Early mornings are great for little glimpses into other lives. While the young herd is still sleeping, just a jet-lagged sleepy soul walked into the bath room, complaining about the cold (he is from Canada, as I find out), the older ones are populating the breakfast tables. They trickle into the kitchen, few enough to have some earl morning chatter.
An ancient looking man with a green t-shirt and a cross at the back is asking for the newspaper. He wants to read about his Bulldogs win against Port Adelaide last night. He made it all the way from Portland, a Victorian town six hours East of Melbourne. Today he will make his way back, a flight to Melbourne and a train ride home. Besides footy, religion seems to be his passion. He loves to talk about the Vatican, a place in Rome with a big dome, as he puts it.
A fit looking man in his fifties listens politely. Slick black hair, black shirt and black tracksuit pants with three white stripes, he is off for exercise next to keep fit, he says. He is here for training for a new job, five more weeks to go. Originally he is from Switzerland but after 32 years downunder he does not speak German anymore. We exchange a few sentences in our first language, I do not think he does that badly, before we fall back into English. Asked for his occupation, he hesitates. Corrections. First immigration and then corrections. He speaks about respect. Do not scream at me, I will just walk away. If I stay, things just get worse.
I ask him whether he gets screamed at a lot. Oh yes, he answers. By prisoners? Prisoners, staff, everybody is screaming all the time. I was spit on, pushed around, punched, knocked out unconsciously, everything.
Recently some thugs were waiting outside his house, just made their presence felt out there in the dark. That’s why he is moving, going interstate, needing training before he can work here. Not sure, but I hope it works out, he ponders. I hope so too, and wish him good luck.