by Rusty Young
I wandered around, looking for someone who might be able to help me. All the doors were closed, but I saw two men talking and went up to them.
‘Hola. Can you help me, please? I need food.’ They couldn’t understand English and walked away when I patted my stomach. I saw another prisoner, but he disappeared before I could even talk to him. He took one look at my dirty suit and at the way I was stumbling and must have thought I was drunk. By then, I was completely out of energy. I just needed to lie down.
Eventually, I found cover in a building in the far corner of the courtyard. There were no lights on inside, but I could make out that there was no one there. There was no door, so it would be just as cold as sleeping outside, but at least I would be slightly more protected from the wind or from attackers. If I stayed alert, I might survive the night.
I sat down and leaned against the hard wall, thoroughly exhausted. The cement floor was cold and a little damp, so I couldn’t lie down without getting wet. I stayed sitting there for some time, resting in the shadows where no one could see me, trying to keep my eyes open for any danger. It was an uncomfortable position, but after two weeks in the FELCN cells, I was used to it and must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was feeling wet. It was the middle of the night or the early morning and foul-smelling water was seeping across the floor. My pants were saturated. I remember thinking that I should change positions, but I had no energy left to do so. I went back to sleep, sitting in a puddle of sewage, until morning when I heard a bell ringing. When I woke up I was still exhausted and delirious with hunger. I staggered to my feet and looked outside. I was so weak that my mind wasn’t working properly and what I saw made me think I had gone crazy.
The first thing I noticed was a big red sign painted on the wall advertising Coca-Cola. Then I saw a number of women and children. I had expected to find myself in a horrible Bolivian prison, where I was probably going to die. Had it all been a bad dream? I didn’t actually know where I was or how I’d gotten there, but it certainly didn’t look like a jail. I looked around again and wondered if it was some kind of peasant village or city slum. Surrounding me was a deteriorating building complex of small apartments of all shapes and sizes, with their doors painted in various colours. It was three storeys high and made mostly of wood. The sun was shining and what seemed like hundreds of families were beginning to stir.
Wooden balconies creaked as the women emerged from their houses and began their daily chores. Some carried fresh market produce – fruits, vegetables and chunks of meat – in sacks slung over their shoulders. Others were setting up small stalls that sold all types of goods, from soft drinks, cigarettes and chocolate bars, to secondhand cutlery and cassette tapes. A group of women, dressed in poor but colourful rags, were scrubbing and rinsing clothes by a washbasin and then placing them out to dry on the concrete. One young woman, who could not have been more than sixteen, was seated on a bench, breastfeeding her baby.
There were also children of all ages everywhere. The older ones – dressed in their school uniforms, some wearing backpacks – were enjoying the final moments before they had to leave for class. Two small girls jumped gleefully from square to square on a hopscotch grid they had drawn on a cement playing field. Around them, a group of boys was playing a noisy game of soccer. I definitely wasn’t in prison. But where was I? I walked out further to investigate.
It was at that moment that I realised my pants were completely saturated and stuck to my legs. There was also a disgusting smell somewhere very close to me. When I squeezed the back of my pants to wring out some of the water, I recognised the horrible stench. My hands were covered in shit.
It all came back to me in a sudden rush – everything that had happened to me since I had gone to the airport two weeks before. It hadn’t been a dream. I was in prison. I felt faint. Suddenly, my knees folded beneath me and I slid down against the wall to the ground. I coughed violently and saw blood splatter on the cement in front of me before I passed out.
6
RICARDO
When I came to, I knew that if I didn’t find help soon I was going to die. I decided to make my way back to the main courtyard. On the way there, I came across some other prisoners. They stopped to stare at me, but none of them did anything. I must have looked a sight, stumbling along and coughing up blood.
In the corner of the courtyard, I saw a door with a red cross painted on it and the word ‘MEDICO’ written beneath. There were three inmates already waiting outside, so I lined up with them. When it was my turn, a short man with glasses ushered me into a tiny room and pointed to a seat. Apart from a shelf stacked with thick medical textbooks and a stethoscope on the small table, there was nothing to indicate I was in a doctor’s surgery. The doctor himself was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looked no different from the other inmates. I later learned that he was an inmate, having been jailed for stabbing his wife fourteen times.
‘Do you speak English?’ I asked him. He shook his head.
‘No. Sorry. No speak English,’ he said, before launching into an explanation of some sort in Spanish.
I couldn’t follow much of what he was saying except that he was asking me for a payment of twenty bolivianos. I pretended not to understand. Instead, I patted my chest and coughed so he could see how serious my condition was.
‘The costo is twenty bolivianos, please, mister,’ the doctor then said in English, ignoring my coughing. I told him I couldn’t pay and showed him my empty pockets, just as I had done with the major. When he saw that I had no money, he apologised and then stood up and opened the door. ‘Sorry, mister,’ he said, trying to get me to leave. The next patient started to enter the room.
