Lazily walking back to my hostel without a single thought in my head I ran into a fellow long haired traveler. ¨Hey, I am going to the Quito prison. Do you want to come? We just need to buy two packs of cigs and we need to hurry because to enter visiting hours we need to be there within 30 minutes.¨
This is traveling life. Whisked away to a new distracting activity before your mind can properly wrap itself around and digest the last one that just took place.
Next thing you know I am in a cab bumping along with two packs of cigs in my pockets and two beers. The beers are for me. The cigs are for the prisoner we are about to visit as a thank you. There is no entrance fee. My British traveling amigo explains to me that he got this guy`s name, Raymond, from Canadian traveler who had been last visiting hours. Twice a month the prisoners can get conjugal visits and once a week they can have family and friends. We are the friends.
Upon arriving we are searched. NO belts, cell phones, lighters. My passport is held at the gate and my forearm is covered in stamps so they know we are only visitors. I am left with 8 dollars in my pocket, my room key, two packs of cigs, two beers in my belly and an overall itchy nervous body feeling about willfully stepping into a prison.
Raymond is there to greet us. In his 60`s he has a full but slightly thinning head of gray hair with a thick yellowed mustache. His jet black eyebrows hang over droopy eyes that crave cigarettes. Raymond`s stooped over posture is that of a man that has spent a lifetime on a bar stool talking about stories with no end and no point.
He greets us in his Liverpool accent and tells us how, ¨I know the guards. He did me a favor to let me down here so I could escort you from the entrance to my room (cell).¨ Raymond shakes hands with the guard in a thankful gesture and the guard ignores him. The metal bars of the gate clank close behind us and now we are in. What the fuq are we doing in here?
It is nothing like I thought. The prisoners are walking freely among the Pabellons (cell blocks). They are not waving at you from behind their barred cells. They are brushing shoulders with you, eyeballing you, trying to extort money from you, and following you around. My only protection is this 60 year old man named Raymond that has spent 2.5 years here and does not speak a word of Spanish.
We spiral up stairs to the third floor. My head is on a swivel and I am not sure if I should be making eye contact or not. Sounds are heard while passing people to let you know they know who you are: frightened little tourists here to take a glimpse at their world. We get to Raymond`s cell. There are no bars. It is a wooden door with vents to let the air pass. Inside it is a very cramped college dorm room. A bunk bed sleeps two, and a third sleeps on the floor. It is claustrophobic, there are 6 guys crammed in there all smoking and socializing. We enter and try to make ourselves comfortable. I find a corner of a bed to take a seat and sit hunched over so the top of the bunk bed does not hit my head. One of Raymond`s roommates, Carlos, hands me a cup of Coca-Cola and a cig. I take both.
We sit and chat for a while. The usual questions: Carlos has been here for 5 years. Most of the guys are here on drug possession (minimum sentence of 8 years), but no one knows what the others are really here for. Sometimes it is found out that the guys are rapists or child abusers and they are ¨dealt with¨. The cliche is true. They are ALL innocent. Both Raymond and Carlos tell us their stories of how they were set up with their bags filled with coke in the airports. A moment later Raymond contradicts his innocence by saying, ¨Shit, they are supposed to help you and your family out if something happens. But nothing! Not even a word from them.¨ Them being the guys for whom he was obviously running the drugs.
The prisoners here have easy access to drugs and naturally, living caged up, start to lose their grip on reality. They have delusions of grandeur both about themselves and psuedo importance of their friends there in prison. Carlos explains that the prisoners run Ecuador from inside the prisons. If the prisoners call a strike the entire country shuts down. ¨How does that happen?¨ I ask.
¨Well, the prisoners kick all the guards out of the prison. Then we shut down the country. We do not do that anymore now because we rewrote the Constitution of Ecuador from inside the prison. The people voted to approve it and we will be out of prison before Christmas¨ Carlos says with raised eyebrows as if to say ¨how about that?¨.
Raymond goes on to tell us that Carlos worked on the legal changes right there in their little cell. Impressive, and unlikely.
Enough of story time hour, it is time to take a walk around the prison. Raymond brings us back downstairs to where you can eat and socialize. There is an eating area that is free. The food is so bad there that Raymond has never eaten the food there once in 2.5 years. To get decent food you have to pay for it. Cells on the bottom floor have been converted into tiny food stalls. A bakery, a Coca-Cola vendor, fried empanadas, and regular plates of food with rice, beans and carne as you would find on the side of the road. Nothing is provided for. Money is used to buy cigs, toilet paper, laundry, drugs, and betting. We leave the food area and pass a corridor that has cocks in a cages for the weekly cock fights. Now we are outside. This is Pabellon C. This is the nicest Pabellon. In order to get in you need to pay 80 dollars and then 1 dollar a week to keep your ass there. This guarantees you have a room with only three people in it. If you are a drug addict or have little or no cash you end up in Pabellon B or D. There you sleep 6 to a room. I cannot even imagine how 6 fit into a room there. I think it is impossible unless there are two in each double bed.
Outside in Paballon C there are people walking around stretching their legs. Each corner you look to there are shady conversations taking place, overly smooth handshakes and heavy rolled shoulders. The area is no larger than two basketball courts.
¨Now I am going to take you to what we call the machete ward, Pabellon B. Real bad guys there. Drug addicts with weapons. Stay close to me, do not talk or look at anyone. AND do NOT give anyone anything,¨ was Raymond's list of instructions.
¨Huh, we do not have to go there, really,¨ was my British companion´s thought. Mine too but I had some morbid curiosity.
