7

RESEARCHING THE HOUSING
MARKET

I stayed inside even more after that incident and was afraid to go to the bathroom at all. The part of the prison that Ricardo lived in was Pinos, the five-star section. It was one of the safest parts of the prison. However, inmates from other sections had the right to go wherever they wanted during the day, so it was difficult to stop the gangs from entering. After nine o’clock each night, the section locked its gate and Ricardo told me that that would be the safest time for me to go. I still didn’t like going down when it was dark.

Fortunately, my diarrhoea was cured very quickly. Ricardo brewed me up a special concoction to settle my stomach called maté de coca, which was a tea made from coca leaves. The Bolivians had been using it for centuries as a remedy for every type of illness under the sun and it seemed to work. He also said that I could stay on his floor for a week more, free of charge, until I felt safer. But after that, I had to get my own room. I didn’t have any idea how I was supposed to get a prison room, but Ricardo promised to help me. He began by explaining the cell arrangements in great detail. After hearing about the women and children in the prison and the cocaine laboratories, I didn’t think there could be many more shocks. But there were.

Although they had tried to rip me off on the price, the police hadn’t been lying to me on my first night about having to buy my own prison cell. San Pedro was comprised of eight sections – Posta, Pinos (where Ricardo lived) and Alamos, and the rundown inside sections San Martín, Prefectura, Palmar, Guanay and Cancha. After you paid the entrance fee – el Ingreso – to the police for the privilege of being allowed into the prison, you then paid another fee to become a member of one of these sections. And all that was before you spent more money buying your own cell and then having the cell title transferred into your name.

‘And you can’t just go out and buy anything,’ Ricardo warned me. ‘You have to know what you’re doing. Otherwise, you’re going to get completely taken for a ride.’

The system was very complicated and there was a great deal of information to take in. It took a long time for Ricardo to explain everything to me, since I kept interrupting him to express my disbelief or to ask questions. Once Ricardo started talking, it was hard to stop him, especially when it had anything to do with his favourite topics: economics and politics. The way things worked in San Pedro was astounding. Everything was about money. And I mean everything.

There were inmates who acted as freelance real estate agents, scouting around for potential buyers on a commission basis. There were restaurant owners who advertised lists of the various properties that were for sale, charging a small fee to the sellers. The section delegates allowed advertisements – known as ‘propaganda’ – to be placed on the section noticeboards, because room sales generated income for the section. Even the police were involved, since they were in the best position to get hold of new arrivals who didn’t know how things worked. Luckily, I hadn’t had any money with which to buy a cell on the first night; the police usually added fifty per cent to the price as their commission.

The first step was paying the twenty-five bolivianos to the police, for which you received a receipt. Then you paid the section entrance fee. This was non-refundable and the amount varied according to which section you joined. When I found my own place, I paid one hundred and fifty bolivianos, approximately thirty US dollars. In the dangerous sections it was much cheaper. This money was placed in a fund that was used to cover section expenses such as maintenance, administration, cleaning, renovations and the occasional social event such as the Prisoners’ Day party every September, when the section delegates cooked a barbecue and hired a band for the inmates.

Admission to a section was rarely refused, provided there was a vacancy and provided you had enough money to pay the entrance fee and buy a room. However, in the better sections of the prison the process was a little more selective; you often had to be invited by one of the existing members. They mainly wanted to know that you were a person of good fame and character so that they could maintain the high safety and quality of the section. This might sound strange for a prison, but there were a lot of politicians and businessmen in San Pedro and many of them were well educated. Occasionally, the section delegate even asked for personal references, although this obviously made it hard for new inmates, especially foreigners, who didn’t know anyone. Luckily, Ricardo was prepared to recommend me.

Once you had decided on a section, the next step was to buy a cell. Ricardo explained that the market for prison cells operated just like any normal property market: prices went up and down according to supply and demand, and you had to pay commissions to agents and legal fees for the actual transaction. I could hardly believe it.

Each room had a legal owner who held the title to the property. The actual title was a document that contained details of the room: its number, location, a brief description, the name of previous owner and the price paid for it. The original copy of the title was held by the owner. A section property register was also kept, but it was best to hide the original well. Without it, you could have troubles proving ownership. It was also a good idea to keep a photocopy in the office or with someone else, just in case. The police officers had their big blue book, but that was only for sales.

The rooms that came on to the market were announced by a sign saying ‘En Venta’ – ‘For Sale’ – on, or above, the door. The best policy, according to Ricardo, was always to negotiate directly with the owner and ignore all the other people who wanted a slice of the action. The actual sale was conducted by the buyer and seller agreeing on a price and then signing a sale–purchase contract in front of the section delegate, who signed and stamped it with the section stamp in order to make everything official. Another trusted inmate was also needed to sign as a witness. Then, after the sale price had been paid and the contract signed, the buyer had to pay the title transfer fee, which was received by the section treasurer, who also stamped and signed the title deed. This transfer fee was officially set at twenty per cent of the sale price and was another way of earning money for the section’s administration fund. Finally, once that was done, the transfer was noted on the actual title and the title document was physically handed over to the new owner.

