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SAN PEDRO PRISON TOURS

too long in the dangerous sections. The tourists were always polite and respectful, but their presence created resentment among the inmates; many felt that they were being made into exhibits, and others were jealous because I was a foreigner who got more visitors than they, as locals, did. However, the main source of jealousy was money.

The gangs that controlled the economy of the prison liked to run everything themselves, so they tried to set up rival tour operations in order to run me out of business, using as guides a few cheaply paid Bolivian prisoners who could speak a little English. They enlisted the help of the taxistas to call for these guides, and keep me away, whenever foreigners turned up at the main gates. However, even when they did succeed in tricking tourists into coming inside, their tours were nowhere near as popular as mine. The word at the hostels was that you had to ask for me by name.

The same thing happened when the gangs got some of the English-speaking foreign prisoners involved; people still demanded that I be the one who took them around.

‘Thomas is sick,’ the taxistas would say, or, ‘Thomas isn’t doing the tours anymore. Freddy is.’
But the tourists insisted. ‘We only want to see Thomas. Otherwise, we’re not coming in.’

So, eventually, my competitors realised that I had to be part of the business and they decided to get involved by force.

The tall man with the scar across his face who had saved me at la piscina came to my door, flanked by his two henchmen. I knew by then that his name was Lucho, which is the nickname in Bolivia for Luis. His other nickname was Burro – ‘donkey’ – owing to his strength and inability to feel pain. He was the biggest man in the prison and the most feared. On the outside, he had killed people; on the inside, he worked together with his gang to control the most dangerous sections in the prison and also as a standover man for anyone who paid him. Funnily enough, everyone in the prison liked Lucho. He was always very polite and nice in the way he did his job. He could probably afford to be, since no one ever argued.

‘Tomás, we need to have a small word with you,’ he said quietly, his huge frame filling my doorway. I invited them in and they seated themselves at my table. There was no aggression at all. They had simply come as friends to offer me some advice. There were rumours