I took a breath that was so deep it hurt my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. I spat the blood that came up onto the carpet. As soon as he saw me about to take another breath, the next patient turned to leave again and the doctor grabbed a roll of toilet paper. He tore off a long strip, which he put on the floor where I had spat, and then handed me the roll. He could see that I wasn’t going to leave until he helped me.
We stared at one another for a moment longer. Then, without saying anything, he reached for his stethoscope and checked my breathing. I watched the reaction on his face.
‘Big infección. Need antibióticos,’ he concluded, writing out a script and motioning for me to follow him to the door. He pointed up the stairs and said, ‘Farmacia’, then closed the door behind me in relief.
The woman in the pharmacy smiled as I entered. When she saw me up close, she noticed how sick I was and made a big fuss over me, like I was her own son. It was the first real kindness anyone had shown me in two weeks and I smiled back, thinking I was finally saved. She took the script and rushed around to find the right medicine on the shelf. She put the box on the counter and, seeing that I couldn’t speak Spanish, wrote down the price on a receipt, which she showed to me. When she saw the worried look on my face, she snatched the box back off the counter. Then, when she realised how bad that had looked, she shook her head sadly and started apologising.
‘Lo siento, señor. Lo siento mucho.’
She did look sorry, too. I was dying and the Bolivians were all very sorry. She slid my prescription back across the counter, still with the same sad expression on her face. I tore it into shreds and threw the pieces back at her before leaving. I hoped she would think of me dying while she was picking them off the floor.
I gave up completely after that. I couldn’t speak the language, I had no food, no clothes, no medicine, nowhere to sleep, no money to call anyone, and I knew no one in La Paz anyway. My life was over. Once I had accepted that I was going to die, I didn’t even feel that bad. I just felt kind of numb. It was almost a relief to no longer have to fight. I just remember thinking that I didn’t want to die in the courtyard. I wanted to die on my own, not with everyone watching.
As I made my way back down the passage to my abandoned building, a small man appeared at my side, trying to attrac
t my attention. One of his teeth was black and he had a patch of hair at the front that had turned completely grey. He started talking to me, but I ignored him, thinking he wanted money. He kept following me.
‘Thomas. ¿Usted es Thomas, sí?’
I stopped and looked at him, wondering how he knew my name. When he saw my reaction, he became more excited.
‘¿Thomas, sí? El negro de Inglaterra, sí?’
He took me lightly by the elbow and led me back up to the courtyard and through a door to the side of the main gates.
The door led into a very narrow room that was packed with prisoners. The wall in front had metal bars about chest height and on the other side of the bars was a similar room packed with women, who were speaking to the prisoners. Among the mass of women I spotted a fair-skinned, middle-aged woman waving to me. She was slightly taller than the others and had greyish hair and gentle blue eyes. My guide with the black tooth took me up to her and pointed at me.
The woman gave him a coin and then looked at me and asked, ‘Thomas? You’re Thomas, right?’
I nodded and she offered me her tiny hand through the bars.
‘I’m Sylvia. Sylvia Venables.’
I can hardly describe the wave of joy that passed over me to hear someone speaking English with an English accent. My spirits lifted immediately. Finally, there was someone who could understand me. However, I still didn’t know what to say because I was confused about how she knew about me.
When she saw my confusion, she said, ‘My husband and I are with the Anglican Church in Bolivia. We’re from England originally and we saw you on television. We wanted to know if you were OK.’
Then I remembered. The police had called the television stations when they arrested me, although I had refused to answer any of the journalists’ questions. I kept repeating that I was innocent and that I was English and that I needed help. That had been two weeks before, so I didn’t think anyone had seen it. I kept staring at her, not knowing how to thank her for coming.
‘Thomas. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said automatically, although it had never been so untrue in my life.
‘Anyway. I brought you some things,’ she said, holding a plastic bag up to the bars. This is Tim’s old pullover – it might be a bit big for you, but it’s warm. And a blanket. Some antibiotics. And there’s some food in there, too. We thought you might be hungry.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say …’ I stammered as she handed me the bundle through the bars. A guard came over and wanted to inspect the contents. Sylvia said something to him and he went away.
‘Thanks. Thanks so much. You don’t know … I mean. You saved my life.’ My words came out all over the place. There was so much I wanted to say but none of it came out right. ‘How did you …? I mean … thanks for everything.’
Sylvia smiled kindly, but I continued to stare at her stupidly until I made her so embarrassed that she had to look away. She glanced down at my hands. The blood had drained from my fingers and the knuckles had turned white from gripping the bars so tightly. The impatient guard came back and muttered something to her again and she nodded.
‘He says I have to leave now. I’ll come again in a week. Well. Until next time, I suppose,’ she said kindly, and both her hands came forward to touch mine. She wrapped her fingers around my fists and squeezed firmly. My hands were so cold that they had almost frozen, but hers were warm. I felt a warm energy go through me, surging slowly from my icy hands, up through my wrists and arms, then buzzing over my whole body. I remember staring at her hands and thinking how delicate and white they looked against my dark skin. Her fingers were so tiny; how could something that small have given me so much energy?