The owner then had the right to live in the room until he sold it, which usually occurred when he was leaving the prison. In the meantime, he could mortgage it if he needed to borrow money, in which case the lender would ask to hold the original title as security until the debt was fully paid. And just like in the outside world, there was no limit to how many properties you could own. So, if you had spare cash, you could buy another room and rent it out or start up a restaurant or a shop, or just keep it as an investment if you thought its value might go up.

‘A shop! What do you mean a shop?’ I interrupted.

‘Where do you think I buy all our food from inglés?’ he said, shaking his head at me like I was stupid.

‘So, you have to pay for everything?’

‘Everything,’ Ricardo confirmed.

The authorities did provide some food. But it was usually a watery soup, served out of a large bucket twice a day. It didn’t contain enough calories to last the day. Describing all this now makes it sound like a game of Monopoly. And for people who had money, it almost was – for those in the four- and five-star sections, it was like sitting on Park Lane and Mayfair. But in reality it wasn’t a game; this was real money, and real people’s lives were at stake.

A lot of unfairness resulted from this system, the saddest being those inmates who couldn’t afford a place to stay. Some of the rooms went for only a few hundred dollars. By Bolivian standards, this was a lot, especially for those who had become involved in crime because they were poor in the first place. Even with the help of their family, some inmates couldn’t get enough money together to pay rent, especially when the prison was full and prices were high. Those inmates often had to sleep outside in the cold or in a passageway or some corner, just as I had done on my first night. You could die if you slept outside.

Most people, though, managed to get by, even if they didn’t have money. The poor people in Bolivia are very caring and hospitable, and since the authorities hardly helped the inmates at all, they had to look after each other as best they could. The prisoners tried not to let anyone freeze to death. In Alamos, there was even a room that was owned by the section for people in difficult situations. The room was rented out very cheaply, or sometimes without any charge, in return for working for the section – scrubbing the bathrooms, cleaning the courtyard, taking out the rubbish and running errands. Nothing ever came for free in San Pedro, but if you were a decent person, you could usually persuade someone to help you by offering to work for them or promising to pay later. This was particularly the case when you were new, because people might think they could do you a favour and get some money out of you later.

There were inmates who did die out there, though, of starvation or exposure. Usually, they were the base addicts, who had lost all hope. They didn’t have anything at all and, according to Ricardo, whenever they got their hands on something, even a few coins, they preferred to buy drugs than to sleep in a warm bed or pay back a debt.

‘That’s why I don’t let anyone who smokes base in my room,’ he said. ‘It’s sad. But no matter how sorry you feel for them, they’ll steal everything you own.’

‘But they’re still people, aren’t they?’ I felt quietly disgusted that people could die of hunger in jail, even drug addicts, and no one would do a thing.

A week had gone by since I arrived at San Pedro and I still had no money to buy a room. Since my insurance plan of selling the cocaine had failed, I tried to repay Ricardo in other ways: I cleaned and tidied his room every day; I did the cooking and washing up; and eventually, when I felt strong enough, I offered to go to the shop he had told me about to buy supplies for him. Having heard Ricardo talk about the dangerous inside sections where they smoked base, Pinos didn’t seem so dangerous, especially during the day.

‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ he asked sceptically.

‘Why not? I’m almost better now. And it will be a good way for me to learn how to speak Spanish. You can teach me the words and I’ll go down each time.’

Ricardo hesitated. ‘I suppose you have to start learning about the prison one day,’ he said, pulling some coins out of his pocket and handing them to me.

After explaining where the shop was, he opened the hatch for me and I climbed down the wooden ladder, repeating to myself the words he had taught me – mantequilla, pan, espaguetis and tomate.

‘I’ll leave the door open,’ said Ricardo. ‘Call out if you have any trouble.’

‘I’ll be fine. It’s easy. Listen! Buenas tardes. Mantequilla, pan, espaguetis y un tomate … por favor.’

Ricardo nodded. I’d even got the pronunciation right, but he still looked worried.

I never made it to the shop. I only got as far as the courtyard. Someone hissed ‘¡Gringo!’, and a heavy blow to the back of my head knocked me forward. Then another hard blow landed on my neck and a whole group of prisoners attacked me. They must have been hiding, as I hadn’t seen anyone. I can’t even say how many there were, because it all happened so quickly and I was dizzy from that first hit. As I turned to defend myself, a fist struck my face from the side and someone kneed me in the groin, which dropped me to the ground. After that, all I could do was cover my head for protection as they kicked me from all sides.

For the first minute I yelled, ‘¡No soy americano!’ each time they struck me. When one of them booted me in the head, I pretended to go limp and stopped making any noise. They thought I was unconscious and after a few more kicks, they went through my pockets and then fled. I stayed curled up like that for a while longer in case any of them had remained behind, then I made my way slowly back up to Ricardo’s room.

Ricardo didn’t look surprised when he saw the blood on my face and he didn’t need to ask what had happened.

‘Sit down there. I’ll get some ice,’ was his only comment.

