain terms. He gave my guards a dressing down for my treatment, he requisitioned me and led me (holding his distance) to the pilots’ washroom, where I was given soap and a towel, a pair of military fatigues. I would not be wearing orange for a short while…for the first time since my arrest, I would not have that vibrating colour lying low below my sight, sending premises of a migraine into my brain.

Guantánamo Bay is a large, inland body of water on the southern coast of Cuba, open to the ocean through a narrow strait. A ferry links the airfield on the western side to the harbour and garrison town on the east. I was chained onto the bench in an open truck and, surrounded by my guards, it was driven onto the flat-topped ferry, which set off chugging across the water. A moment of sublime peace, the sun well up, sky a brilliant pale blue, the water deep velvet. A young couple hugged each other. She cuddled an oversize Mickey Mouse. They had been to Orlando on honeymoon. She had a high-pitched voice, was telling everyone about the fun they had had, but now it was back to the grindstone. He just stared at her, his entire face between crew-cut and the wisps of a beard barely out of childhood, brimming with vacant love.

Now we were driving through the town, had left the harbour installations behind us. Warehouses gave way to civilian neighbourhoods, a large supermarket, a high school surrounded by playing fields. A yellow school bus unloaded its cohort of shrieking children. At every turn I could see the bay’s inlets splitting the residential neighbourhoods into a succession of peninsulas, with their low, ample houses on broad lawns, luxurious vegetation, and the sound of sprinklers mingling with birds and crickets.

We screeched to a stop in the McDonald’s parking lot, my guards shouted ‘Go! Go! Go!’ as half their number leaped off and stormed the building, coming back by and by with several paper bags loaded with merchandise. An iguana skittered across the parking lot and disappeared into a bin full of greasy wrappings.

The bay behind us, we drove into the hills. The guards were sucking in hamburgers like chain-smokers, ditching their detritus as we rode along. I could see how their body frames would evolve. Though today fit and trim from military drill, the reservoirs of fat were silently bloating under their skins. The truck sped along the twisty road and, cresting the hill, I suddenly had a view across the open sea, the dark blue swells marching in to rise up and burst upon the rocky coast.

And now I had arrived. I was directed up the concrete path between two high, barbed-wire fences, and led directly to my quarters. A spare room, a low alcove with a mattress: a window seat, a narrow, vertical window. It might have been designed by an architect with a sense for the ascetic, a monastery cell. I thought of Le Corbusier’s La Tourette in the lush, green hills near Lyon. Outside it was stiflingly hot. For the first time I noticed the murmur of the air conditioning, a sound which would permanently invade my silence. I turned around, a stainless steel toilet bowl jutted diagonally into the room. It was stained with the blackened sediments of fossilized faeces, and a spattering of many fine droplets of blood. That was fresh, certainly from this very morning.

The guard at the door looked in and shouted, ‘Got any problem, just ring room service!’ With a loud guffaw, he shot the bolt.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Joseph Rabie.