5

SAN PEDRO PRISON

I put my tie back on and the FELCN guards took me up the stairs and then outside into the glare of daylight. I stopped, wanting time for my eyes to adjust after so long without seeing the sun, but the guards pushed me into a police car and drove me to the courthouse. I was placed in a holding cell that was no different from the one I had just come from, except that there was a window high up in the wall. I waited there all day, watching the light through the window gradually fade. No one brought me any food or came near my cell. I coughed blood a few times into the corner. It was no use yelling out or banging on the door; I had to conserve my energy.

‘Thomas McFadden!’ someone finally called from the corridor.

I patted my hair and flattened out my tie, thinking I was going to appear before a judge. I had been wearing the same suit for thirteen days. I must have smelled bad, but I no longer noticed. Two policemen unlocked the door and helped me to my feet because I was too weak to stand properly on my own. They handcuffed me and led me outside and into the street.

I was expecting to be taken to court, but the two men in charge of me waved to an unmarked car on the street. When it stopped, the shorter, bossier policeman opened the door and said, ‘Suba,’ and then pointed for me to get in. ‘¡Suba!’ he repeated louder, when he saw that I was hesitating.

I thought they were trying to trick me. The driver wasn’t wearing a police uniform, and I could tell that the car, which was old, wasn’t a police vehicle. However, I was weak from hunger and my hands were cuffed behind my back, so they simply pushed my head down and threw me in. At first I thought they were taking me somewhere to kill me, because that sometimes happens with the police in South America. People just disappear. There had been no sign on top of the car and I only realised it was a taxi when I saw a cardboard sign on the dashboard and the driver stopped in traffic to buy cigarettes, blocking the whole road. After that, I relaxed a little.

When we stopped outside the prison gates, one of the policemen guarding me in the back seat asked me something in Spanish. I didn’t understand, so I just stared back at him, confused. He repeated the same phrase – ‘La tarifa’ – again and again. He sounded like he wanted something. Then the taxi driver became angry and the two policemen started grabbing at me. I was still handcuffed, but at first I struggled to get away because I didn’t know what they were trying to do. One policeman got hold of my arms and kept me still, while the other went through my pockets. Then I worked it out: they wanted me to pay the taxi fare.

It was almost dark when I was escorted through the outer gates of San Pedro prison. I remember thinking that the building we were entering couldn’t possibly be a prison, because the plaza in front of it was so beautiful. The last thing I saw of the outside world was a couple walking hand in hand along the footpath. The girl was pretty, and I thought it would be a long time before I saw a woman again.

The policemen were angry that I hadn’t had any money to pay for the taxi. They dragged me roughly up the stairs to a big, important-looking office. A plaque on the door said that the office was that of a major. When we entered the office, the major didn’t look up. My file was open on the desk in front of him and he continued studying it as if I wasn’t there, just like the colonel had done at the airport. I sat patiently, watching him and waiting. I noticed that his uniform was perfectly ironed, although he was so fat that the buttons looked like they were about to pop off. I desperately needed food, but I decided it would be best to wait for the major to speak first. Eventually, he lifted his head and just stared at me.

When the major did finally speak, it was to ask me for money. I couldn’t understand much of what he said, but I knew the numbers in Spanish, so I picked up the words ‘twenty-five bolivianos’. I automatically assumed he was asking me for a bribe because I was a foreigner. At the time, one boliviano was worth about twenty US cents, so the amount he wanted was only five dollars. I wouldn’t have argued with him, except that I didn’t have any money.

‘I haven’t got any money. I’m sorry,’ I said, shaking my head, frustrated that I couldn’t use my hands to explain. When the major noticed that I was struggling with my handcuffs, he nodded for my police escorts to remove them. They had been done up very tightly and my hands stung as soon as the blood started to flow again.

