There Must Be an Angel Playing with my Heart – a tale from San Pedro Prison in La Paz, Bolivia

I finally broke into the prison,
I found my place in the chain.
Even damnation is poisoned with rainbows – Leonard Cohen 'The Old Revolution'

I love prison literature. I think I've read nearly all the great tales of incarceration: Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Dostoyevsky's The House of the Dead, The Damage Done by Warren Fellows, Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo, Papillion by Henri Charriere, and of course Marching Powder by Rusty Young. There is no better way to understand freedom than to have it taken away from you. Prisons produce existential accounts par excellence. And all my reading of tales of horror in prisons has convinced me of one thing; convinced me utterly and profoundly that I never want to go to prison either as an inmate or a visitor.

It was thus with no small amount of interest that I sat on the roof of Cordoba backpackers in Argentina and smoked joints with a Canadian in his late twenties and listened to him tell his story of how he had bribed his way into La Paz's San Pedro Prison in Bolivia.

For all of you not familiar with Rusty Young's book Marching Powder, San Pedro Prison is a prison that was run like no other in the world. Inmates were allowed to live with their family. They had to earn a living because nothing was free in the prison. Cells could be bought and rented. If you wanted to eat you went to one of the many restaurants in the prison or you purchased food at one of several grocery stores dotted around the house of correction. Money could buy you not only a cell with amenities but also I whole slew of other privileges including nights outside the prison. It was all based on the pandemic corruption that existed in the prison from the governor down; they nearly all took bribes and let the prisoners run the prison like a mini barter town. It had several cocaine labs. San Pedro was where the cheapest and purest cocaine came from.  And enter Thomas McFadden from the UK who was caught trying to smuggle heroin out of Bolivia. Stuck with no money and no Spanish he had to quickly adapt to his new surroundings. After many trying times he eventually learned Spanish, got an Israeli girlfriend, opened a restaurant in the prison and started a lucrative business showing backpackers around San Pedro and finishing each tour by treating the voyeuristic tourists to a cocaine binge. The tour was so famous that it made the Lonely Planet.

That was before. Before the BBC snuck cameras into the prison and exposed the corruption of the authorities and before Brad Pitt decided to make a movie about McFadden's life. That shamed the Bolivian authorities into draconian measures. The guards are regularly replaced, the infamous side door where tourists used to enter has been shut, the cocaine labs have been closed down and now inmates are no longer allowed to cohabit with their families.

For the Canadian who I had just met this was a real shame. He was on his grand tour - Central and Southern America overland through ten countries to the bottom, to Argentina. We had run into him at the end of his adventure. And of all the things he had most wanted to see and do on his journey it was to do the tour of La Paz prison. He was another chap who had the aura of indestructibility about him - the charming naiveté of youth.

And so here is his tale. Maybe his tale is one of the final traveller's tales about San Pedro. He was in La Paz, Bolivia. He had tried the two bars where you could openly consume coke. The one night the one place whose name I won’t mention was raided by the police. As is so often the case, a brief hullabaloo started seconds prior to the police arrival. Our Canadian hero, Greg, sat calmly at his table. A table of Swedes wearing superman outfits, panicked and fled into the kitchens. The police soon rounded up all the foreigners and started extracting bribes from them. 20 minutes into this procedure one of the Swedes bursts from the fridge in the bar, a frozen super hero. He just couldn’t handle the cold any longer.

Greg and the others got off lightly: just a few dollars extra down for the night. He should have heeded the warning but instead he actively pursued his dream to enter San Pedro. He eventually got hold of the telephone number of a man called ‘Angel’ who could facilitate his desire to experience the inside of a Bolivian prison. He phoned Angel and a meeting was set for 3pm the following day in a park outside the prison.

Greg arrived a bit late and desperately scoured the park to find his contact. He said he felt really ridiculous going up to several Bolivians asking them if they were called ‘Angel’. He approached one shady local who wasn’t Angel but was willing to sell Greg some coke. Greg enquired about the price out of interest. It was cheap; only 70 Bolivianos ($5). Greg was not, however, to be so easily distracted from his main purpose. He had picked up a fair amount of Spanish on his journey and proceeded to explain that though the coke offer was tempting it was an entrée into the prison that loomed up within eyesight from where they were standing that he was really wanting. The Bolivian who wasn’t Angel said he could arrange it. They haggled and agreed a price of $20 per person. A meeting was set for the next day at 4pm.

