El Infierno

by Pieter Tritton

  Simon explained that he was living in this building site as his life had been threatened by one of the gangs within the prison. This had occurred after a business deal went wrong, leaving him indebted to murderous, ruthless thieves who only cared about one thing – their money; dinero, plata – and would go to extreme lengths to recoup or extract it. As we both knew, there was no escaping a debt here and Simon knew it was only a matter of time before they got to him, unless he negotiated his way out of the mess.

  No one seemed the slightest bit interested in who I was or where I was supposed to be. This suited me fine. The longer things weren’t fixed, the more chance I had of manipulating the situation to my advantage. I persuaded a guard to let me into the wing with my bag. Simon and I spent the rest of the day talking about our cases, the other British prisoners in the system and the way in which we had both been royally stitched up. He let me use his mobile to place a couple of calls. The first I made was to my family, who were shocked that I had been transferred and terrified about where I had ended up. I then called some friends in Quito to see if they had spoken to anyone down here and ask them to perhaps to put in another call. I asked them to make sure my things were being looked after so that the embassy could collect some of them and bring them to me.

  I spent that first night sleeping fitfully on the floor next to Simon’s bed in a building site, and I awoke the following day cold, stiff and tired from a bad night’s sleep. Not long after the morning count, a guard came and shouted for me and took me back over to the holding area I had disappeared from. I left my bag with Simon so I didn’t have to heave it around with me. The guard told me to wait in there. At this time the prison service wasn’t really computerised and all records were kept in paper form including fingerprints and photographs. When you were transferred your carpeta, or folder, was supposed to be sent with you along with your photos. I sat there as the heat just built and built, increasing slowly as the morning went on.

  I just managed to get some lunch as they went around serving the meagre prison food. I was hot, tired, hungry and thirsty so was thankful for the bowl of soup and the plate of rice with some chicken in a sauce that tasted pretty good right then. The food here seemed to be a lot better than in Quito. Just after lunch I saw an Ecuadorian beckoning to me from the main gate to the prison. He called over, ‘Are you Pieter? Have you just come from Quito?’

  ‘Yes’ I replied, my spirits lifting but also my nerves kicking in.

  He was smartly dressed and accompanied by two equally well dressed guys in crisp shirts. They seemed to command a degree of respect from the other people crowded around the gate, who had made space for them to come through to the front. These were quite obviously not your run-of-the-mill inmates; most of the other people around them were dressed in clothing that looked as if it had never been washed. I guessed that this was going to be my first contact with the gang that controlled this half of the prison.

  They told me to come over to the gate to speak to them. There were a couple of guards sitting at the entrance in the shade, controlling who came in and out. The three guys were conversing with them quite freely as if they were friends. This seemed quite strange to me, as in a British prison you didn’t talk to the guards unless you wanted something. If you were seen being friendly with guards there, you would be classed as a grass. I waited a second, unsure whether to go over or not until one of the guards beckoned to me. The main guy told me that he had been sent by Coyote, one of the bosses.

  I had met Coyote a couple of times in Quito. He was being held in A wing, the maximum-security unit, on firearms charges. He was in fact a reasonably high-level international trafficker. He had been transferred to Guayaquil six months prior to my move in order to finish off his sentence closer to his family. I had liked him when I’d met him before. He was a relaxed, calm guy to whom you could talk freely about business or day-to-day matters. He was friendly and genuine compared to some of the people you met here who were only interested in what they could get out of you. I felt reassured that Coyote had been contacted and had sent people to find me. My friends had obviously done their job. The guy said he would go back and let Coyote know I was here, and they would sort out which wing I would be allocated and then return later in the afternoon to collect me.

  I wandered over to tell Simon what had just happened and he immediately warned me to be careful and, if possible, avoid going into the main prison. This compounded my fears and left me feeling even more unsettled.

  Eventually, at around three o’clock a large group of very well dressed guys sporting heavy gold chains and chunky watches turned up at the gate. This was obviously the gang. They looked like something out of a rap video. Evidently these were the bosses, as they were giving out orders to people around them and receiving phone calls. All this was taking place in front of the two guards stationed on the gate, who almost appeared subservient to the men behind the bars. They were looking and gesturing towards me and I spotted the guy from earlier on talking to one of the bosses. I was feeling pretty bloody nervous now. Here we go, I thought.

  After a short exchange the guards opened the gate and out streamed a large group of over 50 gang members – bosses and bodyguards. I was quickly surrounded with people on every side.

  ‘You’re Pieter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your friends from Quito have called, you’ve been highly recommended. Nice to meet you.’

  We shook hands while the others milled around, keeping an eye out. Various members of the group were on their phones and I caught glimpses of the butts of guns tucked into the belts of shorts. Jesus Christ! This was insane. These guys were wandering around as if they owned the place. Even the guards on the gate were unarmed. The gang seemed to have complete immunity.

