6

RICARDO

When I came to, I knew that if I didn’t find help soon I was going to die. I decided to make my way back to the main courtyard. On the way there, I came across some other prisoners. They stopped to stare at me, but none of them did anything. I must have looked a sight, stumbling along and coughing up blood.

In the corner of the courtyard, I saw a door with a red cross painted on it and the word ‘MEDICO’ written beneath. There were three inmates already waiting outside, so I lined up with them. When it was my turn, a short man with glasses ushered me into a tiny room and pointed to a seat. Apart from a shelf stacked with thick medical textbooks and a stethoscope on the small table, there was nothing to indicate I was in a doctor’s surgery. The doctor himself was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looked no different from the other inmates. I later learned that he was an inmate, having been jailed for stabbing his wife fourteen times.

‘Do you speak English?’ I asked him. He shook his head.

‘No. Sorry. No speak English,’ he said, before launching into an explanation of some sort in Spanish.

I couldn’t follow much of what he was saying except that he was asking me for a payment of twenty bolivianos. I pretended not to understand. Instead, I patted my chest and coughed so he could see how serious my condition was.

‘The costo is twenty bolivianos, please, mister,’ the doctor then said in English, ignoring my coughing. I told him I couldn’t pay and showed him my empty pockets, just as I had done with the major. When he saw that I had no money, he apologised and then stood up and opened the door. ‘Sorry, mister,’ he said, trying to get me to leave. The next patient started to enter the room.

I took a breath that was so deep it hurt my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. I spat the blood that came up onto the carpet. As soon as he saw me about to take another breath, the next patient turned to leave again and the doctor grabbed a roll of toilet paper. He tore off a long strip, which he put on the floor where I had spat, and then handed me the roll. He could see that I wasn’t going to leave until he helped me.

We stared at one another for a moment longer. Then, without saying anything, he reached for his stethoscope and checked my breathing. I watched the reaction on his face.

‘Big infección. Need antibióticos,’ he concluded, writing out a script and motioning for me to follow him to the door. He pointed up the stairs and said, ‘Farmacia’, then closed the door behind me in relief.

The woman in the pharmacy smiled as I entered. When she saw me up close, she noticed how sick I was and made a big fuss over me, like I was her own son. It was the first real kindness anyone had shown me in two weeks and I smiled back, thinking I was finally saved. She took the script and rushed around to find the right medicine on the shelf. She put the box on the counter and, seeing that I couldn’t speak Spanish, wrote down the price on a receipt, which she showed to me. When she saw the worried look on my face, she snatched the box back off the counter. Then, when she realised how bad that had looked, she shook her head sadly and started apologising.

‘Lo siento, señor. Lo siento mucho.’

She did look sorry, too. I was dying and the Bolivians were all very sorry. She slid my prescription back across the counter, still with the same sad expression on her face. I tore it into shreds and threw the pieces back at her before leaving. I hoped she would think of me dying while she was picking them off the floor.

I gave up completely after that. I couldn’t speak the language, I had no food, no clothes, no medicine, nowhere to sleep, no money to call anyone, and I knew no one in La Paz anyway. My life was over. Once I had accepted that I was going to die, I didn’t even feel that bad. I just felt kind of numb. It was almost a relief to no longer have to fight. I just remember thinking that I didn’t want to die in the courtyard. I wanted to die on my own, not with everyone watching.

As I made my way back down the passage to my abandoned building, a small man appeared at my side, trying to attract my attention. One of his teeth was black and he had a patch of hair at the front that had turned completely grey. He started talking to me, but I ignored him, thinking he wanted money. He kept following me.

‘Thomas. ¿Usted es Thomas, sí?’

I stopped and looked at him, wondering how he knew my name. When he saw my reaction, he became more excited.

‘¿Thomas, sí? El negro de Inglaterra, sí?’

He took me lightly by the elbow and led me back up to the courtyard and through a door to the side of the main gates.

The door led into a very narrow room that was packed with prisoners. The wall in front had metal bars about chest height and on the other side of the bars was a similar room packed with women, who were speaking to the prisoners. Among the mass of women I spotted a fair-skinned, middle-aged woman waving to me. She was slightly taller than the others and had greyish hair and gentle blue eyes. My guide with the black tooth took me up to her and pointed at me.

The woman gave him a coin and then looked at me and asked, ‘Thomas? You’re Thomas, right?’

I nodded and she offered me her tiny hand through the bars.

‘I’m Sylvia. Sylvia Venables.’

I can hardly describe the wave of joy that passed over me to hear someone speaking English with an English accent. My spirits lifted immediately. Finally, there was someone who could understand me. However, I still didn’t know what to say because I was confused about how she knew about me.

When she saw my confusion, she said, ‘My husband and I are with the Anglican Church in Bolivia. We’re from England originally and we saw you on television. We wanted to know if you were OK.’