That night Greg confided in other backpackers in the hostel about his day’s triumph. Greg was a charming man whose confidence was infectious and it didn’t really surprise me that he got four other backpackers interested in doing the tour – two fellow North Americans and two Europeans.

So the fateful afternoon arrived when Greg hoped to fulfill his ambition of seeing the inside of a Bolivian prison. They found the man who wasn’t Angel and after a bit of to and fro agreed to pay him his fee in halves - half then and half when they safely exited the house of correction. No Angel reluctantly agreed. He took the money and set off. They followed him. He stopped by the main entrance and told them to wait. He then vanished around the corner. The gang of jail breakers lost heart. Where was No Angel? As they debated whether they had been fleeced, Greg spotted a prison guard and a group of civilians making their way towards the entrance of the prison. In a flash of inspiration he shuffled over and joined the back of the group. The others followed Greg. Before they knew it the prison doors had shut behind them and they were in. They could see the famous courtyard where Thomas had spent his first night shivering in the cold. They could see inmates lolling around enjoying the last of the afternoon sun and they could see a big Bolivian guard blocking their way. They were ordered into a side room next to the door keepers’ quarters and told to wait. No Angel was nowhere to be seen and it was agonizingly obvious to Greg and his followers that their money hadn’t bought them anything. They were in prison in the poorest country in South America and a tour was looking very unlikely.

They stewed in their own stupidity for thirty minutes before they were marched into the office of a more senior policeman. He soon discovered that Greg was the only gringo with Espanol.

“What are you doing in San Pedro Prison?”
“We wanted to see the prison, senor.”
“Do you want to buy marijuana?”
“No senor. We just wanted to do a sightseeing tour.”
“Do you want to buy cocaine?”
“No senor. Only the tour.”

With that the interview was over and they were led back to their previous holding pen. Another thirty minutes elapsed before a guard took them to a bigger, plusher office. They were introduced to the governor of the prison. Again it went:

“Why are you in San Pedro Prison?”
“We wanted to do a tour of the prison, senor. We paid a man to get us in.”
“Do you want to buy marijuana?”
“No senor.”
“Cocaine?”
“No senor.”

Just then two prison guards dragged a very shifty looking No Angel into the room. The guards had him cuffed. They said a few words to the governor and put a small plastic bag of powder on the table. No one needed three guesses as to what it might have been.

No Angel didn’t hesitate in putting forward his side of the story. He quickly fired off his Spanish at the governor. Greg caught the gist of it. No Angel was claiming that the gringos had given him money to score some coke for them, the coke that was presently on the gov's hardwood desk. Greg responded like his life depended on it and in some ways it probably did. He protested vociferously that No Angel was lying. The money had been for a tour of the prison, not to buy drugs.

The boss man considered the group of frightened tourists and considered No Angel. He then demanded to see the foreigners' passports. Greg explained that they had left their passports in the hostel because who would be foolish enough to bring anything valuable into a prison full of...

That last thought lingered in the air unspoken. Who would be foolish enough to want to visit a prison full of murderers and rapists, innocent and guilty, the condemned, the bottom of the slag heap?

No Angel was taken away cursing Greg. The gringos were taken away to their makeshift prison near the gate. The governor deliberated.

It took an hour or so before it was explained to Greg and the four others who were in a state of severe fear for their future liberty that they would be allowed to go. The only condition was that they would be escorted back to their hostel where they must present their passports to their police escort.

No doubt with much adrenalin charged relief the five rash gringos were lead out of the prison. They got to the hostel and made photocopies of their passports. The policeman took the copies and demanded a bribe. Greg refused and wasn't stopped from re-entering the gated hostel. The five of them watched from a window as the policeman lingered outside. He eventually gave up and drifted off.

That night they were on the news. 5 foreigners had been arrested trying to break into San Pedro Prison. I could see that Greg loved telling the tale, and that he had already told it several times. I was less certain as to whether he had drawn any lessons from his tale of near incarceration. I mentioned this and he said that if he had been sent down he would have taken over as the head gringo and tour master.  