When I looked up, Sylvia had disappeared. I stayed glued to the spot, staring after her, until the guard on my side of the interview bars indicated that I, too, must leave. There were three or four chocolate bars in the bag and I ate them immediately. Again, the guard told me to leave. As I walked down the steps, still feeling slightly dazed, I looked once more at my hands. I thought that I could see the outline of Sylvia’s little hands where they had gripped mine.
I had no other place to go, so I started heading back to my abandoned building. As I passed through the courtyard, I heard a voice behind me call out in English.
‘Hey you! Where you from, motherfucker? You speak English?’ I turned around, wondering whether I had imagined it. Seated on the low brick wall of the garden were three tough-looking prisoners staring up at me.
‘Me?’ I pointed to myself, looking from face to face. Two of them were definitely Bolivian, but although the thin man in the centre had quite dark skin, his face looked slightly foreign. He had a strange appearance; his dirty shirt hung loosely over his skinny rib cage and he had straight, dark hair with silvery streaks, tied in a ponytail that hung down to his shoulders. From his wrinkles and the grey hairs, I guessed he was about forty-five or fifty, although his voice sounded younger, so it was difficult to tell.
‘Yeah! You, buddy! Who else? Where do you come from? You speak English or what?’ He had an American accent. All three of them were staring at me menacingly, waiting for an answer.
‘Yes. Hello. I speak English. My name is Thomas,’ I extended my hand to greet the speaker, but he didn’t take it.
‘You are not from los Estados Unidos, are you?’ he demanded. I looked at him blankly, feeling stupid with my outstretched arm left dangling in the air.
‘Sorry?’ I took my hand back. I hoped they weren’t trying to start a fight.
‘¿De dónde viene? ¿No entiende nada? ¿Si es gringo?’ threatened the man next to him.
I didn’t understand what he had asked me, but there was no mistaking that his tone was aggressive. It crossed my mind to ignore them and walk away, but it was too late by then – I had already started talking – so I figured it was best to be as friendly and polite as possible in order not to give them any reason to start a fight.
‘Los Estados Unidos. The United States. You are not a gringo from the United States, are you?’ said the skinny foreigner with the grey hair.
‘Who me? No! No, I’m from England. From Liverpool.’
‘Ahhh, Inglaterra. Inglés,’ he translated for his companions, who nodded and exchanged a few comments. The three men relaxed a little and the speaker smiled kindly, then put his hand out to shake mine. ‘That’s OK, then. England is OK. We like England.’
I was worried that this was a trick because they knew that I was new to the prison. At the same time, I couldn’t be rude – that might be just the excuse they were looking for – so I shook hands with him. Nothing happened.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Thomas,’ I told him again.
‘Thomas, my name is Ricardo,’ he shook my hand a second time and smiled like we were meeting at a party. I was more than a bit confused by this man’s strange behaviour.
‘Pleased to meet you, Ricardo,’ I said respectfully. I didn’t know whether I should also shake hands with his friends. They were both still staring at me, although not with the same hostility as before. I decided not to take the chance.
‘You see. We hate gringos here. My friends thought you were from the States. If you had been American, they might have killed you, you know? We hate the United States. Where are you from in England? London?’
‘From Liverpool,’ I repeated.
‘Oh, that’s near to London, is it?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Quite close to London.’ London is usually the only English city anyone in South America has ever heard of, so I always said I lived nearby in order to avoid explanations that only make things more complicated.
Ricardo then started becoming quite friendly. I stayed alert, but I sensed that any danger had passed and tried to keep the conversation going. Maybe he could tell me where I could get some more food.
‘You speak very good English,’ I complimented him. ‘Where did you learn to speak so
well?’
‘In New York. I’m from New York.’
‘In America? But then you are American? Why don’t they kill you then?’ I blurted out, without thinking. Ricardo’s face suddenly became serious and I immediately regretted saying anything.
‘No. I am Bolivian. I am not American,’ he responded angrily. ‘I have a Bolivian passport. I also have an American passport, so sometimes I am American, but nobody knows that, so you don’t say anything. OK?’
‘OK. Sorry! I’m very sorry,’ I apologised, but he was still very agitated and I readied myself in case he was going to hit me.
‘That’s OK, inglés.’ Just as quickly, his angry expression was replaced by a friendly smile. ‘No hay problema, my friend. So, how do you like your new home?’
Everything Ricardo said was making me more and more disoriented; one minute he was pretending to be my best friend, the next he was making fun of me and deliberately trying to start a fight. Then he was nice again. I hadn’t done anything wrong but I felt extremely uncomfortable.
‘So, do you miss London much?’ he asked.
‘Not too much.’
‘Well, you should. You really should miss your own country, don’t you think? Or do you want to go back to the United States?’
I said nothing, convinced that he was playing games to test me out. I decided it was definitely time to leave. I was glad to have finally found someone in the prison who spoke English, but I felt I was being led into some kind of trap.
‘Ricardo, it was very nice to meet you. Thank you.’ I put out my hand to say goodbye.
‘Where are you going?’ He looked surprised and, once more, refused to take my hand.
