Marching Powder

by Rusty Young

  The cost of a tour was twenty-five bolivianos, about five US dollars, although gradually this price went up as police cracked down and made it tougher for foreigners to visit. Sometimes tourists would claim that they didn’t have enough money to pay the full amount. Many of them were used to the Bolivians trying to rip them off and had the mentality that you were expected to bargain for everything. They assumed that I was no different, since I was a prisoner. But what they didn’t understand was that I had to pay the police no matter what; the head taxista counted heads as each person came in and every single one of them had to be accounted for. If I ever claimed that a tourist hadn’t paid, the police might think that I was trying to cheat them, which would make it harder for me to get the next group in.

  The other big expense was keeping the inmates happy. When I first started running the tours, I was scared that something might happen to one of the tourists, so I stuck to the main courtyards and didn’t stay too long in the dangerous sections. The tourists were always polite and respectful, but their presence created resentment among the inmates; many felt that they were being made into exhibits, and others were jealous because I was a foreigner who got more visitors than they, as locals, did. However, the main source of jealousy was money.

  The gangs that controlled the economy of the prison liked to run everything themselves, so they tried to set up rival tour operations in order to run me out of business, using as guides a few cheaply paid Bolivian prisoners who could speak a little English. They enlisted the help of the taxistas to call for these guides, and keep me away, whenever foreigners turned up at the main gates. However, even when they did succeed in tricking tourists into coming inside, their tours were nowhere near as popular as mine. The word at the hostels was that you had to ask for me by name.

  The same thing happened when the gangs got some of the English-speaking foreign prisoners involved; people still demanded that I be the one who took them around.

  ‘Thomas is sick,’ the taxistas would say, or, ‘Thomas isn’t doing the tours anymore. Freddy is.’

  But the tourists insisted. ‘We only want to see Thomas. Otherwise, we’re not coming in.’

  So, eventually, my competitors realised that I had to be part of the business and they decided to get involved by force.

  The tall man with the scar across his face who had saved me at la piscina came to my door, flanked by his two henchmen. I knew by then that his name was Lucho, which is the nickname in Bolivia for Luis. His other nickname was Burro – ‘donkey’ – owing to his strength and inability to feel pain. He was the biggest man in the prison and the most feared. On the outside, he had killed people; on the inside, he worked together with his gang to control the most dangerous sections in the prison and also as a standover man for anyone who paid him. Funnily enough, everyone in the prison liked Lucho. He was always very polite and nice in the way he did his job. He could probably afford to be, since no one ever argued.

  ‘Tomás, we need to have a small word with you,’ he said quietly, his huge frame filling my doorway. I invited them in and they seated themselves at my table. There was no aggression at all. They had simply come as friends to offer me some advice. There were rumours that many of the inmates were annoyed about the tourists visiting the prison. Some of the gangs were planning to rob them and create problems for me inside the prison. I had to be careful: if any foreigner was ever attacked, that would mean the end of the tours immediately. Lucho had a generous proposition for me.

  ‘Mi amigo, I want to help you with the tours,’ he said, linking his index fingers together in a symbol of unity. His companions nodded. ‘I think we will work well together. Like brothers.’

  As with the police, I had no choice but to agree. Lucho and I became what was known in San Pedro as socios – partners. For a share of the tour profits, he and his two men, Victor Cartagena and Lucho Vaca, would accompany the tour groups as official bodyguards, while I showed them around the various sections. Although this meant less money for me, it did solve two problems in one go: it kept the tourists protected as they moved about the prison, and it kept me protected from the other gangs.

  One of the gang leaders was only a boy, although a very dangerous boy. His real name was David Cordero; however, he was known to everyone simply as Fantasma – meaning ‘ghost’ – because he believed in spirits and read books about black magic. He was only nineteen years old when he arrived at San Pedro. Legally, he shouldn’t have been in an adult prison because he was under twenty-one, but no one did anything about it. In Bolivia, there were inmates as young as fourteen.

  Fantasma was Bolivian but he had spent many years in the United States on a green card, so he spoke English with a strong American accent. He acted a lot tougher than his age because he had hung out with street gangs in New York, where he had become known as ‘The Latin King’. Fierce tattoos now covered his hands, and he wore American-style gang clothing and listened to rap music. Despite his tough act, I did my best to make friends with Fantasma when he first moved into Alamos. At that stage, I didn’t know his background and I thought I might be able to save him from being attacked, like I had been. However, I soon worked out that Fantasma didn’t need any looking after.

  Within a month of entering San Pedro, he had stabbed an inmate in a fight. He was immediately sent to La Muralla, the prison’s punishment section. When he got out, he stabbed another inmate in the leg and was sent back to the isolation cells. I wasn’t sure if all this was an act to gain respect in prison, but I didn’t want to find out either. I was certain that he would eventually end up going too far and be transferred him to Chonchocoro, the harsh, maximum-security prison Ricardo had mentioned in my first week. But in the meantime, I wanted to stay on his good side.