Then I remembered. The police had called the television stations when they arrested me, although I had refused to answer any of the journalists’ questions. I kept repeating that I was innocent and that I was English and that I needed help. That had been two weeks before, so I didn’t think anyone had seen it. I kept staring at her, not knowing how to thank her for coming.

‘Thomas. Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said automatically, although it had never been so untrue in my life.

‘Anyway. I brought you some things,’ she said, holding a plastic bag up to the bars. This is Tim’s old pullover – it might be a bit big for you, but it’s warm. And a blanket. Some antibiotics. And there’s some food in there, too. We thought you might be hungry.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say …’ I stammered as she handed me the bundle through the bars. A guard came over and wanted to inspect the contents. Sylvia said something to him and he went away.

‘Thanks. Thanks so much. You don’t know … I mean. You saved my life.’ My words came out all over the place. There was so much I wanted to say but none of it came out right. ‘How did you …? I mean … thanks for everything.’

Sylvia smiled kindly, but I continued to stare at her stupidly until I made her so embarrassed that she had to look away. She glanced down at my hands. The blood had drained from my fingers and the knuckles had turned white from gripping the bars so tightly. The impatient guard came back and muttered something to her again and she nodded.

‘He says I have to leave now. I’ll come again in a week. Well. Until next time, I suppose,’ she said kindly, and both her hands came forward to touch mine. She wrapped her fingers around my fists and squeezed firmly. My hands were so cold that they had almost frozen, but hers were warm. I felt a warm energy go through me, surging slowly from my icy hands, up through my wrists and arms, then buzzing over my whole body. I remember staring at her hands and thinking how delicate and white they looked against my dark skin. Her fingers were so tiny; how could something that small have given me so much energy?

When I looked up, Sylvia had disappeared. I stayed glued to the spot, staring after her, until the guard on my side of the interview bars indicated that I, too, must leave. There were three or four chocolate bars in the bag and I ate them immediately. Again, the guard told me to leave. As I walked down the steps, still feeling slightly dazed, I looked once more at my hands. I thought that I could see the outline of Sylvia’s little hands where they had gripped mine.

I had no other place to go, so I started heading back to my abandoned building. As I passed through the courtyard, I heard a voice behind me call out in English.

‘Hey you! Where you from, motherfucker? You speak English?’ I turned around, wondering whether I had imagined it. Seated on the low brick wall of the garden were three tough-looking prisoners staring up at me.

‘Me?’ I pointed to myself, looking from face to face. Two of them were definitely Bolivian, but although the thin man in the centre had quite dark skin, his face looked slightly foreign. He had a strange appearance; his dirty shirt hung loosely over his skinny rib cage and he had straight, dark hair with silvery streaks, tied in a ponytail that hung down to his shoulders. From his wrinkles and the grey hairs, I guessed he was about forty-five or fifty, although his voice sounded younger, so it was difficult to tell.

‘Yeah! You, buddy! Who else? Where do you come from? You speak English or what?’ He had an American accent. All three of them were staring at me menacingly, waiting for an answer.

‘Yes. Hello. I speak English. My name is Thomas,’ I extended my hand to greet the speaker, but he didn’t take it.

‘You are not from los Estados Unidos, are you?’ he demanded. I looked at him blankly, feeling stupid with my outstretched arm left dangling in the air.

‘Sorry?’ I took my hand back. I hoped they weren’t trying to start a fight.

‘¿De dónde viene? ¿No entiende nada? ¿Si es gringo?’ threatened the man next to him.

I didn’t understand what he had asked me, but there was no mistaking that his tone was aggressive. It crossed my mind to ignore them and walk away, but it was too late by then – I had already started talking – so I figured it was best to be as friendly and polite as possible in order not to give them any reason to start a fight.

‘Los Estados Unidos. The United States. You are not a gringo from the United States, are you?’ said the skinny foreigner with the grey hair.

‘Who me? No! No, I’m from England. From Liverpool.’

‘Ahhh, Inglaterra. Inglés,’ he translated for his companions, who nodded and exchanged a few comments. The three men relaxed a little and the speaker smiled kindly, then put his hand out to shake mine. ‘That’s OK, then. England is OK. We like England.’

I was worried that this was a trick because they knew that I was new to the prison. At the same time, I couldn’t be rude – that might be just the excuse they were looking for – so I shook hands with him. Nothing happened.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Thomas,’ I told him again.

‘Thomas, my name is Ricardo,’ he shook my hand a second time and smiled like we were meeting at a party. I was more than a bit confused by this man’s strange behaviour.

‘Pleased to meet you, Ricardo,’ I said respectfully. I didn’t know whether I should also shake hands with his friends. They were both still staring at me, although not with the same hostility as before. I decided not to take the chance.

‘You see. We hate gringos here. My friends thought you were from the States. If you had been American, they might have killed you, you know? We hate the United States. Where are you from in England? London?’

‘From Liverpool,’ I repeated.

‘Oh, that’s near to London, is it?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Quite close to London.’ London is usually the only English city anyone in South America has ever heard of, so I always said I lived nearby in order to avoid explanations that only make things more complicated.

