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SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

beg for everything. If you misbehaved, you would be locked in your cell without food or water. After several days of severe thirst and starvation, there is nothing that even the toughest man in the world won’t do for something to eat, no matter how degrading. When Samir was being punished one time, the guards made him lick their boots while they pissed on him. Afterwards, they threw him scraps of food on the dirty floor and he thanked them for it.

Our communication with the rest of the world was cut off completely. We weren’t allowed visitors, we weren’t allowed phone calls, we couldn’t send a message to anyone in the main prison or even call for a doctor if we were sick. Communication with each other was forbidden. And communication with the guards was limited to nodding and shaking our heads. We weren’t even allowed to look at them. When they yelled at us, we had to keep our heads bowed. If they asked you a question and you answered it, they would strike you with a wooden baton for speaking. But if you didn’t answer, you would be beaten for insolence.

There was no point in fighting back. The guards could do whatever they wanted and no one would ever know, because La Grulla was separated from the main prison. One of the other tricks they used to control us was punishing everyone when one person disobeyed the rules, which built up tension among the prisoners and stopped us from uniting against them. Usually, the punishment involved depriving us of yard time or food, or both. When that happened, I wouldn’t see another human being or eat a thing for days on end. The only noises I would hear were the ones I made myself — my footsteps pacing up and down the cell, or my own voice when I talked or hummed to myself. We had buckets for shitting in, but I kept mine filled with drinking water for emergencies. Instead, I shat in the corner of my cell on a piece of newspaper and wrapped it up tightly to stop the smell getting out. It never worked, though. On top of all this, I was constantly worried about my future.

I replayed the events in the Velascos’ room over and over in my mind, until I thought I was going crazy. The police had no evidence against me, and in any normal country I wouldn’t have been concerned. But things were different in Bolivia. They could easily change a few details in order to make me look guilty. Ricardo’s joke was no longer funny. ‘What could they do to you if they catch you

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