Marching Powder

by Rusty Young

  In the afternoons I read until my eyes hurt and then tried to watch the evening news, just as I used to do with Ricardo.

  But things had changed. I hardly saw Ricardo these days, and I now found the news too depressing. There were never any happy stories. It was always about government corruption or murder, or something else bad that had happened in the world. The main news headlines at that time were about a gang of rapists that had finally been captured, and a government official, Gabriel Sanchez, who managed to run off with forty million dollars from a government workers’ pension fund. They arrested him but let him go on bail and he fled the country, causing a scandal. When I couldn’t handle watching television, I smoked dope and listened to Bob Marley on my tape player instead.

  I had always liked Bob Marley’s music, even before I went to prison. I had memories of hearing some of the classic songs on the radio from when I was a young boy, even before I knew that Bob Marley was the singer. Now that I was in San Pedro, I began to listen to the lyrics properly and I liked him even more. His music is really simple but powerful, and it gave me a lot of hope in my difficult times. Whenever I felt bad, I would smoke a joint and put on a cassette of his and he would chill me down a lot. Listening to Bob made me realise that I wasn’t the only one who had faced tough things in life. It helped, but it didn’t make me stop thinking about Yasheeda.

  The time of day I missed her most was in the evening, when the prison went quiet for a few hours while everyone was cooking. That was when we used to have our best conversations. I also missed her during the nights. It took longer to get warm when I went to bed. It also took ages to get to sleep, even if I smoked a lot of dope. One night I had a terrible dream that she hadn’t gone to Machu Picchu at all; she had flown back to Israel and was seeing her ex-boyfriend again. I knew it was a silly dream but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there wondering if she was thinking about me. I doubted it. She was probably having the time of her life.

  Apart from a visit from two of my lawyers, I spent Christmas completely alone that year. Sylvia had other commitments with the church, but I was still half-expecting her to drop by or at least phone. Yasheeda was off who knows where, having a good time. She was the best thing that had happened to me, but now I wasn’t even sure if she would keep her promise and come back to see me.

  It was the worst Christmas I’ve ever had in my entire life. Constanza Sanchez had only come back once after she had organised the rest of my ‘legal team’. I never saw her again. My two remaining lawyers had promised to have me out by Christmas and since I had sent money to the judge, I had started selling my things in anticipation of my release. But it hadn’t happened.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ my lawyers said when I opened the door. They both hugged me.

  They had bought me a fruitcake. I should have been grateful that they had at least thought of me, but seeing the cake actually made me angry and I wanted to throw it back in their faces. I didn’t want cake, I wanted answers. I wasn’t paying them to make me a courtesy visit at Christmas or to buy me cakes; I wanted them to get me out of prison.

  They didn’t have any updates on my situation. They couldn’t tell me when I would be out. In fact, they had no answers at all; everything was up to the judge, and he hadn’t communicated with them for weeks.

  ‘Why can’t you call him, then?’ I demanded.

  Apparently, it was best not to pressure him. He had received the money, so all we could do now was wait. My lawyers started cutting up the fruitcake. However, I was so distressed that I couldn’t eat. They ate it in front of me.

  Fruitcake was the only Christmas present I got that year. It was the world’s most expensive fruitcake. All up, it had cost me over twenty-five thousand dollars and I didn’t even eat a single slice myself. It cost even more if I included the three thousand dollars I had lost with Constanza Sanchez. Maybe I was naïve to give them all that money, but they gave me a receipt for every payment and I had to trust them – they were my lawyers.

  They kept promising to get me released, but they were the same promises they had made six months before, and nothing ever changed, not even the promises. They used exactly the same words as before. They didn’t even have enough respect for me to change their lies: they needed some more money to pay for photocopying, a filing fee, a witness who was going to be my character reference, administration charges, someone they knew who might be able to take a message to the judge, or a specialist lawyer who was going to make a technical submission. Everything required money.

  They weren’t lying when they said that. I had already established that that much was true after eight months in the Bolivian prison system. However, I now understood how much things were really worth. Nothing cost anywhere near what they were asking. I was being taken for a ride because I was a foreigner. But what could I do? I could fire them on the spot, but that would mean losing all the money I had already paid and starting afresh with new lawyers who might be worse. Without their help, I couldn’t see any way out. So, although I knew they were ripping me off, I felt I had nowhere else to turn. I began to regret not having escaped when I had the opportunity.

  After my lawyers left, I got a bottle of rum and started drinking it on my own. I drank it too quickly and after half a bottle, I felt like vomiting, so I bought a small envelope of cocaine to sober me up before finishing the rest. In the section courtyard below, the celebrations were just getting under way, so I bought another bottle. Christmas wasn’t traditionally a big part of the Bolivian calendar, although it was catching on. For the children it was all about the presents and this new character they were beginning to believe in, called Santa Claus. For the inmates, it was another excuse to get drunk. After spending some time with their families in the morning, that was exactly what they did.