  Two policemen walked by armed with M16 assault rifles and gave this group a wide berth, a wry smile and a nod of the head. The boss, who introduced himself as Olea, produced a phone and asked if I would like to speak to my friends in Quito. Without waiting for a response, he dialled the number. I wasn’t quite sure who he was calling, as in the midst of my hurried departure I had asked several people to please call ahead.

  He handed me the phone and it was Nizar, the Syrian caporal from C wing. Nizar told me he had spoken to the bosses of the gang and that I would be well looked after. He also raised the subject of me signing my cells in Quito over. I was becoming more and more suspicious as this was the third or fourth time of asking. Could Nizar have instigated my transfer? He and I had had our differences over the last two years and I’m sure he felt his position was threatened. I was now suddenly worried that he had arranged this reception party with a view to extorting me out of every last penny I had. Oh God! I felt like a gazelle among a pack of lions, about to be torn apart. There wasn’t a lot I could do really. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire!

  The boss concluded the meet and greet by telling me I would be well looked after. He explained that they would organise everything with the guards so that I would go to one of the best wings in the prison where a large number of them lived. They would protect me and make sure all was well. I wasn’t sure quite how to take this. It could all be a ruse to lull me into a false sense of security, to get me to drop my guard. At this point, however, I had become fairly good at reading people and he was coming across as genuine. I was still nervous, but felt kind of respected now that such a number of people had come to greet me on the word of my friends in Quito. I doubted very much whether this happened with many other foreigners. I could see the other inmates wondering what was going on. Who was this newly arrived gringo that the whole mafia came to greet?

  This was my initiation into, and first contact with, the notorious Los Cubanos gang. A gang who not only controlled half a prison with a population at that point of nearly 8,000 inmates, but also a large part of the south of the city called Guasmo. I was now well and truly in their hands, and my future and very survival depended on how the next few hours and days went.

>   Simon had watched this take place, along with quite a few others from the wing he was on. I went back over to speak with him, emboldened by my new feeling of security. He warned me to be very careful and not to get involved with the gang as they regarded all outsiders as merely an opportunity to make money, normally by stealing or extortion. They specialised in playing mind games, he went on to tell me. This they called cerebro, which means ‘brain’. It was a favourite pastime of theirs and they were very good at it. I was glad of the advice and promised myself I would treat everything with suspicion. Simon also told me not to accept any gifts or make any promises as they would ask you for five times what they had given you and you would be obliged to give it. Any promises, no matter if made flippantly, would be expected to be fulfilled.

  Later that day Eduardo came to find me. He introduced me to a Chilean lady who helped foreigners in the prison. Her name was Margarita, and she greeted me with a lovely smile. I immediately took to this motherly lady who was helping people from the kindness of her heart without asking for anything in return. She explained that she was the accountant for a local evangelical church and had first become involved with the prison when she came to the aid of a couple of Chileans imprisoned in Guayaquil. It transpired that she not only knew the honorary vice consul of the British embassy in Guayaquil but was very good friends with her, and she said she would call her directly once she left the prison. She offered to help in any way she could with, for example, collecting money transfers or bringing in shopping, clothing, medication or pretty much anything else that was needed – providing it was strictly legal. Being a devout evangelical Christian she was totally against drugs, and alcohol as well. I was relieved that I had encountered someone who would be able to help me with money transfers, as this was vital here. I knew that any day now I would have to make some payments to the gang either for my ingresso or to buy a cell.

  After the last count, a guard came looking for me. He started to hustle me along, saying he was taking me to the wing that the gang had arranged for me to live on. I said goodbye to Simon for the time being and promised I would try to come out and visit him whenever I could. Off I headed into the bowels of the Penitentiary Guayaquil, not knowing when, or even if, I would emerge alive.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ATENUADO ABAJO

  THE HEAVY IRON gate crashed shut behind me. In front of me, as far as I could see, was a long, dark passageway some twenty feet wide, intermittently lit by strip lights. We hadn’t gone far when we came to a gateway on the left, the entrance to a wing called Atenuado Abajo. There was an inmate standing outside the gate with a guard, both drinking cans of beer, and another smoking a fat-looking spliff of marijuana. We stopped outside the gate while an inmate inside the wing produced a set of keys and unlocked a hefty padlock that secured a thick iron chain wrapped around the gate. The guard was then free to open the lock to let me in. This place was insane.

  As I walked through the gate, the half-drunk inmate made a grab for my bag, but I had seen it coming and swung around, giving him a solid backhander in the face. This he was not expecting and he fell backwards, landing on his arse, much to the amusement of everyone there. I followed the guard to a cell on the right-hand side where he stopped, knocked and called out, ‘Olea.’ The heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a pretty fucking opulent cell for a Third-World prison. Olea was sitting on a plush double bed bathed in cool blue backlighting, watching satellite TV on a large screen. There was a fridge, cooker, furniture, rugs on the tiled floor and pictures on the walls. Not a bad set-up. The cool air from an air conditioner circulated, bringing relief from the oppressive evening heat.