  After that second incident, Fantasma continued to establish himself as someone who was prepared to go to any length to win a fight. The other inmates already steered well clear of him because of the crime he had originally been charged with. Gradually, as I learned more about what that crime was, I began to cool down our friendship.

  Fantasma was in San Pedro for killing his best friend. When he had come back from America, bringing with him the latest rap music and dress code from the New York gangs, he became a local hero and formed his own gang known as ‘The Latin Kings’. He fell out with his best friend and one night, when a group of them were drunk and high at a party, they started to fight. Fantasma pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. The friend took a step back, but Fantasma fired a round into his chest. The friend fell to his knees and begged forgiveness, but Fantasma reloaded, lifted the barrel, pointed it directly at his friend’s face and pulled the trigger.

  When I found out what he had done, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Fantasma to think that I was turning my back on him or that I was scared of him. To be honest, he had never shown me his violent tendencies. In fact, one day he had started crying after he’d had a few drinks in my room. He told me a bit about his tough childhood. When he was younger, he had been sent to live with an uncle who had punched him in the head and chained him under a cold shower or locked him in a closet if he misbehaved. I didn’t know whether to believe Fantasma or not, but something had to explain how a boy of nineteen could calmly blow his best friend away in front of several witnesses.

  During the first year and a half that the prison tours ran, all of my visitors were backpackers aged in their twenties who were looking for adventure. Although the jail wasn’t as dangerous as people might have expected, these were the only foreigners who were brave enough to risk it. With the bodyguards protecting them, there was really no need to be afraid. In all of my time as a guide, not one tourist was ever hurt in San Pedro. In fact, once visitors got over their initial fear of coming through the gate, most were amazed at how safe and relaxed the atmosphere was inside. In broad daylight there was little chance that any of the inmates would be stupid enough to try anything; apart from the payback they could expect from my bodyguards, the police would have severely punis
hed anyone who attacked a tourist.

  Eventually, the inmates welcomed tourists because they brought cash into the prison economy. I tried to spread business around so that everyone benefited. The taxistas made very easy money – normally, they charged half a boliviano per callout, but I let them charge double that, and to each tourist in the group; the restaurant and shop owners sold extra food; poorer inmates were often able to sell their artwork and souvenirs, such as key rings or small figurines; and even the beggars managed to scrounge a few small coins. During that initial period, at least, most of my visitors were attracted by the unique opportunity of seeing what life was like inside a Bolivian prison. But there was also another major attraction for the backpackers: taking cocaine.

  With the police only ever entering the prison to carry out the lista, it was actually safer to do drugs inside the prison than outside. Ricardo used to joke about this all the time: ‘What are they going to do if they catch you with coke in here? Send you to prison?’ It was also safe for tourists to take cocaine in the prison. The guards knew exactly what went on in my room, but providing I was discreet and paid them their cut, they never bothered me.

  Many tourists simply wanted to sniff one or two lines before they went out the gates, just to know what pure Bolivian cocaine was like. For others, it was the first time they had ever done it. And if you were going to try cocaine at all, why not in San Pedro? The cocaine was made in our laboratories, so it was cheap, and you knew it wasn’t cut with anything nasty.

  The trouble was, once we had started sniffing, it was hard to stop. My visitors always wanted to buy one more packet, especially when they became entranced by my stories about the jail. We would do more lines and then buy some cans of beer, and when it came time for them to leave, they wouldn’t want to go. They wanted to hear more. Luckily, there was a solution: tourists could also sometimes stay the night in San Pedro.

  It depended on which officer was on duty and how strictly the guards were cracking down, at the time. If something had ever happened to one of the tourists, the major would have lost his job. But for a few extra dollars, he usually considered that to be a worthwhile risk. He always asked that I keep visitors in my room to prevent them being seen by too many people and to minimise the risk of any incidents. This limited what we could do, but it didn’t stop us from enjoying ourselves. For most tourists, it was the excitement of being able to spend the night in a third-world prison that mattered. That’s one experience that very few people in the world get to have. It’s something they would remember and tell people about for the rest of their lives. Besides, at the going price, with all the modern conveniences, including a private room with comfortable mattress, television, electricity, running water, cooking, washing and laundry facilities, and a wide selection of quality restaurants, San Pedro prison was one of the better-value accommodations for backpackers in La Paz. And with no police around and a constant supply of cheap, pure cocaine, it was one of the best places to party in South America.

  Usually, I would cook a meal and get the spare mattresses and sheets ready for when we wanted to sleep. Then we would buy some more beers or a bottle of rum and more packets of cocaine, and maybe some marijuana to bring us down at the end of the night. But always, there was cocaine. Outside, people normally take cocaine when they’re at a club, drinking and dancing. That wasn’t an option in jail, so the main thing we did on cocaine in San Pedro was talk. We talked a lot. Once I’d had a few lines, the stories I had stored up from seven years of international drug trafficking would flow and the tourists would sit listening, spellbound.