I looked at him strangely. It was as if he had known beforehand but hadn’t warned me or come down to help. I continued to stare at him and he must have sensed what I was thinking because he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He suddenly threw his hands in the air and went down to the shops to get the dinner supplies himself, without even bothering to ask whether I still had the money he had given me.

When Ricardo returned, I was lying on my mattress. He still wouldn’t look at me. He cooked the meal that night and we ate it in complete silence, apart from the sound of our spoons scraping against the bottom of the bowls. I watched him shovelling the final spoonful of pasta into his mouth, then he suddenly stood up.

‘I’m an old man, Thomas,’ he muttered, stacking the dishes loudly. ‘I can’t protect you in here.’

I looked at him. He was right. He was skinny and his hair was greying, and he was old enough to be my father. I was on my own for this one.

The day after the attack, Sylvia came back to visit me, just as she had promised. When she saw me come into the interview room, her hand immediately went up to cover her mouth.

‘Thomas! What happened to your face?’

‘I fell over when I was running down the stairs,’ I answered. I didn’t want her to worry, but I could tell she didn’t believe me.

‘That looks terrible. Here. Show me.’ I moved closer to the bars and she ran her fingers over the skin next to the cuts. ‘Look what they’ve done to you. You should report this to someone. Does the embassy know?’

I knew Sylvia meant the best for me, but there was no way someone like her could understand how things worked in a prison. If I said anything, the Bolivian authorities would only laugh. And although the British Embassy could complain, it had no power inside the prison, where it counted.

‘No. It’s OK. I’m fine. Really, I’m OK.’

‘Are you sure?’ It felt so good to be mothered again. I wished I could have been on the other side of the interview bars so that I could tell her everything that had happened to me. I wanted to tell her about the attack and what the police were like, and I wanted her to get me out of there and take me home, but I couldn’t. I had to be strong.

‘Well, at least be careful that those cuts don’t get infected,’ she said. ‘It’s not very hygienic in this country. I’ll bring you some antiseptic cream this afternoon. Look. I brought you some more of Tim’s clothes … are you looking after yourself in there? Do you need anything else?’

There were many things I wanted to ask her for, but I felt ashamed. Sylvia was already doing a lot just by visiting me, and if I became a burden to her, she might stop coming to see me. Besides, provided Ricardo let me stay in his room a while longer, I could probably make it through.

‘I’m OK.’

‘Well. Here’s my phone number again. You ring me if you need help. Any time of the day or night. OK? Don’t be embarrassed.’

Ricardo pretended not to mind me staying on his floor, even after three weeks had passed. However, a few days later, he reminded me that I should try to get some money as soon as possible to pay him back what I owed him and then buy my own cell. I still had no cash at all, but I knew he was right; I couldn’t stay on his floor forever. I could sense that he wanted his privacy back, or maybe he was worried about being associated with me, since I was a target. I placed some reverse-charge phone calls back to England and did my best to try and get some money in order to get out of his way. I was owed a few favours back home, but it would probably take a while to get the cash together.

A few days later, Mr Harris from the British Embassy, who had visited me in the FELCN cells, came to the prison. When I saw him, getting my own room was the main thing on my mind. I hoped that he already knew about the property system, because I didn’t know how I could possibly explain it otherwise. I was called by two of the guards and escorted to a special room in the administration office that was far cleaner than the public interview room. Mr Harris had brought me a small package of supplies: some antibiotics, a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and some fresh fruit.

The interview was quite short, but in that time he asked me many questions. Again, he didn’t comment on the crime I’d been charged with or ask whether I was innocent or guilty, and he changed the subject when I asked whether the embassy could help get me out. Unfortunately, I could tell from the questions he asked that he didn’t have a clue about the corruption in the prison. He told me that the embassy’s role was to ensure that I was treated fairly under the Bolivian justice system. He talked about getting lawyers for my case and asked me once more whether I had been tortured or mistreated. I said I hadn’t. My cuts had almost healed by then, so he wasn’t suspicious.

Finally, he asked me whether I needed anything more. I had a mental list of the things I needed – but there was one thing I needed more than anything.

‘Money. I need money.’

‘I’m afraid there is no provision for that in our funding, Mr McFadden. We can contact any family members or friends in England and help facilitate the transfer of any moneys they may wish to send.’

‘But that could take weeks. I really need money now.’

‘Our function at the embassy is to do all we can to protect your rights, but unfortunately there is no money we can give you,’ he dutifully informed me.

I explained to Mr Harris that I needed money urgently in order to purchase a cell and to buy blankets, food and clothes because the FELCN had kept mine and only given me a receipt. I didn’t explain about el Ingreso and the section entrance and transfer fees, because I thought that might complicate things too much.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr McFadden. I do not think I quite understand you,’ he said.

I explained again, this time giving him details about my first night and how I had been asked to pay a prison entry fee, and then five thousand dollars for a cell. I also explained, as best I could, that I had to pay a section entrance fee and a transfer fee for the title to a cell. At first, Mr Harris’s eyes seemed to get wider and wider, but then he folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and looked at me over the top of his glasses.

