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MARCHING POWDER

don’t do something about it. This is worse than Midnight Express. Someone should complain.’

I liked shocking them when I could, but unfortunately I usually had to avoid taking Americans on the prison tours. Apart from my own fear of the DEA, the other inmates hated gringos and if I had welcomed too many American visitors, they might have suspected that I was working secretly with the US authorities.

For this reason, I wouldn’t have received Mark Johnson. He fitted the undercover stereotype perfectly: a serious American man of about twenty-seven, well built, blond hair gelled back, white T-shirt and blue jeans – except for the fact that he got in past the guards without calling me. He spoke almost perfect Spanish and I could tell by his hurried manner that he hadn’t come for a tour.

‘Are you Thomas McFadden?’ he asked, as soon as I opened my door.
I nodded. ‘Have a seat, man. Would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘No. That’s fine. I’ve just eaten,’ he replied. He had a strange way of talking and it was obvious he wanted to ask me something.

‘OK, then. Let’s chat, or do you want to do a tour?’
‘How long have you been doing the tours?’ he asked immediately.
‘Two years almost, off and on. Sometimes the tourists can’t get inside because the guards won’t let them. And sometimes I get tired of doing them.’

‘Why? Because you do drugs with them?’
‘No, because you know, it takes a lot of energy dealing with people. I like to show them a good time, and if I can’t put in all my energy, I prefer not do it at all. You understand?’

‘I’m informed that the tour price is fifty bolivianos. How much of that goes to the guards and how much to you?’
‘Hey man, slow down. A lot of questions.’ It wasn’t that I minded answering questions – all the tourists were always curious – but this boy had just charged straight in there.

‘Sorry, I should ask you how you are feeling. How are you today?’
He was certainly strange, this one.

‘Good, I’m fine. Thanks. A bit tired, man, a lot of tourists are coming through.’
‘How many do you think?’
‘Ufff – I don’t count. I think sometimes up to fifty, maybe even seventy a day.’