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MARCHING POWDER

some of the stories I told them. In the end, I doubt that they believed a word I said. At the peak of my career as tour guide, two or three girls I had never laid eyes on would turn up each day claiming to be my wife. However, provided I made the police laugh and there was money in it for them, they seemed to play along with most of my lies.

The lieutenant came back from the major’s office with good news. 'He says it’s OK, but they have to pay. And keep them away from the main gate in case the gobernador sees them.'

'Yes, of course. Of course, they will pay. No hay problema.'

'Ten bolivianos each person,' he whispered through the gate so that only I could hear. 'Straight up to your room.'

'Yes. Of course,' I agreed willingly. I didn’t think Yasheeda’s friends would mind. Three bolivianos more than local visitors paid wasn’t much extra, even for travellers on a backpacking budget.

I ran back to the interview room and told Yasheeda to call the boys in and come around to the main gate, where the lieutenant took their passports, making a big show of checking that the photos matched the person. Then he handed the key to his junior and nodded at the gate. The junior policeman opened the padlock, the tourists passed through, and then he locked it behind them and handed the key back to the lieutenant.

'Gracias, mi teniente,' I said, but the lieutenant didn’t look up. He was too busy studying his tiny notepad, doing the figures. Normally, all the money from the main gate was divided between the police on duty, according to their rank, but I noticed that this time he hadn’t made an official record of the tourists entering. Today would be a good day for the lieutenant; the sixty bolivianos from the Israelis would be shared between him and the major only.

When Yasheeda came through the gates, I wanted to hug her, but there wasn’t time. I hadn’t had any trouble from the other inmates for months, but I was still careful not to do anything that might cause a stir in the prison. Unfortunately, this was exactly what was happening. The inmates weren’t used to seeing foreigners and there were now six visitors standing in front of me inside the main gates who were clearly not Bolivian. People stopped what they were doing to stare. I was worried that something might happen to one of the Israelis. I had to get them away from the main gate and out of sight before they attracted any more attention.