  I also enjoyed hearing my visitors’ stories about their travels. There wasn’t enough space in my room for more than five people to sleep, so if a whole group wanted to stay, we would have to stay up until morning, doing coke, drinking and talking.

  One night, five or six backpackers were sitting around my table at three in the morning, completely drunk and high on coke. They were from various countries and no one could stop talking, least of all Jay, an American, who had studied anthropology at university. He was explaining something about the Incan empire, which I was finding interesting, but everyone else had become bored.

  Paul, an Australian, interrupted Jay. ‘So, where exactly are you from again?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, really,’ sighed Jay. ‘I’ve been travelling for some time now. I don’t feel like I belong to any one place in the world. I’m really from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘How long have you actually been on the road?’ asked Giles, a longhaired backpacker from the UK.

  ‘Oh, approximately thirty-four days,’ replied Jay, nodding his head proudly.

  Paul raised his eyebrows. ‘A month, you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s not really a question of chronological time,’ said Jay, sounding defensive. ‘I don’t measure things in that way. I’ve done more than ten countries during that time and it’s impossible to measure any cultural experience in terms of number of days. It’s more of a personal growth thing …’ His voice trailed off as though he were allowing the thought to linger for dramatic effect. As an afterthought, he added, ‘Besides, thirty-four days is more than a month, isn’t it?’

  ‘How can you “do” ten countries in thirty-four days?’ said Giles, using his fingers to indicate the inverted commas around the word ‘do’.

  Before Jay could answer, Liz, a South African girl, diplomatically changed the subject. I got the impression that there was something going on between her and Jay.

  ‘Cheers, everyone!’ She raised her glass and we were obliged to reach for our own. ‘And what about you?’ she asked Paul. ‘How long have you been travelling?’

  ‘Oh, I left Melbourne, let’s see … I think it was March, April … a bit over four years ago. I worked in London, ‘did’ Europe …’ he said, making the same inverted-commas gesture as Giles had. Giles laughed so suddenly, he almost choked on his drink. ‘… travelled through the Middle East and Africa, then flew to Mexico, down through Central America, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and now I’m here in Bolivia. Pretty much the standard story.’

  ‘Standard story! That’s totally awesome,’ said Jay, who had completely missed the joke on him, even though Giles was still in a coughing fit. ‘You must speak good Spanish, then.’

  ‘Not a fucking word, mate! Cerveza, por favor. That’s all you need, really. I can get by. Just flash these South Americans some cash and they usually understand, hey!’

  ‘So, you haven’t seen your family for four years?’ said Liz.

  ‘Nup. I don’t reckon I’ve even spoken to them for about two years.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, it’s so fucking expensive to call home from these countries, isn’t it? Three minutes on the phone costs more than my daily budget.’

  ‘What about collect call?’ Jay asked.

  ‘Collect what?’

  ‘Reverse charges,’ Liz translated.

  ‘Oh, no, my old man ain’t gonna pay. No way. I reckon he’d hang up on the operator.’

  I suddenly had an idea. There was a Chilean guy in my section who rented out his mobile phone to make cheap international phone calls. You paid a set fee and you could make as many calls as you wanted to anywhere in the world in a half-hour period.

  ‘How cheap?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Very cheap. Five dollars for half an hour,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s impossible. There’s no way.’

  ‘I’m not joking, man. Seriously, you just pay the guy the money, he brings you the phone and you have it for half an hour. You can call as many times as you like to anywhere in the world.’

  ‘How come it’s so cheap?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. The Chileans are smart, man. They are a lot more intelligent than the Bolivians in prison. I think it’s because there’s not much oxygen up here, so the Bolivian brains don’t develop properly. This guy rewires the phone and breaks into the telephone network and he gets fr
ee calls. Every few days they cut him off. But then he does it again. What are they going to do if they catch him doing it – put him in jail?’ I laughed, stealing Ricardo’s joke, and everyone thought I was funny.

  ‘But there’s no risk for me? They’re not going to trace the call or anything?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Hey, man, this is Bolivia.’

  ‘Sweet as! I just have to remember my home phone number now. Bring it on!’

  ‘OK. You wait here and I’ll go get the phone. Have another line, man! It will help you talk.’

  The phone was one of those old, chunky models with a wire aerial that you had to extend.

  ‘OK. You have half an hour starting from now,’ I said, handing it to Paul, who eyed the cracked display panel suspiciously.

  He dialled the number and put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Is it ringing?’ asked Jay.

  ‘Yeah, seems to be working. It’s dialling at least. What? … Hello Mum … yeah, Mum, it’s me … I’m calling from Bolivia … Bolivia, Mum. It’s in South America … yeah, I’m fine. I’m calling from prison … the prison …’ The others in the room started giggling. ‘Yes, I’m in jail, Mum … Mum!… Can you hear me? Fuck! It cut out. Fuck!’

  Everyone stopped laughing. No one said a word. We were all imagining what Paul’s poor mother must have been thinking on the other side of the world, having not heard from her son in over two years, only to receive a call from him on a bad connection telling her that he was in prison in South America.