‘But that is preposterous, Mr McFadden! You do not mean to tell me that prisoners must pay to be incarcerated by the state and, furthermore, that they are obliged to purchase their own housing within the penitentiary facility?’

I went over the system a third time with him, explaining about the book that lists all the available properties and their registered owners. I knew it would be hard to believe so I thought that the more detail I gave, the more convincing I would be. Unfortunately, the exact opposite occurred: the further I got into the description, the more ridiculous it sounded, especially when I started talking about getting witnesses’ signatures for transfers of cell titles and about how the restaurant owners could earn real estate commissions.

‘I will look into this and see what I can do,’ said Mr Harris in his business-like fashion. However, I could tell by his expression that he did not believe me. He wanted to call me a liar, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked at his watch.

‘I will come again next week when I know more about your case. We have also contacted a charity organisation in England called Prisoners Abroad. They should contact you in the near future. Legally, I cannot make representations on their behalf, but it is possible that they may be able to assist you financially. My sincerest apologies, Mr McFadden. I must leave you now.’ He stood and turned to leave.

‘Don’t go! Please.’ I grabbed his sleeve. There was no chance of convincing him that I was telling the truth, but I was desperate. It was my final chance.

‘Look. I’m getting some money, I promise. Can you lend me something?’ I begged him. ‘I’ll pay you back. I’m not lying. I promise.’

Mr Harris paused and I thought he was going to call me a liar to my face. Instead he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

‘This is all I have on me,’ he said, handing me some notes. It was sixty bolivianos and it came from his own pocket.

‘Thank you so much. I will pay you back,’ I said, slipping the cash into my sock because one of the guards had seen him give me the money. ‘Thank you. You are very kind. Thank you.’

‘That’s fine, Mr McFadden. It is my pleasure. The embassy will be in contact. In the meantime, you have my card. Please take care of yourself.’

On my way back from the interview room, I was attacked again. Once more, it was an ambush. However, it was more serious this time.

As I rounded the corner into Pinos, I checked for anyone suspicious before climbing the stairway. When I got three-quarters of the way up, four prisoners appeared at the top. It was the same group of prisoners that had attacked me before. I spun around immediately and ran back the way I had come, leaping down three steps at a time, but another group appeared at the base of the stairwell. I was trapped between them.

There were only three men at the bottom of the steps and I was coming from above them. With the momentum I already had, I decided to keep running and try to get past them. I charged down the stairs at full speed, intending to push them out of the way until I saw something metallic. I stopped suddenly. One of the men had a knife.

I was travelling so fast that I almost fell over in my efforts to avoid the blade. I lost my footing and slipped. Slowly, they advanced on me. I scrambled to my feet. There were seven of them now and I didn’t know which way to turn. One of them smiled and said, ‘Gringo.’

‘Ricardo! Ricardo!’ I yelled. But Ricardo was miles off and wouldn’t have heard me. Even if he had, what could he have done against seven men? I was completely on my own. I had to make a decision. Up or down? There was no way I could fight them all at once.

I decided to go upwards. However, it was impossible. I was fighting uphill in a narrow stairwell against four men. As soon as I got close enough, one of them kicked me hard in the mouth. I felt my tooth go loose and the taste of blood in my mouth. They came down another step. I turned to the three below me but there was that knife again. The man held it in front of him as he advanced one more step. I turned back to the group above me and charged at them again, this time covering my face.

I didn’t get very far. I managed to ram the first man out of the way but the others leapt on me immediately and pushed me to the ground. Ignoring their blows, I did all I could, using my hands as well as my feet to scramble up the steps. However, it was no use. Within a few seconds, they had me pinned. The man who had kicked me grabbed me by the throat. Two of them struck me repeatedly in the face. The one with the knife was still coming up the stairs. I struggled but I could feel myself passing out. Then a strange thing happened.

Someone hissed, ‘Niña’ and suddenly the two men hitting me stopped.

‘¡Niña!’ hissed another man, louder than the first. The others loosened their grips and I struggled free. I got to my feet and turned to the group below me. The man with the knife held it in front of my face, blocking my way, but the others hissed at him angrily, ‘Niña.’ Grudgingly, he put the knife behind his back. His companions dropped their hands to their sides and I was able to slip past them, down the stairs. They didn’t even attempt to prevent me and fortunately, they hadn’t managed to find the sixty bolivianos that Mr Harris had given me. I didn’t know what had happened, but I couldn’t believe my luck.

When I got to the base of the stairwell, I looked back up. The seven men were standing to one side and a small child, about five or six years old, was trotting down the stairs on her own, completely unaware of what had been occurring moments before.

Niña. Little girl.

I didn’t want to tell Ricardo about what had happened this time in case he thought I was asking him to solve my problems for me or that having me stay in his room might be too dangerous. When he asked about the interview with the embassy, I handed him thirty bolivianos to help pay for the food I’d eaten, and told him I would definitely receive more money soon to pay him for the accommodation. I used twenty-five to pay el Ingreso and kept the remaining five for myself. Ricardo agreed to let me stay with him a little longer, but I could tell that he wanted me out of his living space as soon as possible because he started encouraging me to look around for a room.