Raymond acted like he did not hear and we walk into Pabellon B. The vibe is distinctly different as we pass the threshold, and in different I mean worse. Not even two steps in and there is a guy poking in me in the ribs asking me for a dollar. ¨No, I do not have any.¨ You know you are not supposed to give the guy anything, but your instinct is to give him something so he will go away. You also hope that the finger will not be replaced with a shiv. Next he trys the Brit. He starts nervously fumbling for some money but Raymond sees what is happening and bitches both the Brit and the crack head out.
The crack head leaves us alone but walks exactly two paces behind us for the rest of tour. I can smell him, like an LA bum covered in piss with sores all over his lips. Raymond points out the first ground floor cell. Here, like Pabellon C, there is commerce on the ground floor, but in Pabellon B it is drugs. You can get a joint for 50 cents, coke for 3 dollars a half gram, and heroin etc. can be purchased. The prison guards obviously get their cut and they turn a blind eye to it all, besides, the prisoners on drugs are probably easier to handle.
Many people buy drugs on credit. The interest rates in prison are steep. 10 dollars today and in two days you need to pay back 20. In two more days that goes to 40. In less than a week you own 80 on your original loan of 10. Trouble comes when you do not pay. As long as you pay you are valuable to everyone in prison. Do not pay and all of a sudden something can go horribly wrong. 10 people have been killed since Raymond has been there. Shot and stabbed. Those caught of killing once in prison are sent to Pabellon F. Luckily they are separated from the others, and right now us.
Coincidentally I am reading Papillon at the moment about the French murderer that escaped from prison two times in the 1930`s and 40`s. It is one of the most incredible true life stories I have ever read, so I have to ask Raymond how many have escaped. 10 people have since Raymond has been here.
Both the Brit and I are ready to get back to the sanctuary of Raymond`s room. Once back in the room I see that the Brit is ready to leave. He is sitting on the bed and nervously fidgeting with his sleeves and clasping his hands. I feel the same way, but internalize it all. Instead I have another nervous cig and wonder if my cold sweat is washing away the visitor stamps on my forearms under my jacket.
Caption: ¨Now I understand why prisoners get tats in prison; I even felt hardcore with these stamps.¨Sitting in the corner of Raymond`s room is a new greasy curly haired character with caramel skin. Behind glassy eyes he smiles. ¨He is one of the three main mafia bosses here,¨ says Raymond with much respect. ¨You can buy whatever you want from him.¨
Mind you, Raymond just told us a moment ago that a prisoner was caught with drugs inside the jail and was given another 8 years. And that contradicts what he told us that the cops know about the drugs being sold from Pabellon B but do not care because they are paid part of the profits.
¨Do not worry. You will not not be searched on the way out. Only in,¨ reassured Raymond. Ya, fucking hell, right. I am going to take this guy`s word? A man that has obviously made some great decisions up until this point of his life. I think I will pass on buying some coke and pot IN prison surrounded by guards that can arrest you and just keep you there.
I am not sure what is wrong with some of the tourists there but I have heard of them smoking J´s and doing lines with the prisoners and buying stuff. This, in my opinion, is the least relaxing atmosphere for drugs. My heart rate never got below 150 beats a minute while there for the hour and a half, which seemed more like one and a half days. Perhaps they figured they were tourists and nothing can happen to them, but both my friend and I felt the gravity of the situation.
You always know that prison is bad. You think about ¨what if¨ I was there. But once you are inside (and this prison is one of the best case scenarios you can imagine) your body and stomach feels heavy. Heavy with realizing this is their existence. We leave and wander outside, go to bed, and hop on a bus. All the while these guys are still in prison trying to convince themselves that they have it all worked out, have the best protection and friends, and that they will be out by Christmas time (I am sure they said that last Christmas as well...but it was delayed by `lost paperwork´).
We try several times to get up and leave. We have had enough of the tour. Each time we attempt to wrap things up Raymond gives us a ¨Oh, you going so soon?¨ and guilt anchors us there another 15 min before our next attempted escape.
While sitting there waiting for the minutes to pass, small talking, I get the creeping feeling of anxiety walking up my spine. Wanting to leave but held by an unseen hand. I look at each of the guys in the cell, including my friend, and I see that in their eyes as well. There is this pent up energy waiting to be released that has no where to go. They are all mousetraps ready to snap. Raymond`s eyes seem to be more distant now as the time with him passes. He is sitting next to us but he has left us while talking about names of streets in his hometown and watering holes. Hints of his shady past are being mentioned while reminiscing.
¨Why do you like having visitors?¨ I asked him, snapping him out of his ¨stooper¨.
¨It is nice for us,¨ was the simple response. I looked around the room and all the roommates heads were nodding in agreement.
About every 5 minutes there is someone at the door asking Raymond to buy a book or a DVD or some thing or another. The more you buy the more valuable you are. It buys your safety. It is extortion. Raymond has payed 50k dollars in the 2.5 years he has been there but he lives in relative peace for it. Now this time it is a guard asking him to borrow a charger for a cell phone (cell phones can be sneaked in, for a fee). I take this opportunity to stand up and my British friend takes the hint and follows suit. ¨Ok, me must be going.¨
Raymond walks us out. We shake hands heartily and thank God it is us who is leaving and not the other way around. The metal bars closed behind us. On wobbly legs we race down the streets fueled by nervous energy. No cab is needed. We walk as free men on the streets with heavy stomachs back to our hostel bubble.