Ricardo then started becoming quite friendly. I stayed alert, but I sensed that any danger had passed and tried to keep the conversation going. Maybe he could tell me where I could get some more food.

‘You speak very good English,’ I complimented him. ‘Where did you learn to speak so well?’

‘In New York. I’m from New York.’

‘In America? But then you are American? Why don’t they kill you then?’ I blurted out, without thinking. Ricardo’s face suddenly became serious and I immediately regretted saying anything.

‘No. I am Bolivian. I am not American,’ he responded angrily. ‘I have a Bolivian passport. I also have an American passport, so sometimes I am American, but nobody knows that, so you don’t say anything. OK?’

‘OK. Sorry! I’m very sorry,’ I apologised, but he was still very agitated and I readied myself in case he was going to hit me.

‘That’s OK, inglés.’ Just as quickly, his angry expression was replaced by a friendly smile. ‘No hay problema, my friend. So, how do you like your new home?’

Everything Ricardo said was making me more and more disoriented; one minute he was pretending to be my best friend, the next he was making fun of me and deliberately trying to start a fight. Then he was nice again. I hadn’t done anything wrong but I felt extremely uncomfortable.

‘So, do you miss London much?’ he asked.

‘Not too much.’

‘Well, you should. You really should miss your own country, don’t you think? Or do you want to go back to the United States?’

I said nothing, convinced that he was playing games to test me out. I decided it was definitely time to leave. I was glad to have finally found someone in the prison who spoke English, but I felt I was being led into some kind of trap.

‘Ricardo, it was very nice to meet you. Thank you.’ I put out my hand to say goodbye.

‘Where are you going?’ He looked surprised and, once more, refused to take my hand.

‘Just back down there,’ I pointed towards the filthy passageway. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’

‘Do you have a room already?’

‘No.’

‘Then where do you sleep?’

‘Just down there on the ground. In a building.’

‘Which building?’

‘The one with all the water.’

‘You can’t go down there. That section is dangerous. They’ll kill you. Everyone thinks you are American.’

‘Where else can I stay, then?’

Ricardo stared at me while he thought about this for a while.

‘How much money do you have?’

‘None.’

‘Don’t lie to me, inglés! I’m trying to help you. Your friends in the interview gave you money. That’s where you got that blanket from.’

‘I don’t have anything. I promise you.’

‘You must have some money, otherwise you can’t survive. You’ll die here.’

‘I promise. I have nothing. The police took everything.’

‘The FELCN?’

I nodded. ‘And they took all my clothes and they gave me no food.’ I was hoping that he would take the hint about food, but he didn’t.

‘Can you get money?’

‘I think I can get money. Maybe that woman will come back. Maybe the British Embassy. If I can speak with some friends, they’ll send me money, for sure.’

Ricardo looked me over again, then appeared to come to a decision.

‘OK, Inglaterra. You can sleep on my floor tonight. But you have to pay.’

‘Thank you, but I’m sorry. I have no money.’

‘You can pay me when you get money. Two dollars per night. You can go now. I am talking with my friends. See you tonight.’

‘OK, thank you,’ I turned to leave and the three immediately recommenced their conversation. Then I remembered something. ‘Ricardo. I’m sorry to interrupt, but how can I find you?’

‘In Pinos. You see that gate with the five stars above it? Just next to the Coca-Cola sign? In there. Ask for Ricardo.’ He turned back to his conversation and ignored me.

I wanted to get out of their way before Ricardo changed his mind, so I hurried back down the corridor to my abandoned building. There was now a group of four men inside, huddled together under a blanket against the opposite wall, passing a pipe around. They looked up briefly. One of them muttered something and the others laughed. I only caught the word ‘gringo’. I remembered what Ricardo had said about gringos. However, after that they ignored me and went back to their pipe. I sat down near the entrance, just in case. I was weak from hunger.

Night began to fall and I could feel the air getting colder. I put on the pullover Sylvia had given me, but even with the blanket it wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I wanted to go to Ricardo’s cell as soon as possible, but I was worried he might be annoyed if I went too early, so I decided to wait as long as possible. I pulled my knees up to my chest for warmth and waited patiently for several hours, all the time wary of the men propped against the opposite wall. Someone switched on a light outside, so I could still make out their figures. Every now and then one of them would mumble something, but mostly they stayed silent. I started shivering.

Eventually, one of them stumbled to his feet and left the building. When he returned, they smoked more pipes and started laughing. The smoke smelled really odd, like a strange chemical burning. For five minutes the conversation started up again, then there was some kind of argument. One of the men screamed at his friend, then laughed hideously. The sound bounced off the damp walls into the empty space. Finally, they were silent and I went back to waiting and shivering.

An hour later, I was shaking so much I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got weakly to my feet and made my way out through the door.