However, he also warned me it could take some time to find the right one. ‘You can’t go out and buy a room just like that. You’ve got to do your homework first. Research the market, my friend. Buyer beware.’

The next day, he gave me a rundown on all the sections and afterwards insisted on taking me around the prison so that I could see them for myself. I didn’t want to go. I already knew where I wanted to stay: as close to Ricardo as possible. And although I couldn’t tell him the reason, I was very scared of going out into the main prison, especially down to the inside sections where the gang was from.

‘You should come, Thomas,’ Ricardo said. ‘You need to meet the people. Don’t worry. Guillermo and Pedro will be with us. It’s daytime. You’ll be safe. Just remember you are inglés.’

‘No soy americano.’ I parroted the expression he had taught me. He laughed.

‘That’s the spirit. We’ll have to work on your pronunciation, though.’

‘Soy de Inglaterra,’ I put on my jacket and a brave face, ready to go out.

‘Exactly! Come on! It’ll be fun.’

When I thought of those four men I had seen on my first day smoking pipes in the abandoned building, laughing and screaming at me crazily, and the gang that had attacked me, ‘fun’ wasn’t the word that came to mind.

Each of the eight sections in San Pedro had a star rating, like hotels do. The best and most expensive section in the whole prison was the five-and-a-half-star section of Posta. This was where all the politicians and wealthier drug dealers stayed. Ricardo didn’t take me there that day because it had a separate entrance gate and you had to get permission to leave the main prison, go outside into the street and around the corner to get in. He said I couldn’t afford it, anyway.

‘Beyond your budget, I’m afraid.’

The cells in Posta weren’t cells at all – they were more like small hotel rooms. They had carpet, furniture, television, hi-fi equipment, proper glass windows and private bathrooms. And because the inmates there had money, they could afford to decorate and make improvements to their rooms, which increased their value even more. Ricardo had heard of one room there changing hands for fifteen thousand dollars.

‘The politicians in there live better than most people in the country on the outside,’ he told me. I thought he was exaggerating until months later when I saw the place myself.

The Posta inmates weren’t only physically separated from the main prison population, they had a completely separate lifestyle. Most of them used their cellular phones openly and brought alcohol through the gates without any questions being asked. Many of them could pay to leave the prison during the day under police escort, and others were released before completing their sentences. Everything was run by money, and everyone involved kept very quiet. The guards in charge of Posta certainly wouldn’t have said anything – they were receiving good monthly bribes in return for allowing the inmates to do virtually anything they liked. And since the section had a separate entrance and was located right next to the administration block, it was easier for the inmates to continue receiving their privileges without anyone complaining, or even knowing what went on in there.

The other sections in the main prison weren’t quite as luxurious as Posta. Standing at the main gate looking across the courtyard, you could see the three passages that I had seen on my first night. On the wall to the right, just below the Coca-Cola sign, was the doorway to Pinos. On the far side, to the right of the church, was the entrance to Alamos; and to the left of the church was the dirty passageway that led to the inside sections.

The best section in the main prison was the five-star section Los Pinos – ‘The Pines’ – where Ricardo lived. It had a spacious courtyard and the rooms were on two levels, with a set of stairs leading up to the second-storey wooden balcony. There were also a few rooms, like Ricardo’s, which sat on top of the second storey and were accessed by ladders or stairs. Parts of the construction were getting old and falling apart, but because there was money available in the administration fund, they painted over the cracks and made everything look nice.

Although the rooms weren’t in the same league as those in Posta, they were still quite comfortable. Everyone had their own television and cooking facilities, although only a few rooms had private toilets. The majority of the members shared the common bathroom, which was kept clean throughout the day, although it smelled horrible.

For me, the most attractive part of the section was the garden in the centre of the courtyard. The big old pine tree gave the place a naturally peaceful atmosphere. Around the edge of the courtyard were various stands and restaurants that opened at lunchtime. Eating a nice meal outside on a clear, sunny day, you could be forgiven for forgetting you were actually in prison. Everything was tranquilo, as the Bolivians would say.

Alamos, with a four-star rating, was the next-best section. It had three storeys and was also quite safe, with a quiet, family atmosphere similar to that of the neighbouring Pinos. It wasn’t quite as nice as Pinos – it didn’t have a garden, only a concrete courtyard, and was badly in need of a paint job – but it was close. Nothing much happened in there either, everything was tranquilo most of the time, except when the children came back from school and started running around playing games. The section owned benches and chairs that were put out during the day, and you could usually find inmates playing chess and games of cards or just leaning against the wall, smoking cigarettes. The common areas, such as the bathrooms and dishwashing area, were hosed down and scrubbed each morning and sometimes also in the evening.

