I knew it was going to be a weird day when the man took my student ID card to cut lines of cocaine for our tour group. For weeks the backpacker circuit had been abuzz with story of the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, a special place for murderers, rapists and pedophiles. Also, a a place you could take drugs with said lovely people. Lots of people were reading the book, ´Marching Powder´, an account of an English inmate who started offering tours of the inside.
The inside was still a mystery. I hadn´t actually met anyone who had been inside. But whenever I talked to someone about San Pedro, we spoke in serious italics. For emphasis.
Generally, I tend to avoid prisons, which I have always found to be wise. I don´t like violence, drugs or orange jumpsuits, and on TV, that´s all prison´s about.
But, it was Day of the Dead. And I had convinced some burly-looking guys from the north of England to come with me. Israelis would have been preferable, but they were too cheap to do it. You have to pay 400 Bolivianos to get in - roughly $50 - plus bribes once you´re on the inside to stay safe. But the pound is strong, and so it was - two electrical engineers from York, and yours truly.
San Pedro is capitalism at its most glossy-eyed. Every prisoner must pay for his own cell (who they pay was never clear), which has created an entire community of strung-out venture captalists. Restaurants, laundry, artisans and drugs or alcohol are all available for a very unfair price. Those who speak foreign languages can make more as tour guides, and those good at beating people up make the best bodyguards. My group got Felipe and Jose for both jobs, respectively.
Felipe is 47, has a tan like George Hamilton and a rasp like Phyllis Diller. A Portuguese national, Felipe was arrested 36 months ago for drug smuggling. He pled guilty at trial and has yet to receive his sentence.
He seemed bitter.
But at least he dressed up for the occasion. His black blazer was just slightly tattered at the elbows and his white button-down was gray, though neatly tucked into his jeans which were held up by a rope. I wondered where he got the rope...
Felipe is a master of languages and almost blew my cover off the bat. We were standing over a pool with a giant painted Beluga whale smiling up at us from below. They used to find corpses floating in the pool every morning not long ago.
´Blah blah blah´, he said to me in French.
´Pardon?´
´Didn´t you say you are from Canada? I thought every Canadian spoke French.´
Shit. I did lie. The York boys told me to because the prisoners here blame Bolivia´s poverty on the United States. Listen, I know we´re bad and stuff, but do I really have to take responsibility for Jose´s armed robbery?
I knew tombe-pas-de-bourrée-glissade-assemblé wasn´t going to help here. The extent of my French is ballet vocabulary. I mean, I doubted Felipe, a self-proclaimed con-man, had ever taken a ballet class, but when you´re on the inside, you can´t make such assumptions.
´Actually, in Vancouver we really don´t speak French. Just English. It´s a western province thing.´ Bright Canadian smile.
I mean, what´s a little white lie among pedophiles anyway?
For two hours, Felipe showed us around, in English. There are 7 main ´neighborhoods' in the prison, all with increasingly better cells or cleaner-looking particleboard. The prison is a hodgepodge, with cells atop each other, and an extremely rickety-looking web of staircases that lead you through atriums, concrete soccer grounds, lots of mini cocaine or chocolate shops or the laundry blocks.
The prisoners get stuff to sell to each other because their wives or girlfriends bring it in. Actually, if you´re married, you can live with your sweetheart in his cell in prison. It´s so romantic that lots of women do. And so do their children. In Bolivia, just because you´re locked up doesn´t mean you lose the right to see your family. The kids are released for school every day, and come back by 5 p.m. for dinner or church.
Prisoners can sell and take drugs because the police don´t go into San Pedro, preferring to let the inmates police themselves. And they do.
Dudes in black shirts with batons are the official security team. They enforce a 3-strikes rule. If you tattle, you get a beating. If you do it again, you are beaten until you bleed. And a third time gets you all that, plus extended time between the walls, where a lot of people are found dead.
We don´t tour between the walls, thank god.
According to Felipe, if you murder someone in prison in Bolivia, you only get 2 years added onto your sentence. He grimaced. There was that elusive word: sentence. Poor Felipe...
He took us into the kitchen where the prison mush is cooked. Bolivia will pay for water, electricity, tea and bread. The rest is up to the prisoners. The day we visited, it looked like they were cooking killer stew. Five teenage boys were peeling potatoes in the corner with 6-inch knives I was praying were dull.