‘Gracias, señor,’ I said respectfully, nodding to him. I wondered whether this was the right time to ask him for some food. However, first I wanted to apologise for not being able to give him any money. I turned my pockets inside out to demonstrate that I actually wanted to pay him but couldn’t. I think the major misinterpreted this gesture as a refusal, because he immediately sent for a corporal who could speak English. The first thing the corporal translated was, ‘But is true, my amigo. Everybody pay the entrance fee. Bolivia prisoners also.’

I still assumed this ‘entrance fee’ was just the major’s polite way of asking for a bribe. But I later learned that all new prisoners were indeed required to pay an entrance fee of twenty-five bolivianos for the privilege of being imprisoned in San Pedro. They called this ‘el Ingreso’ and when you paid it, the police gave you a receipt.

‘But what if I can’t pay?’ I asked, when I realised they were serious. I was worried that the major would become angry.

‘You must work in the kitchen for a period of six months to pay the money,’ answered the corporal.

I promised the major that the British Embassy would pay the fee when they came to visit me. He seemed satisfied with that arrangement. Even though he now knew that I had no money, he then told me that I would have to buy a prison cell. When the corporal translated this, I looked at him blankly and said that I didn’t understand. The other policemen in the room grinned when they saw the look of confusion on my face.

‘Ahora tiene que comprar su propia celda,’ the major repeated impatiently. When his men heard this the second time, they struggled to contain their laughter.

‘Now you must buy your own cell,’ the corporal translated again. Once more, I suspected that this was simply another way of asking for a bribe because I was a foreigner. ‘OK,’ I nodded, playing along with it. My plan was to stay on the major’s good side and promise him some money later.

The major then sent one of the policemen out of the room to get something. While we were waiting for him to return, I told the corporal that I was hungry. He put his hand up to silence me.

‘Wait. After,’ he said, as the policeman came back in carrying a large blue book. The major opened the book upside down so that I could read it from my side of the desk. He motioned for me to come closer. I leaned forward in my chair and followed his finger as he ran it down the page, explaining something in Spanish as he went.

It took me some time to understand what the book was about. The pages were divided into columns that contained dates and names and descriptions. When he sensed that I was having difficulty, the corporal explained that this was a list of all the cells currently for sale that I could choose from.

Still not quite believing that any of this was real, I asked the major how much a cell cost, using one of my few Spanish expressions: ‘¿Cuánto cuesta?’

‘Cinco mil,’ he responded. I thought I knew the numbers, but I must have misheard. Five thousand was too much. I asked the translator to repeat the amount in English. He confirmed that it was five thousand.

‘Dollars or bolivianos?’

‘Dollars, my amigo,’ he said. ‘Cell prices in San Pedro are always in American dollars.’

‘But I’ve already told you. I haven’t got any money,’ I said. The major said something to the corporal, who translated.

‘The major say four thousand. But that is minimum. Is good price, no?’

Once the major realised that there was no money to be made out of me, our interview was terminated immediately. He nodded to his men to remove me from the office.

‘Wait!’ I cried out as the guards stepped forward. ‘Can I have some food? Where do I sleep?’ But the major had already begun shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘Please,’ I begged him. ‘I have money. Just not here.’

Themajor didn’t look up again, not even when I tried to struggle with the guards. That morning, I had been able to fight them, but by then I was too weak. There was no need to handcuff me this time. They took me down the stairs again, opened a big gate with metal bars and pushed me through. I felt myself collapsing from hunger and exhaustion.

When I looked up, it wasn’t at all what I had expected. There were no prisoners to be seen anywhere. I was in a cement-paved area that appeared to be the main prison courtyard, but the place was completely deserted. It was now night-time, and the yard was well lit by a number of naked bulbs hanging from the walls. In the centre of the courtyard were two garden beds, each with a large, healthy-looking tree. A few colourful flowers grew at their bases. I noticed a tap beside me. Underneath it was a bucket for watering the gardens with. The water was freezing cold and tasted dirty, but I was so thirsty I didn’t care.