Generally speaking, the inmates in Alamos and Pinos weren’t rich, but they had enough money to get by. Most could afford a reasonable lifestyle, and although everyone complained a lot, no one was dying of hunger. Many of the inmates were private people who spent a lot of time indoors. They were simply waiting for their lawyers to hurry up and get them out; in the meantime they wanted to stay out of trouble and make their stay as easy as possible. These were mainly prisoners from the Bolivian middle class; many of them had been educated and, on the whole, they were a lot more civilised than in the other sections. There was less violence and no one smoked base. Not openly, anyway. The members could kick you out for that. They did sniff cocaine, of course, although everyone was secretive about it, especially in Pinos, where no one talked about it, except with very close friends. The section had to maintain its respectability.

Both these sections were safe at night because they locked the gates after 9 pm, preventing inmates from other sections from entering. During the day, the inmates were extremely friendly. You had to say something by way of greeting whenever you passed someone, no matter how many times you had already seen them that day. At first I found this pointless and annoying, but I soon saw that it made a difference to the way people treated each other. There was more respect between the inmates in these sections, and a sense of community – of living and sharing together.

The inside sections were where I had slept on my first night. Eventually, I was brave enough to go back there on my own, but at first I was too scared, plagued by memories of that horrible abandoned building and the haunting laughter of those four men. I didn’t want to go down there at all, even though Guillermo and Pedro, Ricardo’s tough-looking friends who had been with him in the courtyard on my first day, would be accompanying us. However, Ricardo made me go. I was lucky to have my companions, because everyone stared and hissed and several of them yelled out ‘¡Gringo!’. Guillermo was from those sections, so he was very relaxed, but I felt as if I was about to be attacked at any moment.

The difference in quality between the inside sections and Posta, Pinos and Alamos was incredible. You noticed the lack of money as soon as you entered the passageway that led down from the courtyard; it was dark and narrow and the white paint was discoloured and peeling. Further inside, everything was dirty and grimy. In fact, the whole place was falling apart and looked like no one there cared how they lived.

The cheapest of the five inside sections – Guanay, San Martín, Cancha, Prefectura and Palmar – had no star rating. Although each was officially separate, they were joined by a maze of tunnels, stairwells and damp passageways, making it difficult to tell where one section ended and the next began. It was easy to get lost because all the corridors were dark, with smashed bulbs that were never replaced.

We came out of one of these narrow passageways into the bright sunlight of a wide, open area where the air was fresh and people were sitting around relaxing. It looked like some kind of exercise yard and although I didn’t feel completely safe, it was more bearable than being stuck in one of those corridors, especially with all the people around. Ricardo explained that this was the section called Cancha, which means ‘playing field’ in Spanish.

‘This is where we have the annual football tournament. Can you play? Our section is going to win this year,’ he declared proudly. ‘But we really need players.’

‘Yeah, a little bit,’ I replied unenthusiastically. The idea of playing a game of soccer on concrete didn’t much appeal to me.

Since the football field wasn’t being used at the time, children were jumping along a hopscotch grid they had chalked up and were happily chasing each other everywhere. Around the perimeter, you could see inmates working on repairing and constructing furniture or making handicrafts to sell to visitors. Some prisoners lay on the ground in the sun; others simply stood watching. There were also women washing garments at the concrete basins, and others sitting around mending clothes and keeping an eye on the children. These were almost the same scenes that had greeted me on my first morning when I had woken up and didn’t know where I was. Once more, I was reminded of a small village. I had only been in San Pedro three-and-a-half weeks, but so much had changed for me in that time.

In the next section, Ricardo pointed out a big, round hole in the ground with concrete steps leading down into it.

‘They call that la piscina,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means “the swimming pool”.’

It was about two metres deep, but for a swimming pool, it was extremely small. I also wondered if La Paz ever got warm enough to go swimming.

‘But when do they use it?’ I asked.

‘Um. Occasionally they fill it up, but the water gets dirty very quickly, so most of the year it stays empty.’

‘But what do they use it for? It’s too narrow for swimming.’

‘Mainly they use it for baptisms and celebrations. You know, when a new inmate gets given his sentence or when someone has a birthday, they get thrown in the water,’ he explained hurriedly before changing the subject quickly. ‘Do you wanna see where they make the leather jackets?’

There was something Ricardo wasn’t telling me about la piscina. I later learned that it had a more sinister name – ‘el pozo’, which means ‘the well’.

We went up some stairs and into another dark passageway. This was the section of San Martín and it was more like what I had imagined a third-world prison would be like. In some parts, there were long rows of tiny, identical concrete cells, with the same grey metal doors. Often, they had no windows and so, in some parts, there was a horrible smell that must have been there forever. These were the dirtiest areas of the prison, where the poorer prisoners and the base smokers lived, sometimes four or five crammed into a minuscule room.

‘Life is cheap here,’ explained Ricardo. ‘People do whatever they can to survive.’

He pointed out that, unlike Pinos and Alamos, there were no gates between the various inside sections, so at night the inmates were free to wander from one section to another, making it more like a big neighbourhood in a city slum.

‘And this is where all the stabbings occur,’ he warned me as we came into one of the darker passages. When he saw my worried look, he reassured me. ‘It’s perfectly safe during the day. At night is when you have to look out.’

This didn’t make me feel any better. Although it was the middle of the day, the part we were in was so dimly lit that it could just as easily have been midnight.