Copacabana and Isla Del Sol in Bolivia

Copacabana in Bolivia is nestled on the coast of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. It`s a funky little town with some cool things to do. There`s trekking and finding Inca ruins and hanging out in the sunshine and eating trout. The people are friendly and it`s a picturesque place set in a magnificent background.

And indeed the Incas supposedly designated the nearby island of Isla del Sol as the navel and birthplace of the Inca religion. The island has two main centres. In the north are some inca ruins and a gorgeous white sand beach, and in the south the vegetation is more lush and there`s a ball breaking high altitude set of steps to climb, which were originally placed by the Incas. The boat tour for all day is 10 bolivanos ($1.5). It`s also possible to stay on Isla del Sol in the south.

Check out the photo from Copacabana cathedral, which has 2 moorish towers outside, an oily black room full of candles and this gem of a picture of Jesus on the lake with his audience looking surprisingly Bolivian.

Copacabana









Isla Del Sol

4 Day Jeep Tour from Tupiza to Uyuni in Bolivia

Day 1

We paid $150 each (La Torre Tours) for a 4 day jeep tour of Southern Bolivia departing from Tupiza and finishing in Uyuni. The price was slightly cheaper than was originally quoted because another person joined our jeep at the last moment making 5 people. We also skipped the extra charge of paying for an English speaking guide. This, in hindsight, might have been a bad move because all our driver would say was "Over there, Chile!" and then go on chewing his coca leaves. Still despite his awful musica folklorico (think El Condor Pasa) and lack of factual commentary he was an amusing chap and I got to like him.

The first day was mostly driving to get somewhere. Driving through dry moonscapes over a road that wasn't really a road. The first night we stopped at a small settlement high in the mountains called San Antonio De Lipez. The whole economy of the place seemed to be based on two things - llama wool and tour groups.

While waiting for diner Tom (an Irish lad), Derrick (Polish) and I got the football out the back of the jeep. No longer was it flat. The lack of air pressure at this rarefied height made the ball fully inflated. We were soon joined by locals, our driver and some other tourists. It was a good laugh. Every few minutes one of us collapsed from lack of oxygen.

Day 2

After freezing night under a multitude of blankets we get up in the dark at 5.30am. Breakfast is waiting for us next door. It's the usual bread, jam, dolce selection with coca tea. The five of us pile in the back of the jeep and we're off driving in the dark. The driver probably knows where Chile is even in the pitch dark but he keeps the information to himself as he focuses on the non-road.

Our first stop was "Phantasmagoria Village." It's an abandoned mining village. Legend has it that discoveries of gold lead to murders in the village and consequent hauntings. The villagers couldn't stand it any more and moved out to San Antonio de Lipez (where we had stayed the previous night) and given up prospecting for gold and turned to the llama instead for economic survival. It was cold, snowy and slightly eerie. We had a quick look and a piss and got back in the jeep.

By about 11am we entered a National Park and made our way to a big lake. In front of the lake was a bricked off thermal hot pool. The tourists from the other jeep in our convey braved the cold weather and got in the pool. The 5 from our jeep waited in the cafe and dining area for our lunch. Some of the other groups coming through looked really rough - a combination of no sleep, altitude sickness and cold had taken the youthful pallor from several faces.

After lunch we stopped off at some thermal steams before arriving at Laguna Verde, the Green lake. It was indeed very green and very big and still. Surrounded by towering mountains at 5000 meters the place had an unreal, impossibly bleak beauty at the place. Like a painted backdrop for a Sci Fi movie. This was the highlight so far.

For the rest of the day we drove. The driver chewed and pointed out Chile and we enjoyed the vast scenery.

Late afternoon we arrived at a small town. I bought a pricey plastic bottle of coke to mix with my vodka and we drove a bit further to a long line of basic accommodations just a mile or so away from the famous Laguna Colorada (25kms east of the Chilean border).