‘Chao, gringo. ¡Suerte!’ one of the men called from behind me, and all four laughed. Still wrapped in my blanket, I walked carefully back up the corridor. When a group of prisoners passed me, one of them bumped into me on purpose and the others hissed ‘gringo’ at me. I hurried on through the courtyard and into the section with five stars above its entrance. I thought I might collapse at any moment. I asked the first inmate I saw if he knew Ricardo. He laughed at me.

‘Which Ricardo?’ he wanted to know. I shook my head.

‘¡Ricardo! Le busca. ¡Ricardo!’ he yelled up into the night air, then shrugged as if to say that was all he could do. There could have been fifty men called Ricardo in that section. How would I ever find my Ricardo?

‘Hey, Inglaterra! Up here!’ a voice came from above. I looked up. It was him! ‘What are you doing down there? Get your sorry black arse up here!’ He waved his arm to come up. ‘What are you waiting for, Inglaterra? There’s no elevator. This is a prison, for chrissakes. The stairs are right there!’

Ricardo greeted me warmly on the second-floor balcony with a firm handshake. His hair was wet and he smelled of aftershave, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.

‘How was your day, Thomas? Are you well?’ The way he said this made it sound like we weren’t prisoners, but two good friends meeting after work, and I responded in the same way.

‘Not bad, thank you.’

‘Really? You don’t look it,’ he poked me playfully in the ribs. ‘You look sick, actually. Are you sick?’

‘Yes. A little bit. But I’m OK,’ I responded automatically for the second time that day.

That morning I had prepared myself to die and now I was so weak that I hardly had the strength even to stay on my feet. I only had antibiotics for my illness, and the only thing I had eaten were three chocolate bars. The one thing that had changed – in fact, the only thing that was keeping me alive – was the hope that Sylvia had given me and now, added to that, the possibility that Ricardo might be able to help me.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Starving, man,’ I responded with a smile, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘Where do we go to eat?’

‘Right here in my apartment,’ he pointed upwards. ‘I was expecting you to come earlier for dinner. I’ve already eaten, but I left you some and we can heat it up in the microwave.’ This confused me a little. I suspected that he was trying to trick me, like before, but I decided to ignore it.

‘But isn’t there a dining hall where all the prisoners go for meal times?’

Ricardo burst into peels of laughter. ‘Dining hall? Thomas, this is San Pedro. You have to cook your own food. Or you can go to a restaurant.’

‘Huh?’

‘I know it sounds strange. Come up! You’ll see what I mean.’ With that, he started to climb a wooden ladder that at first seemed to lead only to the ceiling.

I followed him hesitantly up this makeshift staircase. As it turned out, the entrance to his cell was a wooden hatch in the roof, secured by a padlock that he opened with a key that was tied to a leather string around his neck. I thought it was strange that he had the key to his own cell, but I said nothing.

‘I must apologise, Thomas. My apartment is a complete mess. Careful of your head!’ he called down to me when I was halfway up the ladder. ‘I tried to clean it up for you, but it’s no use. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s fine. No problem,’ I assured him. Above me, a light came on and I climbed up the remaining rungs into his cell.

The sight that greeted me was truly amazing. It wasn’t at all like a proper prison cell should have been. I was expecting something tiny and bare, with concrete floors and a metal door, or at least metal bars, to stop him from escaping. I had imagined the only furniture would be a regulation, metal-framed bed with a thin mattress, white sheets and maybe a grey blanket. At most, there might be a shelf with a few clothes and maybe a book or two, if they were permitted. Apart from that, everything would be completely plain. I also thought there would be several inmates sharing each cell.

I was completely wrong. There were no bars, no concrete floor and no white walls. The cell, although small, was more like a studio apartment and Ricardo obviously lived there on his own, because there was only one bed. The floor was made of wooden boards that creaked wherever you trod, except in the middle, where it was protected by a faded blue carpet. The walls were painted green and covered in posters of naked women. To my right was a single bed that had a thick mattress, colourful sheets and several big, puffy pillows sitting on top. On the far side was an open window that overlooked the courtyard below, and through the left wall a narrow doorway led to a tiny kitchenette.

The biggest shock was how many personal possessions Ricardo had crammed into the cell. There was stuff absolutely everywhere. Beside his bed, a night table was littered with all sorts of items: a lava lamp, an ashtray, a few dog-eared books, a statuette of Jesus crucified on the cross and two half-finished cups of coffee. Empty cigarette packets lay everywhere. Two chairs flanked a wooden table, and from the stack of dirty plates on top, I guessed that this was where he ate. A chest of drawers was piled with books, pens and pencils, as well as toiletry items such toilet paper, skin cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush and gel. Dirty clothes were strewn all over the floor, including several pairs of shoes. In the corner was a tiny electric heater. On one wall hung a large mirror. Above it, a clock marked the time. Below it was a power point, from which a messy network of electric cables ran; one up to the roof, one into the kitchenette, one to the lamp, another to a portable stereo. And most incredibly, perched on a large cardboard box at the foot of the bed, was a big-screen television.

