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MARCHING POWDER

‘Hey you! Where you from, motherfucker? You speak English?’ I turned around, wondering whether I had imagined it. Seated on the low brick wall of the garden were three tough-looking prisoners staring up at me.

‘Me?’ I pointed to myself, looking from face to face. Two of them were definitely Bolivian, but although the thin man in the centre had quite dark skin, his face looked slightly foreign. He had a strange appearance; his dirty shirt hung loosely over his skinny rib cage and he had straight, dark hair with silvery streaks, tied in a ponytail that hung down to his shoulders. From his wrinkles and the grey hairs, I guessed he was about forty-five or fifty, although his voice sounded younger, so it was difficult to tell.

‘Yeah! You, buddy! Who else? Where do you come from? You speak English or what?’ He had an American accent. All three of them were staring at me menacingly, waiting for an answer.

‘Yes. Hello. I speak English. My name is Thomas,’ I extended my hand to greet the speaker, but he didn’t take it.

‘You are not from los Estados Unidos, are you?’ he demanded. I looked at him blankly, feeling stupid with my outstretched arm left dangling in the air.

‘Sorry?’ I took my hand back. I hoped they weren’t trying to start a fight.

‘¿De dónde viene? ¿No entiende nada? ¿Si es gringo?’ threatened the man next to him.

I didn’t understand what he had asked me, but there was no mistaking that his tone was aggressive. It crossed my mind to ignore them and walk away, but it was too late by then – I had already started talking – so I figured it was best to be as friendly and polite as possible in order not to give them any reason to start a fight.

‘Los Estados Unidos. The United States. You are not a gringo from the United States, are you?’ said the skinny foreigner with the grey hair.

‘Who me? No! No, I’m from England.’

‘Ahhh, Inglaterra. Inglés,’ he translated for his companions, who nodded and exchanged a few comments. The three men relaxed a little and the speaker smiled kindly, then put his hand out to shake mine. ‘That’s OK, then. England is OK. We like England.’

I was worried that this was a trick because they knew that I was new to the prison. At the same time, I couldn’t be rude – that might be just

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