  The next day the party was still going, so I bought another bottle of rum and another few packs of cocaine and continued partying on my own. Christmas dragged on until it turned into New Year’s Eve and then it all stopped suddenly and the prison returned to normal. Not for me, though. I carried on drinking in my room and thinking about Yasheeda and worrying about whether I would ever get out of there.

  20

  LOS VIOLADORES

  Later that week, I was resting on my bed listening to Bob Marley when I heard loud chanting coming from outside. It was the kind of noise made by a football crowd. At first I ignored it, thinking it was a drunken neighbour watching a game on television at full volume. But as the noise grew louder, I could tell that the voices were real. Even then I assumed that it was just a group of angry protestors passing by in the street outside the prison. However, the sound didn’t fade away; it got stronger and, judging by the volume, it seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the prison. I got up and opened my door to investigate.

  From my doorway, the noise was even louder. Although I couldn’t see them, or catch what they were saying, there must have been hundreds of men shouting the same two words, over and over. The sound was definitely coming from another section in the jail, but even in Pinos, a general panic had broken out. Our normally tranquil section courtyard was in absolute chaos, with inmates running about in confusion, shouting urgently. My neighbours also started coming out of their rooms to see what the fuss was and as soon as they heard the chanting, they slammed their doors behind them and ran downstairs. Something was definitely going on. I didn’t know what, but it was big – that was for sure.

  ‘What’s happening? Where are you going?’ I tried asking, but no one had time to answer. They were all too busy running down the stairs and out of the section towards the uproar. I eventually managed to slow someone down enough to get a response, but the only word I could actually make out as he slipped past me was ‘violadores’ . Unfortunately, I didn’t know what it meant and by then, there was almost no one left in the section to explain it to me. They had all disappeared. It must have been a mass breakout, and I was about to miss out. In fact, I might already be too late!

  I jumped int
o my trainers and grabbed all the money I could find. I would have liked to have taken more stuff, but there wasn’t time to look for anything else. Besides, anything I had to carry would only slow me down. I hadn’t even done up my shoelaces before I was running so fast towards the main courtyard that I almost tripped over. As I approached the section gateway, the noise became deafening and I could finally make out what they were shouting: ‘¡Tráiganlos! ¡Tráiganlos!’ I didn’t understand what that meant either, and I still didn’t know what was going on.

  When I arrived at the courtyard I had to stop suddenly. There were so many people that you could hardly move. Apart from when we had to line up together and sing the Bolivian national anthem, I had never seen so many inmates in the one place. I stood there, out of breath, looking around wildly for a hole in the wall or an open gate, while the crowd surged around, shouting and yelling and punching their fists in the air.

  ‘¡Tráiganlos! ¡Tráiganlos!’ they chanted, but I couldn’t see where they were escaping from.

  A big roar then went up from the crowd and it surged towards the narrow corridor that led down to the inside sections. Ahead, I saw that a man had been lifted above the heads of the crowd and was being carried down the passageway. Most of the prisoners started heading that way, so I joined them and, being taller and stronger than most of them, managed to push my way through faster. I accidentally knocked a few people over in my haste. I didn’t know exactly where we were going or what we were doing, but I wasn’t going to miss out.

  When we reached the main section of Cancha, everyone stopped running and I noticed that another man had been hoisted above the crowd. The pair were looking around worriedly, wanting to get down, but I assumed that was because they were afraid of being dropped.

  Still the crowd was shouting, ‘¡Tráiganlos! ¡Tráiganlos!’ but now that we weren’t moving, I concluded it wasn’t a breakout. I didn’t know what to think, really, but it was obvious that no one was escaping. Maybe they had won a football match, or it was some type of protest and these men were the leaders.

  The main action was concentrated around where the swimming pool was located. I thought perhaps they were going to be thrown into the water as part of the celebration and I wanted to get a closer look, so I started pushing towards the pool. The crowd swayed back and forth violently and I really had to use my strength to get through. Then there was a huge splash and a warlike roar went up from the spectators. I still couldn’t see what was going on, but if it was a celebration, it was a very angry one. There was another splash as the second man went in, and this time everyone cheered. No one wanted to let me forward but I was determined to see, so I continued to struggle. The closer to the pool I got, the more aggressive the crowd became.

  When it seemed I could get no closer to the pool, I recognised the giant inmate with the scarred face towering next to me and asked him what was happening.

  ‘What is it? Who are they?’ I shouted above the intense clamour of the crowd.

  ‘Los violadores. Se van a morir.’ He pointed to a third man who had just been brought into the section and was being carried towards the pool. There was that word I didn’t understand again – violadores. I understood the second part, though: ‘They are going to die.’

  ‘What does “violador” mean?’ I tugged at his sleeve and when I heard the word ‘violación’, I finally understood. These men were the gang rapists I had seen arrested on television before Christmas.

  Somehow I made it to the very front, staying about half a metre from the edge of the pool for safety since the people behind me were still pushing and fighting to move forward. From there, I could see exactly what was happening.