I scanned everything again in complete confusion. It was nothing fancy, but everything was so comfortable and so normal that once more I had trouble believing that I was actually in a prison. Ricardo must have noticed my bewilderment.

‘You look unhappy,’ he said. ‘I told you it was messy. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not that, it’s fine! I just never expected … Well … Is this really your cell? Is this actually where you live?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s small, I know, but you see, I’m not a rich man. This is the only home I’ve got. It doesn’t please you?’ he asked defensively.

‘Oh, yes, I like it. It’s very nice,’ I rushed to reassure him, fearful that he might become angry again. ‘Really nice. It’s beautiful, in fact.’

‘Oh, good,’ Ricardo mimicked a lisp and waved his hand forward like he was a gay interior designer. ‘I did the whole décor myself, you know. You don’t think the colours clash?’ He really was strange, this guy.

‘But, it’s just … I don’t know. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. You live here on your own? And these are all your things?’ I pointed around the room, once more fixing my gaze on the television.

‘All mine.’ He did a pirouette and bowed.

‘But it doesn’t seem like a prison. Are you actually allowed to have all this? You have your own key and the guards don’t say anything. They let you … I mean … they don’t confiscate anything?’

‘Huh. The guards!’ Once more, Ricardo started laughing hysterically. It seemed to me like a reasonable question, but Ricardo had one of those high-pitched, uncontrollable laughs that made me feel stupid for having spoken.

Eventually, he stopped laughing. ‘The guards never come into the prison. I will explain everything, Thomas. Just wait! I was the same on my first day. There is a lot to learn here. But right now, you must be hungry. Here! Let me take your blanket. Please sit down. You look sick. Are you hungry?’ he asked again. This time I didn’t even try to cover my desperation.

‘Starving!’ I repeated, sitting down on one of his chairs. ‘I haven’t eaten for two weeks. Only bread and tea.’

‘Ah yes, wait right there. Don’t move!’ Ricardo hurried into the kitchen and came back with some food. ‘I remember the FELCN. That is normal. Did you confess?’

‘No.’

‘No? Well done, my friend.’ He congratulated me, placing a large plate of rice and fried chicken in front of me. ‘The FELCN is really tough! I am sorry the food is cold. If you like, I can heat it up. Wait! I will get you a knife and fork,’ he offered, heading for the kitchen.

But it was too late. I didn’t care about knives and forks, or that the food was cold. I had already set upon the meal and stuffed half of it down my throat.

‘Slowly, my friend. There is more. Tranquilo. You’ll be sick,’ he cautioned.

And he was right; suddenly I felt completely full and couldn’t eat another mouthful. A minute later, I wanted to vomit.

‘Tranquilo. Here! Have some water!’ he said, handing me a glass. I took a few sips and the sensation passed.

After that first intake of food, I felt better immediately. Just putting something into my mouth, then feeling it reach my stomach, gave me energy. I waited five minutes before resuming the meal, eating more slowly this time. Meanwhile, Ricardo sat down with me and that made me relax even more.

I couldn’t believe how kind Ricardo was being; it seemed that he was really worried about me. When I had first stepped into his room, I had been nervous and was very careful of everything I said. I had seen him snap without warning that afternoon in the courtyard and I was worried that if I said the wrong thing again, he might get offended and tell me to leave. However, from the moment he called down to me from the balcony, it was as if he was a different person from the tough inmate I had met only a few hours earlier. He still laughed at me and confused me on purpose, but it wasn’t like before. He seemed nicer now and genuine in his concern – he constantly apologised for the state of his ‘apartment’, as he called it.

‘I’m sorry for all this mess,’ he kept saying. ‘It doesn’t worry me …’

He also asked me continually if I was feeling OK, if I was warm enough, or if I needed anything – anything at all – and he went out of his way to make me comfortable. While I was waiting for the food to settle, he set up a small bed on the floor using a mattress borrowed from one of his neighbours and gave me the thickest blanket from his own bed. During the course of the evening, I realised that Ricardo’s behaviour that afternoon had all been an act. With none of the other prisoners around, he was completely relaxed and treated me like an old buddy. The only things that didn’t change were how he laughed at me, the funny way he spoke and how he forgot what I had said all the time.

‘You know, sometimes I miss speaking English. I have almost forgotten how to speak. I am thinking in Spanish and have to translate in my head so it comes out all wrong all the time.’

‘But you speak perfectly.’ I complimented him. He seemed to like this.

‘So I should. I am an American citizen. But sometimes I forget, so I need to practise with you, if that is OK.’

‘Of course.’

I was still hungry, but my stomach had shrunk. After a few more small mouthfuls, I couldn’t eat any more. Even though I had only eaten a tiny amount, as the food began to enter my system properly, I felt the strength returning to my body and I pushed the plate away.

‘You need to eat more,’ declared Ricardo, thrusting the half-finished plate back towards me. Moments before, he had been telling me to be careful; now he wanted me to eat until I was sick. ‘Eat it! You will feel better.’

‘I can’t. I’m totally full.’