Dinner was the usual stodgy, hearty fare. They had electricity and a wood burner which was a rare threat. Tom and I stayed up getting pissed before the pissed off locals told us to stop wasting electricity. We sat in the dark for a further 30 minutes drinking and smoking before retiring to ice cold beds.

Day 3

Day three started at the more reasonable time of 7.30ish. After breakfast we drove to the famous Red Lake which the Bolivians are pushing hard to be included in the new 7 wonders of the World. It was indeed impressive but I couldn't give a monkeys about the list. It is a salt lake with some odd chemicals that give it a distinctive red hue (either that or there's a Chinese factory nearby). What makes the lake special is the flamingos that feed there. Unfortunately it was winter and only a hardcore few who felt like our driver had refused to migrate to Chile.

Next up we drove through a desert and stopped off at a collection of massive rock formations that had been sculpted by the wind and sand into Dali dreams. 

As we made our way to our night's accommodation we saw a fox near the non-existent road. The driver chucked out a bit of bread for it to eat. The fact that the fox wasn't frightened by our presence suggests this was not the first time the fox had got an easy meal.

We arrived at our most salubrious accommodation, the salt hotel. The name was most appropriate as it was made of salt bricks. The beds were made of salt. The tables were made of salt. The only things to escape the salt treatment were the pre-historic one channel TV and the glass window to our room that I nearly broke (who would suspect such trappings of civilization at 4,000 plus meters in the back arse end of no where).

While waiting for dinner we got together another footie game with the drivers and some local lads. Tom was a star. As a consequence the foreigners came out on top. One of the local lads felt the defeat bad and refused to shake hands at the end.

That night after dinner the TV went on and we discovered that the King of Pop, Michael Jackson was dead. If only it had been Chile instead. That night our groups joined with another from a different company. We meet an ex-professional footballer and an Israeli who was heading up the security for some Bolivian magnate. This was a great night of boozing, playing cards and speculating on the death of MJ. And more importantly we ran into Mr. Football and Mr. Security in Cusco and they gave us a healthy bag of gear.

Day 4

Our last day of the tour. My wife and I were the only ones who hadn't taken the 10 Bolivianos hot shower. It was too cold to smell anything I figured. 

We got up really early before sun up and drove to the Salar de Uyuni,  the salt plains near Uyuni. They are the largest salt plains in the world.  They are at 3,653 meters and cover an area of 12,000 sq kms. Apparently it was a pre-historic salt lake that covered most of Southern Bolivia. It dried and left a white cracked desert. 

We drove to an island in the salt plains, had a potter around amongst the cactus and then had breakfast. After we got another game of footie together. All the groups from the previous night were present so we had two full teams. The nations were separated - Bolivia versus the rest of the World. I was the only gringo chosen for the home team. They put me in goal and forgot about me. Despite having the home advantage and being used to breathing air thinner than a silver rizla paper the locals conceded more goals than they scored. This was due to their complete indifference to defending and keeping positions. I tried my best but couldn't staunch the flow of goals going against the home team.

An hour or so of such hilarity and the groups parted again to drive off deep into the heart of white weirdness to enjoy some nothing but salt plains action. With the horizon nothing but salt plains perspective is altered. This makes for fun photos. 

Such a great day and sadly it was coming to an end. We said goodbye to isloation and drove to the illegal salt hotel and paid for a shit. Then drove into Uyuni, a dusty, mud shack place surrounded by millions of bits of plastic. Only the buildings in the center had any sense of permanence or importance. Our driver dropped us off at a cheap hotel. One of our number still hadn't paid for the tour - he was a beret clad archivist from Spain. Somehow he managed to persuade them he would pay at their office in Potosi. Honest folk.

The hotel had a pathetic shower that worked in a furiously unfair system of proportions whereby the more you increase the water pressure the colder the water becomes. I had a cold miserable shower and then ran back to the icebox room we had got for the night.

 

During the war of the Pacific (1879 -83) Chile went to war with Bolivia and Peru. Those motherfucking Chileans took 350kms of coastline in the war and left Bolivia landlocked and probably perpetually locked in its status as poorest country in South America. I am ashamed to say the Chileans won because of the economic and military assistance provided by Shell who were keen to get their grubbies on the nitrate deposits in the Atacama Desert. Sad and wrong.