  There were now two men in the water and I got there just as one of them was struggling to get out via the steps that ran down the side of the pool. I don’t know what they had done to him beforehand, but he was bleeding from cuts and wounds and looked like he was thoroughly exhausted. However, the crowd wouldn’t let him out. As soon as he made it to the final step, one of the spectators barged him with a shoulder and he went back in, hitting his head on the concrete edge as he fell. Everyone laughed and another cheer went up from the crowd. At first, I thought they were just going to teach him a lesson, but then things got more serious.

  When he tried to get out the second time, someone attempted to loop a length of electrical cable around his neck. He managed to free himself using his hands and jumped back in the water, but then the crowd began throwing things at him – rocks and debris, or anything they could get their hands on – and kicking him whenever he came near the edge. This went on for quite some time. Bit by bit, they were drowning him. I stood glued to the spot, fascinated.

  The second rapist was having even more trouble. He was also being beaten and bombarded with chunks of brick, but it was worse for him because he couldn’t swim; he was splashing about everywhere and wasting most of his energy simply trying to stay afloat. He kept going under and swallowing mouthfuls of water and I think after a short time he realised that if he didn’t get out of the pool soon, he would drown.

  When he came up for air the next time, he looked around frantically for a way out. Seeing that the stairs were guarded, he put his hands over the cement edge to pull himself up, but one of the inmates stamped on them, hard, and he cried out. Then he tried again on the other side of the pool, but this time two inmates trod on his fingers and ground them into the concrete. He struggled to pull his hands free but with the full weight of a man crushing down on each hand, he couldn’t. Then another prisoner from the crowd stepped forward and booted him hard in the face and he fell back, almost unconscious, held above the water only because his fingers were still trapped.

  When the men lifted their feet, the rapist’s hands fell away and he slipped under the surface for quite some time. Part of me wanted to help him, but there was no way I could fight against so many people. It would have been too dangerous to attempt to drag him out with a thousand angry prisoners behind me who wanted him dead. Besides, a strange part of me wanted to see what would happen. I continued watching with a sick curiosity.

  He was still alive, although only just. He made it up for air, coughing, and managed to recover enough breath to start splashing around again. Not for long, though. The third rapist was now thrown on top of him, and that man’s hipbone connected directly with his head. Everyone roared with laughter. After that, he didn’t surface again.

  While all this was happening, the first rapist had still been trying to get out. One of the prisoners had fetched a plank of wood and the next time the rapist came near the steps, he smashed it over his head and he also began to lose consciousness. Meanwhile, another prisoner had got hold of a live electrical cable and was dipping two wires into the water, trying to electrocute him. At that point, he looked like he was about to give in – one more hit would have finished him – but that was when all attention turned to the third rapist, who had just been thrown in.

  The third rapist went straight for the steps, but the crowd punched him and kicked him and the blows sent him tumbling back into the pool. When he surfaced and tried to lift himself over the edge, the spectator with the thick cable whipped him across the face and his whole cheek opened up. He managed to avoid the man with the wooden plank and tried again and again to scramble out, but each time he got to the edge, he was kicked in the head and pushed back in.

  Eventually, he found his way to the stairs again and this time forced his way up, taking all the blows with a new-found strength. Even when the plank of wood was cracked across his face, he didn’t stop. I thought he was going to make it, but then I saw a hand shoot out of the crowd and strike him just below the ribs. It wasn’t a very hard blow but I could tell immediately that something was wrong. He froze on the top step and looked down to where he had been hit. Then he clutched his stomach and it began to bleed. He’d been stabbed.

  Because he hesitated, the next punch hit him properly and its impact caused him to overbalance. Someone spat on him,
and another kick sent him tumbling into the water. Even though he was bleeding heavily, he kept trying to get out but every time he approached the edge, a cheer went up from the crowd as the man with the plank of wood forced him to retreat. I could tell that he was getting tired. Eventually, he stayed in the very middle, just out of reach of the prisoner with the plank of wood. The water began turning a nasty brown colour and, next to him, the body of the second rapist floated to the surface.

  With the crowd’s attention fixed on attacking this third rapist, the first man had managed to climb out of the pool without being noticed. He was lying half-drowned, only two feet from where I was standing, dripping water and blood and panting desperately to recover his breath. I thought he had had enough punishment and they would just leave him alone, but now that the third rapist was out of reach in the middle of the pool, the inmates turned their focus back on him.

  Someone kicked him in the neck. Then another prisoner started stomping on his head. Another one actually jumped on his head with both feet and I heard the most horrible sound as his skull split. I hadn’t done anything about them attacking the rapists before, but seeing this was too much for me.

  ‘Stop it!’ I shouted in English and a few people looked at me, wondering what I was saying. I was so distressed I couldn’t remember any Spanish. ‘You’re killing him!’

  At that point I think I must have started going into a kind of shock because of what I was seeing, because my memory of what happened after that is a bit confused. Certain things are very clear, but there are gaps where I don’t remember properly. And everything happened so quickly that it’s difficult to remember the exact order.