‘Force yourself. You need to get your strength back. I’ll leave it on the table. Try to eat some more during the night.’

‘Thank you!’

Despite the fact that I was fighting tiredness, I already felt a hundred times better and wanted to show my gratitude, so I started to stack the dishes on the table, readying them for washing up.

‘Just leave them. You need to rest. You should go to bed,’ insisted Ricardo. ‘I can clean those plates tomorrow.’

‘It’s fine. No problem.’

There was no tap in the kitchenette, but I found a bucket of water, some soap powder and a sponge, and I began to scrape the food scraps off the plates. As I did so, I looked around the small room; it was crowded with all the things a normal kitchen contains: cooking spices, knives, frying pans, a salt shaker, and many different pots. In the corner, there was even a small refrigerator and on top of it, a tiny microwave. He hadn’t been lying, after all.

‘You have a refrigerator!’ I exclaimed. ‘This place is amazing!’

‘After a while you will forget you are in prison. Well, I mean, you will always know that you are in prison, but as far as prisons go, San Pedro is not bad. Just make sure you never get sent to Chonchocoro. Now, that is a prison,’ Ricardo replied.

I finished cleaning up and returned to my seat at the table. Ricardo looked at me and smiled.

‘Feeling better now?’

It was the happiest I had felt for weeks and I didn’t know how to express my gratefulness, but I think he could see it in my eyes. He smiled and held out some freshly ironed pyjamas for me to change into. I suddenly remembered that I still must have smelled of sewage, but Ricardo kindly hadn’t mentioned it.

‘Hey, man, thanks a lot.’ I smiled back at him. It was the first time I’d smiled properly in a long time; with all the misery I’d been through, I’d almost forgotten how.

Yeah, I was feeling better, all right. If you had asked me at the time, I probably would have said I’d never felt better in my life. It is impossible for anyone who has never been starved to understand the joy of having a full stomach and knowing you are no longer going to die. When you get the feeling that your life has just been saved, nothing else matters. Thirteen days in the police interrogation cells had almost killed me. So, for that moment at least, I didn’t care that I was in prison or that I was still very sick.

‘I’m glad. You should get some rest now,’ advised Ricardo, in a fatherly voice, bending down to turn back my blankets for me.

With my body now working overtime to digest the sudden intake of food, a heavy tiredness came over my body. This time I didn’t fight it. I was absolutely exhausted, but it was a happy tiredness. I swallowed three of the antibiotic pills that Sylvia had given me with a glass of water and then lay down on the bed Ricardo had made up for me. With his thick blanket, and Sylvia’s blanket on top, comforting me, I instantly fell asleep.

When I woke up the following afternoon, I was still tired so I went back to sleep for a few hours more. However, each time I woke up, I still felt tired. In fact, it seemed the more I slept, the more tired I became. I had to spend the next few days in Ricardo’s room, regaining my strength.

The first time I needed to go to the toilet, Ricardo showed me where they were. The toilets stank. They were cleaner than I had expected, but they were still horrible. Ricardo said they hadn’t been fixed up since the prison had been built over a hundred years before. They were hosed out three or four times a day, but the sewerage system was so ancient that nothing could be done about the smell.

For urinating, there was a heavy, cement trough that was moulded into the wall, but on the wrong angle, so the urine never drained away completely and there were always a few centimetres of it collected at the bottom. A sign on the wall said you were supposed to dump a bucket of water in the trough after urinating but no one ever bothered, so the piss just sat there, bubbling and frothing and stinking the place out.

For defecating, there were five partitioned cubicles in a row, each with its own swinging door. Inside each cubicle, there was no actual toilet; just a hole in the concrete floor that you had to squat over. At first, it was a strange sensation not having a seat, but you very quickly learned where to position your feet and after a while, you got used to it. When you’d done your business, you had to throw a couple of buckets of water down the hole to wash away any spillage and to help push the waste along the open pipe that ran beneath the floor and out of the prison. For the sake of hygiene, the inmates enforced this rule, although the waste never ran freely along the pipe, so there was often a horrible build-up that no one volunteered to clear.

The second time I needed to go to the bathroom I went by myself. There were a few inmates hanging around and they hissed at me and called me ‘gringo’. This time, they also spat on my back. I pretended not to notice, but when one of them started pushing me, I hurried back to Ricardo. After that, I was afraid to leave his room. When I had to go the bathroom, I did so very early in the morning before any of the prisoners were awake. I didn’t even take a shower until Ricardo suggested that I smelled a bit. Even then, I tried to find an excuse not to go to the bathroom.

‘But the water’s too cold. I’ll get sick again.’

In fact, the water in the showers wasn’t just cold; it was icy, particularly in the early mornings when the temperature in La Paz could drop to below freezing. Ricardo couldn’t argue with me on that one. The showers were supposed to have hot water, but at that time they weren’t working properly so he usually showered after midday, when the temperature of the water in the pipes had risen a few degrees and he could sit in the sun afterwards. Instead, he brought me a bucket with soap and hot water, which is what he used himself when it was too cold for a shower.