  Olea passed the guard a $20 note over and he disappeared. Olea offered me a chair. He told me that normally a newly arrived foreigner would be charged at least $2,000 ingresso to come on to the wing. However, because I had been transferred from Quito and came highly recommended, he was going to make an exception and only charge me $300. I sighed a breath of relief – thank goodness for that. My friends from Quito had obviously managed to call the ‘right’ people and had secured me a reasonable welcome. Perhaps my doubts about Nizar were ill-founded?

  Olea asked if I might want to buy a cell in which he said I could live on my own. I could have whatever I wanted and they would make sure I was well protected and that no one bothered me. The idea of being able to live on my own again after two years living in a cell with two other men sounded like paradise. And how much would this favour cost me? I was quite surprised when Olea said $800. A fully equipped cell in Quito was over $2,500.

  Olea explained that the other half of the prison was controlled by another gang, Los Rusos. His gang was in charge of this half of the prison, not the authorities, so whatever I needed it was best to ask him first. He also said it would be a good idea not to get into debt, to pay my bills, keep my word and not to start taking loads of drugs as that was frowned upon. A really big no-no was to start selling drugs in any way, as this was their business and me trying to get in on it would likely result in a rather gruesome death. Foreigners weren’t really permitted to have any kind of business at all as the locals viewed this as taking money from them and their families. It reminded me of people in Britain saying that immigrants were taking their jobs.

  I was told that the guardia (a fund used to bribe the guards and director to turn a blind eye to the gang’s activities) and food had to be paid each Sunday, collection day for everyone on every wing. The guardia and food were each five dollars weekly, irrespective of whether or not you ate the food. There were also sometimes what they called ‘collaborations’ to raise funds for things such as Christmas, painting the wing, general repairs and so on. These were also compulsory. Olea stressed again the importance of paying all of these as this money went directly to the gang and it would cause problems if I didn’t pay.

  Olea said that there were several cells empty on the wing at the moment and I could take my pick and move straight in. Yes! He carefully wrote down his girlfriend or wife’s name and passed it to me. I assured him that I would have the payment organised in the next few days and asked from where I could make a phone call. Simon had told me the previous day that making phone calls here was a bit of a pain, as there was not a single pay phone, or cabina, in the whole place and the authorities had erected towers with antennae that blocked the phone signal to try to prevent the gang from controlling their business in the street. However, the gang had seen this as an opportunity to control the market in calls by restricting who could have phones and setting up their members to rent minutes on mobiles at high rates.

  Two of the previous directors had been gunned down when they failed to cooperate with the gang’s activities within the prison. Several guards had also been murdered for refusing to help the gang bring in drugs, guns and alcohol. I could now appreciate why the guards were so friendly with these guys and treated them with a lot of respect. Half of them had grown up inHalf of them had grown up in the same neighbourhoods and knew each other and their families. Not only that, a guard’s monthly salary was only $400 or $500 and the temptation to earn ten times that in a week bringing in drugs was just too much. Simon had told me that there was a whole bunch of former guards imprisoned here in their own little wing, and that quite often once they were released they would get their old jobs back and carry right on as before.

  Olea made it clear that I had protection here now and that I would be escorted by a couple of guys wherever I went, to watch my back. They would take me to make some calls in the morning and I could even use his phone to do so. He then called for someone to show me the cells on offer.

  The cell I was shown was dark inside as there was no light bulb. The guy I was with explained that I needed to buy a light bulb from the shop on the wing, which I duly did. The cell was completely empty, devoid of bed, TV, cooker, any fixtures at all. Everything of value had been stripped, obviously down to the light bulb! What the fuck?

  I went back to Olea and explained that I would much
prefer to buy a cell that was fully equipped and pay more, say $1,500 dollars, rather than have to go through all the hassle of trying to get everything brought into the prison by bribing guards. I asked if I could stay with one of his friends for the time being until something was arranged. He agreed to this and sent somebody off to fetch whoever it was I was going to stay with.

  A few minutes later, a well-built, chubby guy with a friendly face and glazed, stoned-looking eyes came to the door. Olea explained the situation and my new room-mate, whose name was Chorito, took me to his humble abode. He instructed me as to his cell rules and showed me a kind of mezzanine level with a stepladder leading up to it, built of wood, where I could sleep on a mattress. He slept in the hammock he had erected on the ground level as it was cooler. The cell was fairly basic but it would do for the time being until I got myself sorted out. I was glad to have somewhere I could finally have a proper sleep and shower after the last few days. The only other things in the cell were a small 14-inch portable TV and Chorito’s beloved hammock.

  I immediately detected a strong smell that was familiar to me but which I couldn’t quite place. As the evening progressed, it became apparent what the odour was. Chorito was in fact the drug supplier for the wing and the smell was polvo, the drug similar to crack that they loved to smoke, usually mixed with marijuana or in a pipe. There was a fairly constant stream of clientele. I sat watching the TV and chatting to a few people, explaining why I was there, my case, who I knew in Quito, the usual prison banter. I was slightly concerned that I was now living with the wing drug dealer but in other respects it could mean that I would be in some ways viewed as one of them.