We came to a corner and went down some stairs and outside again. This was where Ricardo came to buy his marijuana once a week. He didn’t want to talk about it at that moment – even in English – in case someone overheard us, but he quickly mentioned that this was also where the cocaine laboratories were located. We were right near the source. ‘Even the dealers in the other sections get their stuff from down here,’ he whispered.

‘Where?’ I wanted to know. But he wouldn’t answer.

I looked around, thinking that I might be able to guess behind which door they were making the cocaine. I was trying to picture small Bolivian scientists running around in white lab coats with thermometers stuck behind their ears, surrounded by bubbling beakers and smoking test tubes. However, it was the middle of the day, so it was hard to imagine that any of it was possible, especially with all the women and children nearby.

‘The food in that place is quite good,’ Ricardo said, changing the subject once more. He pointed to a restaurant we were passing. ‘The pork is the best plate they make. The cook is from Cochabamba. Cheap, too. Five bolivianos, with corn and boiled potatoes.’

We stopped to look at the menu of the day, which was written on a chalkboard. I didn’t understand any of the names, but the prices were very low, even for Bolivia.

‘So, if you want to save money, this is where to come, Thomas. Everything’s cheaper down here. Whatever you need.’

The main difference between these inside sections and the four- and five-star ones, however, wasn’t the quality of the rooms or restaurant prices, it was the people. Immediately, I noticed that they were much poorer; their skin was dirtier and their clothes were cheaper. But that didn’t worry me so much as the way some of them looked at you. I didn’t feel welcome at all. One old man spat on the ground next to me and I think I heard the word ‘gringo’ again. I noticed they were even a bit suspicious of Ricardo, because he obviously wasn’t from around there. In fact, they seemed to be suspicious of everyone, including each other.

But the worst thing was the number of base addicts. You could usually tell them by their faces, which were sort of caved in. They were also unnaturally skinny. As soon as one of them looked at you, you could tell what he was going to say, even before he opened his mouth. In Pinos and Alamos, all of the inmates spoke to you when they walked past. They also spoke to you in these inside sections, but it wasn’t to say hello. They wanted money.

At first, I felt obliged at least to acknowledge that someone was speaking to me. The first few times someone held out his hand, I said, ‘Sorry. I haven’t got any money. No hay.’ But Ricardo told me just to ignore them.

‘Once they get your attention, they won’t leave you alone until you give them something. So it’s best not even to look at them. Don’t establish eye contact. OK?’

I thought he was being a bit heartless and didn’t answer him. If someone is right there in front of me, I find it impossible to turn my head and pretend that he doesn’t exist at all. But I suppose Ricardo had been there longer than me and knew better. He must have sensed what I was thinking.

‘Look, Thomas. I know it’s sad,’ he said, sounding like I had just accused him of something very serious. ‘Give them some money, if you want. But they’ll just buy base with it. If you want to do someone a favour here, you’re better off buying them a meal or giving them something they can’t sell.’

When I still didn’t respond, Ricardo decided to prove his point in a different way. He led me up a staircase and along another dark corridor. We stopped at the very end, where I could just make out a thin ladder that looked similar to the one that led up to Ricardo’s room.

‘Alonso!’ he called out, banging on the trapdoor above him.

No one answered, so he called again. Eventually there was a shuffling of feet and the trapdoor opened.

The first thing that struck my senses as we climbed into Alonso’s room was the overpowering smell. It was one of those horrible chemical smells that gets inside your skin and stays with you for a long time afterwards.

‘That smell is base,’ Ricardo whispered in English before introducing me to Alonso, a short, skinny Bolivian dressed in filthy clothes. Alonso was balding slightly and, judging by his wrinkly skin and tired face, I guessed he was about fifty years old. Ricardo later told me he was only thirty-five.

‘¿Cómo está?’ Alonso asked politely, nodding to me, although his eyes were so glazed that it seemed he was only just aware of my presence. I looked around his room.

The cell was tiny and had no windows, trapping the smell of base smoke inside. Posters of half-naked women lined the walls and where there were no posters, the paint was peeling off. The only furniture was a bed and a small bedside table, but even so, there was hardly enough space for three of us.

After a brief conversation, Ricardo handed Alonso a one-boliviano coin.

‘Gracias,’ he mumbled in response, with a faraway look still on his face. He opened the trapdoor and disappeared slowly down the ladder.

‘Where’s he going?’ I asked.

‘He’s gone to buy another packet of base,’ Ricardo explained, and at that moment I noticed a ginger cat curled up on the bed. I leaned forward to pat it, but Ricardo grabbed my wrist.

‘Don’t touch the cat!’ he warned. ‘It’ll scratch your eyes out.’ When he saw that I was slightly taken aback by his reaction, he explained: ‘The cat doesn’t let anyone touch him when he’s in a bad mood. Wait until Alonso comes back, then you can pat him.’

‘What’s its name?’ I asked, wondering how Ricardo knew that the cat was in a bad mood.

‘I don’t know his proper name, but I call him Crack Cat,’ Ricardo said, chuckling to himself. ‘You’ll see why in a minute.’