It took me several days to fully catch up on all the sleep I had lost and get my stomach used to accepting normal amounts of food again.

After that initial period of tiredness, I felt a little better every day, although I still had a severe chest infection.

‘You’ve still got a nasty cough,’ Ricardo looked at me with concern. ‘You’ll have to get some more medicine.’

‘I have to wait to get money.’

‘I’ll cover you. But for this week only. Then you have to find your own place and pay me back. I’m writing it all down.’

Ricardo went to the prison pharmacy and got me some more antibiotics. He also did all of the cooking those first weeks, he lent me some old clothes and, in the end, he refused to accept full payment for all the nights I slept on his floor. I am forever grateful to him for the help he gave me; without him, I would have died.

I wanted to repay him in some way as soon as I could. When I started eating properly again, I passed the seven balls of cocaine I had reswallowed at the FELCN. I washed them off and took them straight to Ricardo.

‘Ricardo, I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. Maybe you can help me to sell these and I can give you some of your money back.’

Ricardo looked at the packages in my hand, one of which I had cut open, and laughed. ‘Is that cocaine?’

‘What’s wrong with it? It’s good quality. I guarantee it.’ I held up the open ball for him to inspect, but he just waved it away.

‘There are a lot of things we miss out on in prison, inglés. But cocaine isn’t one of them.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘This is where the coke comes from, my friend,’ he explained casually. ‘It’s made in here. The best in the world.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I wondered whether this was another of Ricardo’s jokes, but he seemed serious.

‘The inmates set up laboratories at night and sell to people on the outside. The stuff in here is purer and cheaper than what you can get on the outside. This is the source, Thomas.’ When he saw my disbelieving expression, he added, ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this just yet, so keep your mouth shut, OK?’

‘You’re joking!’ I had guessed that the prisoners would take drugs, which is why I had swallowed the stuff as an insurance plan in case I got caught, but I never expected that they would actually manufacture drugs inside. ‘Don’t the guards do anything?’

‘They’re in on it. How do you think the chemicals get past the gates?’

All this sounded incredible. However, after what I had been through with the Bolivian police in the past weeks, I believed anything was possible.

‘But it must be worth something?’ After all, it was still seventy grams of pure cocaine.

Ricardo shook his head. ‘Sorry, inglés. You would have been better off smuggling bananas into prison. Or in your case, antibiotics,’ he laughed.

‘So, it’s worth nothing?’

He looked doubtfully at my merchandise again. ‘You’ll get something for it. But it will be less than what you paid for it, that’s for sure.’

There was a question that had been bugging me for days. Every morning when I went to the bathroom, I saw female prisoners walking around. I finally asked Ricardo after breakfast one day, as he was doing his hair.

‘Isn’t it dangerous to have male and female prisoners mixed in the same prison?’

‘The women aren’t prisoners. They just live here,’ he answered in his usual casual manner, turning his face sideways to study a small patch on his neck that he had missed shaving. ‘Shit. Damn razor.’

‘What? What for?’

Ricardo kept checking himself in the mirror. ‘To be with their husbands.’

‘But why?’ I couldn’t believe that anyone would actually choose to live in a prison.

‘There’s no other choice. It’s the only way the family can stay together.’

‘Why can’t they live outside and just come in to visit?’

‘This is Bolivia, Thomas. There are no jobs on the outside. The economy is dead.’ Ricardo put down the brush, applied some shaving cream to the tip of his finger and gently picked away with the razor at the whiskers he’d missed. ‘How can a woman get a job if there aren’t even jobs for the men? And if she gets a job, how can she afford to pay rent, look after the kids and support her husband in prison at the same time?’

‘But surely there’s some way? Can’t the government help?’

‘Don’t be so stupid, inglés.’ He turned to me in irritation. ‘We’re not in Europe. There is no social security. If you don’t have money in this country, you starve to death. I thought you would have worked that out by now.’

‘And the kids live in here, too?’ I asked.

Ricardo nodded.

‘But … don’t you think …?’ I was about to say that I thought it was unfair that children should have to grow up in a prison. The women I could sort of accept; at least they had a choice. But the kids hadn’t done anything wrong. Ricardo interrupted me.

‘I know what you’re going to say, inglés. Just trust me. It’s sad. But it’s better this way.’

‘But … I mean …’

‘Just drop it, will you?’ Ricardo’s voice rose slightly and he snatched up the brush again. I could see he didn’t want to talk about it. But I had to know.

‘But isn’t it dangerous?’ I asked softly.

He thought for a minute. ‘Sometimes.’

‘What about rapists and child molesters?’

‘There are no rapists or child molesters in here. They’re not allowed.’

‘What do you mean, “They’re not allowed”?’

Ricardo looked at me sideways in the mirror and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Then he changed his mind. ‘I’ll tell you about that later. Right now, you’ve got more important things to worry about.’

