El Infierno

by Pieter Tritton

  We waited nearly an hour for the arrival of the guards who were to escort us on the 350-mile journey south, through the Andes mountain chain. They were armed with handguns and shotguns and were prepared for trouble. Kelvin and I were searched and then each handcuffed to a guard. We were led out of the main entrance, past the visitors waiting to come in for the cadada, and down the road to where a minibus with police lights its roof was waiting, along with a police patrol vehicle with four policemen armed with M16 assault rifles. All this security was for me, as the Dutch guy Kelvin had requested his transfer, so was going voluntarily. Did they think I was preparing to break out or something? I’d had no warning, no idea it was happening. There was no time for me to organise for a team to break me out. Kelvin looked at me and asked, ‘What the fock have you done man?’

  I shrugged my shoulders because I really didn’t know the answer to that question.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE ROAD IS LONG

  WE TRAVELLED THROUGH the city of Quito and were soon ascending the roads that led up into the Andes mountains, following the highway south, winding its way around the hillsides like a boa round a tree. On we went, higher and higher, the cloud engulfing us and the air temperature dropping rapidly so even the guards complained that it was too cold. We went through towns and villages where I wondered how people survived and why they would ever choose to live in such an inhospitable place.

  Kelvin and I were handcuffed to one another with arms interlinked – very uncomfortable and very romantic! We found it amusing for about the first ten minutes until the handcuffs started to dig into our wrists and cut the circulation off. We asked the guards, who sat both behind and in front of us in the minibus, to loosen them or take them off altogether but our requests fell on deaf ears.

  We spent a good couple of hours up in the mountains and I was closer to the sun, moon and stars than I had been for several years. I was so anxious about what lay in front of me at the new prison that I wished we would perhaps end up lost and just driving around in these mountains aimlessly – which is how I kind of felt anyway. I was lost to my family, friends and anyone else for that matter in a never-ending nightmare in the Ecuadorian prison system.

  As we travelled further south, we started to descend into the valleys, the air becoming humid and warmer. The vegetation changed from cloud forest and woodland to denser, more bushy canopy, with flowers and lush green leaves. This all seemed beautiful and new to me after two years spent in the concrete corridors of Garcia Moreno. We seemed to be following the course of a river flowing south out on to the plains that form the southern and western half of Ecuador, heading out towards the Pacific coast.

  The roads were surprisingly well-maintained, and we raced on, dropping ever lower, the air becoming ever warmer. We would come up behind a line of traffic and, rather than waiting, the driver of our minibus would just switch on the sirens and lights to clear a path through for our little convoy, occasionally picking up another patrol car as we went that would guide us through their area and then fall away. At one point we hit a small town in the mountains that was in the midst of its annual carnival and we got stuck behind a procession winding its way along the main street. We became almost a part of the event as the locals stared at this strange group, two foreigners, a load of armed guards and a police patrol – hardly an everyday occurrence.

  We were now travelling through the plains, one of the more fertile areas of the country. The road was bordered on each side by large plantations of bananas and fields of maize. The large leaves of the banana trees made quite an ominous wall of green, with just darkness beneath them. There would be a break every now and then for an entrance into a plantation, at which point we would get a glimpse of the workers’ houses, which were little colonial affairs, almost like large dollhouses. Somehow they didn’t quite look big enough for people to actually live in, but then I suppose you would think the same of a prison cell. The entranceways were gated and armed guards sat around smoking, making sure only the right people came in and out. I had seen places like this in the north of Colombia where the guards do actually have to protect the estate against FARC or paramilitary forces who would come raiding for cattle or to kidnap the owner.

  We sped onwards and hit a small town, where I heard the guards discussing where to buy some bread. We stopped on the main drag near a mechanic’s shop and three of the guards got out. Kelvin and I were really hoping we would get a chance to stretch our legs, which had gone to sleep now after four hours on the road. This didn’t happen, so we just sat, dazed by this sudden burst of reality after two years behind walls.

  I leant across to Kelvin and quietly suggested we should make a break for it, but in jest. I knew we would only get 40 or 50 metres and then be cut down by a hail of lead. I was sure this is what the guards were secretly wishing for, too. ‘Go on, try it and see what happens, gringo.’ They were keeping a close eye on us, with their trigger fingers ever ready. One of them returned with some freshly baked bread for us, still warm from the oven, and a bottle of Sprite, which took the edge off the hunger and thirst. The guards climbed back on board, changing their seating positions, and off we went again towards Guayaquil.

  The plains we were now crossing were more populated than the mountains we had left behind, and we were passing through towns with greater frequency. The sun had turned to a blazing pink as it began its descent towards the horizon, casting an amazing colour over the flat country below it. Back in Quito, I never really saw the sun set as it would just drop behind the mountains. Sometimes the night sky would light up behind them, but then darkness would descend rapidly.