When I had finished drinking, I looked upwards. I expected to see guards patrolling the roofs with rifles slung over their shoulders, but there weren’t any. Above me was a wooden balcony with two separate staircases running down into the courtyard. Over on the other side of the courtyard were three doors. Two of them were closed.

There was no way that I could sleep in the courtyard; it would be too cold. I needed to find somewhere warm to sleep. I went through the open door and felt my way down a dimly lit tunnel, with my hands stretched out in front of me for protection. The corridor led to two more passageways and, at the end of one of these, a second courtyard. Fronting onto this courtyard was a building with three storeys, each with rows of doors that seemed to open into tiny rooms.

I wandered around, looking for someone who might be able to help me. All the doors were closed, but I saw two men talking and went up to them.

‘Hola. Can you help me, please? I need food.’ They couldn’t understand English and walked away when I patted my stomach. I saw another prisoner, but he disappeared before I could even talk to him. He took one look at my dirty suit and at the way I was stumbling and must have thought I was drunk. By then, I was completely out of energy. I just needed to lie down.

Eventually, I found cover in a building in the far corner of the courtyard. There were no lights on inside, but I could make out that there was no one there. There was no door, so it would be just as cold as sleeping outside, but at least I would be slightly more protected from the wind or from attackers. If I stayed alert, I might survive the night.

I sat down and leaned against the hard wall, thoroughly exhausted. The cement floor was cold and a little damp, so I couldn’t lie down without getting wet. I stayed sitting there for some time, resting in the shadows where no one could see me, trying to keep my eyes open for any danger. It was an uncomfortable position, but after two weeks in the FELCN cells, I was used to it and must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was feeling wet. It was the middle of the night or the early morning and foul-smelling water was seeping across the floor. My pants were saturated. I remember thinking that I should change positions, but I had no energy left to do so. I went back to sleep, sitting in a puddle of sewage, until morning when I heard a bell ringing. When I woke up I was still exhausted and delirious with hunger. I staggered to my feet and looked outside. I was so weak that my mind wasn’t working properly and what I saw made me think I had gone crazy.

The first thing I noticed was a big red sign painted on the wall advertising Coca-Cola. Then I saw a number of women and children. I had expected to find myself in a horrible Bolivian prison, where I was probably going to die. Had it all been a bad dream? I didn’t actually know where I was or how I’d gotten there, but it certainly didn’t look like a jail. I looked around again and wondered if it was some kind of peasant village or city slum. Surrounding me was a deteriorating building complex of small apartments of all shapes and sizes, with their doors painted in various colours. It was three storeys high and made mostly of wood. The sun was shining and what seemed like hundreds of families were beginning to stir.

Wooden balconies creaked as the women emerged from their houses and began their daily chores. Some carried fresh market produce – fruits, vegetables and chunks of meat – in sacks slung over their shoulders. Others were setting up small stalls that sold all types of goods, from soft drinks, cigarettes and chocolate bars, to secondhand cutlery and cassette tapes. A group of women, dressed in poor but colourful rags, were scrubbing and rinsing clothes by a washbasin and then placing them out to dry on the concrete. One young woman, who could not have been more than sixteen, was seated on a bench, breastfeeding her baby.

There were also children of all ages everywhere. The older ones – dressed in their school uniforms, some wearing backpacks – were enjoying the final moments before they had to leave for class. Two small girls jumped gleefully from square to square on a hopscotch grid they had drawn on a cement playing field. Around them, a group of boys was playing a noisy game of soccer. I definitely wasn’t in prison. But where was I? I walked out further to investigate.

It was at that moment that I realised my pants were completely saturated and stuck to my legs. There was also a disgusting smell somewhere very close to me. When I squeezed the back of my pants to wring out some of the water, I recognised the horrible stench. My hands were covered in shit.

It all came back to me in a sudden rush – everything that had happened to me since I had gone to the airport two weeks before. It hadn’t been a dream. I was in prison. I felt faint. Suddenly, my knees folded beneath me and I slid down against the wall to the ground. I coughed violently and saw blood splatter on the cement in front of me before I passed out.