‘But –’

‘Just drop it, I told you!’ Ricardo snapped, slamming his brush on the bedside table and storming into the kitchen. It was the first time he had raised his voice with me since I had been staying with him and I didn’t want to push him any further. I let the subject drop.

At first, Ricardo was like my mentor in prison, but he very quickly became my best friend. I’m sure that part of it was the situation I was in: I had no one else to turn to because all the other prisoners seemed to hate me, so it was only natural that I came to depend on him. But to this day, I have yet to meet anyone who was as kind to me as Ricardo. He became like a father to me. He was very easy-going and had only one house rule: ‘No smoking base in my room. If I catch you, you’re out. No questions. Straight out.’

Base was apparently what those men had been smoking in the abandoned building on my first day. It was the raw paste which they used to make cocaine powder in the prison laboratories; less refined, but cheaper and far more addictive.

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him. ‘I don’t even take cocaine.’

He laughed. ‘Oh you will, my friend. You will.’

Aside from educating me about drugs, Ricardo also took it on himself to educate me about the ways of prison life. Without his help, I don’t know how I would have got through those first weeks. San Pedro was no ordinary prison; there was a lot to learn. As I recovered my health, Ricardo taught me something new each day. The first piece of real advice he gave me I remember very well: make sure that all the other prisoners know where you are from.

‘You must learn the expression “No soy americano,” he advised me, ‘because it might save your life one day. This means, “I am not an American.” You have to be certain that everyone knows you are English. Remember that you are inglés. You are from Inglaterra. Now repeat!’

I noticed that Ricardo always made a point of calling me ‘Inglaterra’ or ‘inglés’ whenever there were other people around. Apparently, it was for my own good as well as his; if people thought I was American, being friends with me might cause him problems. This was the second time Ricardo had mentioned the Americans. Although I had already been picked on for being a foreigner, I still didn’t understand why the Bolivian prisoners hated Americans so much. However, it wouldn’t be long before I found out how dangerous being thought a gringo could be.

Unfortunately, my body hadn’t yet fully adjusted to normal amounts of food and I got diarrhoea. The need to rush to the toilet struck without warning, at any time of the day or night. I didn’t like going to the bathroom at the best of times; it was small and cramped and dirty, and there was only one door. Once you were inside, you had to go back out the same way, which meant you could be trapped. At least during the day, the door was kept open and there were people around in the courtyard. In the evenings, the bathroom was locked and you needed a key to open it from both sides. I wasn’t happy about going down to the toilet after dark, and worse still, by myself, but there was no choice with diarrhoea; I couldn’t do it in my pants and I couldn’t ask Ricardo to hold my hand and wait outside the cubicle every time I needed to go.

Luckily, when I went to the bathroom for the first time at night it was around eight o’clock and there was no one else in there. I breathed a sigh of relief. Crouching down to the floor, I checked under the partitions for feet, just to be sure, then I shat the liquid out as quietly as possible, listening intently for the sound of anyone entering. The only noise was a shower that had been left dripping. However, when I came out of the cubicle, there were two men in the narrow passage that led to the door, blocking my way. One was bent forward at the basin, slowly washing his hands; the other was standing directly behind him, leaning against the wall, as though he was waiting to use the basin next, even though there was another one next to it. I hadn’t heard them come in.

Not wanting them to hear my foreign accent, I nodded coolly to the man leaning against the wall. He didn’t respond. I waited a while longer for the other man to finish washing his hands. But when he eventually did stop, he left the tap running and stood there with his hands on the rim of the basin, watching the water going down the plug hole. Neither of them showed any sign of moving.

‘Perdón,’ I said, but they didn’t look at me. The one at the basin began rinsing his hands again and, from the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at his friend in the mirror.

I had to get to that door. There was no way around them and no other way out of the bathroom. If I hesitated any longer, they would know that I was afraid.

‘Perdón,’ I said more forcefully, moving forward to squeeze between them, but they stood firm and wouldn’t let me pass. I took a step back and waited a few more moments, all the while readying myself in case they attacked.

Finally, the one at the basin stood up and faced me. He had mean eyes and a fresh cut across his forehead. He said something threatening to me in Spanish. I only understood the word ‘gringo’, but it was obvious they wanted money.

‘I don’t have any,’ I said, patting my clothes. Luckily, I was wearing some old, loose-fitting pyjamas with no pockets that Ricardo had loaned me, so they could see I wasn’t lying. The two looked at each other and there was a brief exchange. I could tell by their facial expressions that they had decided to let me go. The one against the wall nodded to me and jerked his head towards the door, saying something about giving them money later.

‘Gracias. Perdón,’ I managed to mumble as I slipped through the small gap they had created for me, trying not to brush against them. I fumbled to insert the key in the lock. It wouldn’t go in and I started panicking. It must have been Ricardo’s room key, so I shakily tried the other one, but that was the wrong one, too. Eventually, I got the first key to work. ‘Gracias,’ I said again as I hurried out of the bathroom. They stared after me without saying a word. Next time I would have to pay the toll.