When Alonso returned, he immediately lay down beside the cat. He then reached into his sock and produced a tiny, folded piece of paper containing the base. Next, he felt under his bed for a pipe, which he cleared by tapping against the wall. When the cat heard the tapping sound, it pricked up its ears and climbed onto its master’s stomach.

Alonso packed the pipe with tobacco, sprinkled some of the off-white base crystals on top and then lit the mixture using a match. The base bubbled, liquefied and then disappeared completely. Alonso held the smoke in his lungs and his eyes glazed over even more. The cat stalked forward slightly, advancing onto Alonso’s chest, looking poised to strike. I was convinced that the cat was going to scratch his face, but as Alonso exhaled a strange thing occurred: the cat craned its neck, lifting its head upwards to get closer to Alonso’s mouth. Alonso blew some smoke at its face.

The cat shook its head from side to side, and then sneezed before collapsing back into a comfortable position on Alonso’s stomach. It took a deep breath, as if it were sighing, and its eyelids drooped over in contentment. Alonso stroked the cat’s back and I heard it purring.

‘You see!’ said Ricardo, laughing and scratching the cat behind the ears. ‘That’s why I call him Crack Cat. He’s happy now so you can pat him, if you like. Crack Cat only needs a little bit, so Alonso has to be careful. That base is very strong and maybe, if the cat has a big night smoking, he might overdose.’

A cocaine-addicted cat wasn’t the only surprise Ricardo had in store for me during our tour that afternoon. We had one more stop: Julio’s.

‘This guy is also a base addict,’ Ricardo said to me under his breath as Julio opened the door. ‘Only far worse.’

Julio was pale and skinny and he wouldn’t meet my eye when we were introduced. He motioned for us to come in, all the while looking nervously at the floor. His room was even more horrible than Alonso’s. It was lit by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling by a thin cable. The concrete walls were unpainted and, apart from a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, it seemed Julio owned nothing in the world.

Ricardo held out two coins and Julio almost snatched them out of his hands.

‘Why did you give him two bolivianos instead of one?’ I asked once Julio had left to buy the base.

‘You’ll see in a minute.’

When Julio returned, he had two packets of cocaine base, known locally as basé. He sat down on the bed, placed an entire packet in the pipe and lit it. As he sucked furiously, the veins on his forehead popped and his whole face turned ghostly white. He held the smoke in for so long that I thought he’d stopped breathing. For those few moments, he didn’t seem human.

After he’d finally blown out the smoke, Julio stood up suddenly, reached into his pocket and produced a knife. I jumped back instinctively, thinking he was going to attack me, but instead he lifted up his shirt and slashed the knife across his stomach, drawing a perfectly straight line of blood. Just as quickly, he put the bloodied knife back in his pocket and sat down.

Ricardo said something and I watched, still completely horrified, as Julio stood up again and took his shirt off. Blood was trickling down his stomach and I noticed his entire torso and both arms were covered in thin, white scars from similar cuts. I felt sick in the stomach. I was also completely disgusted with Ricardo. The extra boliviano had obviously been to pay for Julio’s show.

‘He cuts himself to stop the paranoia,’ Ricardo explained softly as Julio put his shirt back on and began unfolding the second packet of base. ‘The sudden pain jolts him out of it.’

I looked at Ricardo and didn’t say a word.

Afterwards, I realised he had shown me these things in order to scare me off taking base. The first time you try it, a packet costing one boliviano – twenty US cents – lasts you a whole day. Eventually, you need that same amount every fifteen minutes. Ricardo’s plan worked. In all my time at San Pedro, I never touched the stuff. But I saw many people who did. One of my neighbours, who had been sent to San Pedro for a relatively minor crime, became completely addicted to base. He arrived with money and everything necessary to make his stay comfortable – a big-screen television, stereo, kettle, cooker and refrigerator. His family and friends visited him at least three times a week. But within six months he had quite literally sold everything he owned in order to buy base – including his clothes and even the blankets from his bed. His wife left him. His children stopped visiting. Eventually, someone he owed money repossessed his cell and he had to leave the section and move to a cheaper one.

I didn’t see anything more of the inside sections because I cut the tour short, claiming to be hungry.

‘But you haven’t seen where they manufacture the leather jackets yet,’ protested Ricardo.

‘Another day, maybe. I’m really hungry, man.’ I didn’t want to see anything more. I’d made up my mind: I didn’t care if I had to pay a million dollars to sleep on Ricardo’s floor. I wasn’t going to live down there in one of the inside sections. And even if he wouldn’t let me stay, I still wouldn’t sleep inside. No way. I would rather sleep outside, under that pine tree.

That’s not to say that everyone in those sections was a drug addict or a murderer. There were many decent people, often with loving families, who lived there simply because they were poor, but at night these people locked their doors and didn’t come out for any reason. Eventually, I made a lot of friends down there, especially in San Martín, and I visited them regularly. But my first impression always stayed with me. Sometimes I couldn’t help shivering as I went down the corridor that led from the courtyard to the very inside of the prison.