Avoiding actual eye contact, I could see the peeling had become provocative, as you might imagine it would when you´re a 19-year-old convict.
´Íf you can afford it, it´s great to take a shower here because it´s hot water. I take a shower once a week in the sauna room...´
Felipe´s hygiene was fascinating, but the killer spud peeling gallery was getting raucous. I´m glad my Spanish sucks, because the words coming out of their mouths just sounded foul, and I needed no translation. I grabbed on to a York engineer for dear life, Felipe took the hint, and we went to another, equally uncomfortable area with no visible knives. That smelled.
I wasn´t sure if the aroma of boiled vegetables, mold and nervous sweat was making me ill, or the fact I was in a prison on my own will. Prisons on TV actually look like they smell pretty clean, because prisoners are always assigned to mop and things. But San Pedro is not like TV prisons. TV prisons don´t have little girls hugging you for dear life, and the whole time I kept thinking ´Glad I left my wallet at home´, not ´Geez I hope this little girl isn´t ruined for life.´
I am a terrible person. I mean, she´s already got 10 years of therapy ahead of her...
Also, TV prisons don´t have cocaine labs where you can sample the local product, purported to be the finest in Bolivia. Don´t worry mom, I don´t take drugs, and if I did, it wouldn´t be in an effing prison. But I did proffer my ID card - not my Duck ID, of course! - because one has to appease the drug boss when you´re on the inside.
Pablo, another tour guide, told me San Pedro really isn´t a bad place to live.
´Before I was deported, I did 3 years in SoCal, and it was always the Mexicans vs. the Blacks vs. the Russians... shit man, here´s it´s different. Everybody mixes - Bolivians, the foreign dudes, the drug dealers, the hard murderers. And nobody has to wear that ugly-ass orange bullshit. Fuck, man.´
Fuck, man, indeed.
Showing posts with label cocaine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cocaine. Show all posts
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Romancing the Shell
I wonder how often south americans come to an Oregon beach and sit there thinking, "Gosh, I could really use a shell necklace right about now. And maybe a massage from a self-taught, but pretty un-professional."
See, in Cartagena, Colombia's emerald jewel on the Caribbean coast, you don't have to preoccupy with such worries. They are right there in front of you. And behind you. And to you right and left, an armful of shell necklaces conveniently nudged your way so you may compare and contrast as closely as possible.
Lucky me, I went to Playa Blanca, Cartagena's 'nice' beach and got my own armada of shell necklace groupies, enthusiastically encouraging me to pick the right one for such a regal neck.
I realize this isn't harassment in Colombia. Or stalking. But rather good salesmanship, because they knew better than me my mind would change with just a bit more shell nudging.
"This is a one-time opportunity, my queen!"
"Youthful princess, you cannot find this style anywhere but THIS beach!"
This style being so special, it is only manufactured in China.
Colombians must be nonplussed to find no one selling ANYTHING on the Oregon sand - no mango slices, no half-melted ice cream, no cocaine (well...), and definitely no shell necklaces.
"You mean I have to go to a mall? But I'm right here! On the beach! Sell me SOMETHING!"
I fear, in the end, my persistent posse are the victims of some kind of South American Shell Necklace AmWay scheme. Nobody bought their stuff. Mangoes, yes. But the puka shell rosary? Surely someone must buy them, lest waste precious time?
The patience and time-wasting award for the day goes to Big Bird, a pretty lady with the most vibrant canary yellow romper - that's right, I wrote ´romper´ - of all time.
As our boat abutted the beach, she was the tallest of her 10 friends, spoke English, and took to me immediately in what was to be a doomed attraction.
Big Bird wasn't selling necklaces, her gig was a massage. And normally, I'm all over that, but I was distracted, fiddling with my life vest, warding off conch bracelets and in the organizational kerfuffle, I uttered the single word every traveller should exorcise: maybe.
Maybe, in my mind, almost unilaterally means no.
Would you like to have a meeting with HR to discuss your poor attitude? Uhh... Maybe?
Do you want cow entrails soup for breakfast? Well - maybe!
Feel like digging ditches in the rain today? I dunno. Maybe.