  Our trip now became monotonous as the beautiful sunset had quickly turned through shades of grey to darkness and there was nothing to look at apart from the oncoming headlights and the towns we went through. A lot of people had now begun to emerge on to the streets as the coolness of the evening replaced the oppressive humidity and blazing heat of the day. The restaurants and bars were starting to fill as the dinner hour neared. Every now and then I would catch the smells coming through the open windows on the breeze and tell myself that I would one day be sitting on those restaurant terraces enjoying such pleasures I could now only watch pass by the window. I tried to close my eyes and sleep a little but this was virtually impossible while I was handcuffed to someone, surrounded by sweaty armed guards and feeling hot and worried.

  On and on we sped towards a destination that seemed to grow no closer. Perhaps they would just take us to the border and say ‘bye bye, nice knowing you, you’re free to go’, or maybe they would pull over on a quiet back road and put a bullet in the backs of our heads and say we had tried to escape.

  Eventually I started to see Guayaquil appear on the road signs and we reached the outer edge of a city. The driver spotted a garage and decided to pull in to refuel, but didn’t know on which side the fuel cap was. This turned into a comedy sideshow for a moment, which brought me and Kelvin some light relief. The guards all piled out with handguns drawn and shotguns at the ready, much to the bemusement of the forecourt attendant. Passers-by started to gather to see what was happening. The guards told me and Kelvin to get out so we could use the toilet at the garage and stretch our legs a little. This came as a huge relief after seven or eight hours handcuffed arm in arm in a cramped minibus. I fell out of the door pulling Kelvin with me, bringing the place to a standstill as the locals stared at the two foreigners cuffed to one another.

  We were escorted across the forecourt to a dark toilet surrounded by the guards, and told to use the toilet while handcuffed together. ‘They must be joking,’ I said to Kelvin. To wind us up the guards suggested we help each other. Kelvin went first and managed the task in hand, but as I was wearing tracksuit bottoms without flies and with an elasticated waist it was impossible. The guards found this even more amusing. At this point I snapped and blew my top. They realised it wasn’t a joke and thankfully uncuffed me so I could relieve myself. When I was done they put the handcuffs ba
ck on us and it was straight back into the minibus.

  My Spanish having improved somewhat in two years, I found out from the guards’ conversation that we were first going to Machala, which is way past Guayaquil, to drop Kelvin off, and then I would be dropped off on the return journey. It seemed to me a rather roundabout way of doing things as we were passing close to Guayaquil. Why not drop me and then continue on to Machala? But no doubt they did it this way round to earn more overtime.

  We travelled for several hours more and arrived in Machala around midnight. The driver eventually found the prison, having first had to stop and ask for directions. We got out and finally Kelvin and I were separated. I wished him well in his new home and watched him go, disappearing through a set of high steel gates. I was now standing in the street with only a couple of guards and the police escort as the others sorted out the paperwork for Kelvin, but I was certain they could sense what I was thinking. Could I make a run for it? How far would I get? But the guards were starting to get a little edgy; I was instructed to get back into the minibus. I sat there waiting until we were ready to go, but then the guards decided they had had enough of driving for the moment and asked me if I would like some food with them.

  ‘Sure thing, that would be great,’ I replied. We set off through the empty streets of Machala and before long found a restaurant that was still open. The proprietor agreed to let us eat there and the guards set up a cordon around the restaurant, taking turns to eat so I was always surrounded. It all seemed a bit dramatic just for me. A couple of the waitresses gave me lovely smiles as they served the food, which made me wish all the more that I was free. For the first time in two years I was sitting in a restaurant on the street eating a meal. It felt so good to be away from prison – away from the incessant noise of people and doors and locks and keys – even if only for a short while. I listened to the cicadas and felt the warm night air as I tried to imagine again being free to walk out of a door and go somewhere without first asking permission.

  Back in the minibus I managed to fall asleep, now I didn’t have my companion wrapped around me. I awoke to the sound of cobbles under the tyres of the minibus. Outside were rain-streaked streets lit by sodium bulbs. We had reached Guayaquil and were lost. I was slightly dazed and confused until my senses returned and reality kicked back in.

  The prison lay to the north of the city, up the coast road towards the airport, although it took the guards a good while to find it. Tall walls with razor wire stretched into the distance on either side of the gatehouse. I had arrived at the Penitentiary Litoral de Guayaquil, known locally as La Peni. This place looks big, I thought to myself.

  We all climbed out and I was escorted to the reception area so that they could sort out the paperwork. It was now about four in the morning and it still felt warm. We were very near the coast.

  I sat in the reception area and contemplated how much harder and more complicated everything would now be as far as fighting my case was concerned. My lawyer was in Quito, my case was in Quito, the embassy, the court, everything I needed was in Quito and now I was in Guayaquil about to have to start afresh in a hostile environment. Que bueno.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LA PENI

  AS DAYLIGHT BEGAN to spread rapidly, and the grey concrete dust-covered edifices began to take shape, the grim reality of my predicament was revealed. Dark holes became barred window and doors. I couldn’t believe this was a functioning prison. Had it not been for the presence of police and guards I could have easily mistaken it for a building site.

  I wandered in and out of what was supposed to be the holding cell, located just inside the main gate at the front of the building that contained all the offices, including that of the governor. No one paid me a blind bit of notice. I started to wonder whether they had forgotten me as the hours crept by and the prison slowly came to life.

