📸 Photo

MARCHING POWDER

Scarcely had I time to take in this initial spectacle, before my appearance generated a clamorous uproar. Voices bellowed from directions:

'Tours!'
'Mister. Hey mister!'
'¡Señor!'
'Cocaine?'
'Marijuana?'
'Tour!'
'Una moneda.'

Prisoners also called out from the wings that branched out to the left and right of this main chamber. They were like frenzied monkeys, screeching and rattling their cages and clambering over the top of one another to capture my attention. Hands gripped the bars and others extended through them, waving and offering drugs or appealing for coins. I stared back at them. At the same time, my policeman was tugging at my sleeve with his hand out. As I gave him some coins, I heard someone call the name 'Thomas.'

The speaker this time was a diminutive inmate with dark skin and a shock of white hair at the front. I nodded to him and the din subsided instantly. The other prisoners resumed their intense vigil over the entrance, waiting for the next visitor, while the prisoner who had spoken yelled excitedly, 'Thomas! Thomas. ¿Quiere que le traiga a Thomas?' When he smiled, I saw that he was missing a tooth.

I nodded again and he whispered something to one of the officers through the bars. The officer stood up, opened the gate using a set of keys chained to his belt and nodded for me to go through. It was the gateway into the strangest place I have ever visited.

A group of about five or six Westerners was already waiting just inside the gate. A young man of medium height, dressed in a freshly ironed designer shirt and cream-coloured jeans, noticed me looking around uncertainly.

'Hi. I'm Thomas.' He smiled warmly, extending his hand to shake mine. He had a chubby face with intelligent eyes that engaged my attention immediately. 'What's your name, man?'
'Rusty,' I answered hesitantly.