But maybe to a woman whose only job is to sell her hands to tourists on the only nice beach for miles is simply an invitation to employ your most unflappable sales strategies.
For Big Bird, this meant hovering. She followed me to lunch. She watched me eat said lunch. She waited for me to finish my dip in the lovely warm water. I kept turning her offer down, generous as they were.
"But you tell me maybe!"
It was true. I said it, not realizing she would understand it, or use it like an effing scarlet letter. Worn down, I said in my most snappy Spanish, "No! Do you understand the word NO?"
And Big Bird just sniffed, looked away and left, as if now I was annoying her. She completely ignored my existence, which is what I had done to her and every shell necklace salesman all day as if they were subhuman.
And then a wave of guilt overcame me. Big Bird was just trying to do her job. It was an irritating job, but honest employment nevertheless. And I am a rich tourist who should treat others with more respect. So I thought about apologizing... you know, maybe.
See, in Cartagena, Colombia's emerald jewel on the Caribbean coast, you don't have to preoccupy with such worries. They are right there in front of you. And behind you. And to you right and left, an armful of shell necklaces conveniently nudged your way so you may compare and contrast as closely as possible.
Lucky me, I went to Playa Blanca, Cartagena's 'nice' beach and got my own armada of shell necklace groupies, enthusiastically encouraging me to pick the right one for such a regal neck.
I realize this isn't harassment in Colombia. Or stalking. But rather good salesmanship, because they knew better than me my mind would change with just a bit more shell nudging.
"This is a one-time opportunity, my queen!"
"Youthful princess, you cannot find this style anywhere but THIS beach!"
This style being so special, it is only manufactured in China.
Colombians must be nonplussed to find no one selling ANYTHING on the Oregon sand - no mango slices, no half-melted ice cream, no cocaine (well...), and definitely no shell necklaces.
"You mean I have to go to a mall? But I'm right here! On the beach! Sell me SOMETHING!"
I fear, in the end, my persistent posse are the victims of some kind of South American Shell Necklace AmWay scheme. Nobody bought their stuff. Mangoes, yes. But the puka shell rosary? Surely someone must buy them, lest waste precious time?
The patience and time-wasting award for the day goes to Big Bird, a pretty lady with the most vibrant canary yellow romper - that's right, I wrote ´romper´ - of all time.
As our boat abutted the beach, she was the tallest of her 10 friends, spoke English, and took to me immediately in what was to be a doomed attraction.
Big Bird wasn't selling necklaces, her gig was a massage. And normally, I'm all over that, but I was distracted, fiddling with my life vest, warding off conch bracelets and in the organizational kerfuffle, I uttered the single word every traveller should exorcise: maybe.
Maybe, in my mind, almost unilaterally means no.
Would you like to have a meeting with HR to discuss your poor attitude? Uhh... Maybe?
Do you want cow entrails soup for breakfast? Well - maybe!
Feel like digging ditches in the rain today? I dunno. Maybe.
But maybe to a woman whose only job is to sell her hands to tourists on the only nice beach for miles is simply an invitation to employ your most unflappable sales strategies.
For Big Bird, this meant hovering. She followed me to lunch. She watched me eat said lunch. She waited for me to finish my dip in the lovely warm water. I kept turning her offer down, generous as they were.
"But you tell me maybe!"
It was true. I said it, not realizing she would understand it, or use it like an effing scarlet letter. Worn down, I said in my most snappy Spanish, "No! Do you understand the word NO?"
And Big Bird just sniffed, looked away and left, as if now I was annoying her. She completely ignored my existence, which is what I had done to her and every shell necklace salesman all day as if they were subhuman.
And then a wave of guilt overcame me. Big Bird was just trying to do her job. It was an irritating job, but honest employment nevertheless. And I am a rich tourist who should treat others with more respect. So I thought about apologizing... you know, maybe.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
FARC and Circumstance
Second-hand danger stories are always annoying.
Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.
And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.
And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...
They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.
Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...
They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?
All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.
For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.
The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.
Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.
And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.
But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.
Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.
The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.
The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.
Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.
I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:
* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread
Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!
Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.
And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.
And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...
They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.
Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...
They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?
All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.
For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.
The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.
Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.
And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.
But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.
Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.
The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.
The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.
Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.
I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:
* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread
Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!
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