  A well-built guy, aged about 30, came up to me and in American-accented English asked my nationality. He introduced himself as Eduardo, from the Dominican Republic but resident in New York. He explained that he had been sentenced to 16 years for trying to smuggle four kilograms of heroin to the United States. He had been in the prison for a couple of years already and had assumed the role of looking after newly arrived foreigners. He outlined the way the prison functioned – i.e. gang-controlled and totally corrupt. I was shocked when Eduardo told me how much the gangs tended to demand of people like me. The ingresso (entrance fee) alone, he lamented, was going to be between $2,000 and $10,000, according to how much they deemed I was worth and what they could squeeze out of me. I had expected it to be quite a lot but not this much, considering that in Quito it was $60! What would happen if I refused to pay it, I asked. Eduardo’s face changed markedly from one of smiles to one of world-weary mournfulness. He lowered his voice and glanced around nervously to make sure he wasn’t overheard. ‘You really don’t want to do that.’ He went on to explain that the gangs here were very adept at extorting money from people; they colluded with the guards and even the director, who were paid to turn a blind eye. Basically, you either paid or you were going to go through hell: tortured with beatings, drownings, electrocution, hanging, strangulation; with knives, guns, bats, machetes and all other manner of horrific methods. In short, Eduardo explained, if you got on the wrong side of the gang then you were in deep, deep shit and could quite easily end up dead.

  Fuck! I tried not to show my fear and anxiety but my mouth had dried up and my stomach was turning inside out. Oh well. I would just have to pay. I would just have to hope that those calls I had been promised by my friends in Quito to ensure I was well received at Guayaquil had been made. Eduardo reassured me that as long as I played ball but didn’t roll over I would be OK. I already had the experience of two years in an Ecuadorian prison dealing with these types of people, so at least I was better prepared than someone who had just arrived in the country.

  Eduardo headed off, leaving me to mull over all the information he had imparted. He had told me that two heavily armed gangs controlled the prison with regimented brute force and violence. There were regular gun battles between the two gangs, often resulting in multiple deaths. The place was out of control and the authorities basically left them to get on with it, merely containing everything within 15-foot-high walls patrolled by armed police who would shoot to kill. Whoever had instigated this transfer really wanted to fuck me up. In fact, it felt as if they wanted me dead.

  Directly in front of me there was a large wrought-iron gate, which I guessed was the main entrance to the prison. I could not see very far into the ominous darkness beyond it. To the right of this there was another part of the building that looked semi-derelict, but in which I could see movement. People kept coming to the gate to look out across the dusty dirt road that appeared to encircle the place like a no man’s land. A few of them called over to me and asked where I was from. ‘England,’ I replied. Upon hearing this they became quite animated and started beckoning me to come over to the doorway. I was wary of getting into trouble for leaving my supposed holding cell, but then I heard a definite English accent, and south London at that, call out to me. I looked across to the entrance of the building to the right of the main gate and could make out the pale, bearded face of a well-built, middle-aged man with wavy brown hair. He was beckoning for me to go over to him and shouted out not to worry about the guards or police.

  I decided to risk going over to see this Englishman. I crossed the dusty dirt track that seemed to run all around the prison. As I did so I realised that I was surrounded by a high perimeter wall topped with razor wire. The wings were inside another wall running parallel to this outer one on the opposite side of the no man’s land – a rectangle within a rectangle. I reached the wrought-iron gate from where the Englishman had called me and asked a guy who was standing there watching the world go by (as best I could) for the Englishman.

  ‘Hello mate, how are you doing?’ he greeted me. We shook hands. He introduced himself as Simon, and I explained who I
was, why I was in prison and about my sudden transfer from Quito. I discovered that this dusty, empty building site was in fact the hospital wing. If this bombed-out-looking building was the hospital, which you would expect to be the most sanitary of places, then what the hell was the interior of this prison going to be like?

  Simon asked why I had been transferred, a question to which I had no clear answer at present. All the way from Quito the night before I had been asking myself the same questions: who had requested the transfer, what implications would this have for me in the future and, primarily, how the hell could I get back there as soon as possible? Anything was possible in this country, I told myself, if you threw enough money at it and were persistent.

  Simon had never seen a Brit transferred from Quito or Guayaquil in the four years he had already been locked up out of a 25-year sentence, which was for trafficking 400kg of cocaine to Britain hidden in the digger arms of heavy plant machinery. I remembered reading about the case when I was still in Britain. Simon hadn’t been caught with even a trace of cocaine on him and wasn’t in either country when the alleged offences had taken place. They still gave him 25 years, the maximum for drugs, following heavy pressure from the British authorities.

  I thought back to the British police arriving in Quito a couple of times to collect evidence in my case and to ensure I wasn’t going anywhere soon. The words of the jefe de guia rang loud in my ears from the night before, when he had said my transfer was at the behest of the British. I must have really pissed them off this time. They seemed intent on me dying in this hellhole. They knew how bad these places were and the strong likelihood of ending up either sick or crazy by the time you finished your sentence – if you were lucky enough to make it that far.