The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare (22 page)

As we expected, the prison cops shortly after burst into the wing and I braced myself. The killing happened when our cell block was out at the canteen, so it was obvious someone from Maxima had knifed the guy. The head cop was there, a little mean guy with a Napoleon complex. He carried the baseball-style bat he always had in hand. The director was there too. Her usual nice-girl vibe was gone. She was pissed off. There was none of her usual chitchat. We were all standing out in the yard. Napoleon called each of the bosses and luceros into the hallway one by one. They stood spreadeagled against the wall. I couldn’t properly see in, but I could hear a dull thud as he carried out his usual beating: three swings of his bat full-force into your ass. That way no visible marks were left. And when you were hit you weren’t allowed to make a sound. Not a whimper. That was his rule – he’d hit you again till you stopped. None of the bosses made a sound. If you did, you were
maricón
, or queer.

After that we heard nothing more over the killing. It didn’t do the lucero’s profile any harm in the wing. He went up the ranks and got more respeto from the bosses. He became a bit of a hero and walked around with a swagger.

One thing nobody dared do was rat anyone out. If you did you were a
sapo
, or a grass. This was the lowest form of life. If you were caught grassing you’d get an almighty beating from the bosses and inmates. There were lags in Maxima who bore the scars of talking out of line. One inmate I called the Penguin walked on the sides of his feet, the soles facing in. He plodded around the wing, wobbling from left to right. Word had it he had grassed up an inmate in another prison. Over what we didn’t know. His fellow inmates had wreaked their revenge by pinning him down to the ground and holding his arms and legs while others dropped concrete blocks on his feet. He was locked up for rape, so to me the punishment was deserved.

The Penguin wasn’t the only inmate walking around with a deformity. Others had their limbs warped from punishment beatings too, but they hadn’t necessarily been beaten for being a sapo. Often they fell foul of the bosses and were called in for a session at the wrong end of a baseball bat. There was one lag whose feet were at right angles to his legs waddling around the wing. One day I was in the yard reading a Spanish dictionary that Silvio had lent me and came across the word in Spanish for duck:
pato
. It stuck in my head. ‘Silvio, I have a name for your man with the bogey feet – the Duck.’ He bent over laughing. And from then on, to us the inmate was the Duck. I never said it to his face, though. Despite being slow on his feet, he was fearsome: he had a short fuse and was always looking for a row. He loved duelling with stakes of wood used as pretend knives – a pastime the Venos loved – grabbing onto his opponent’s arm so they couldn’t move and he wouldn’t fall over, then giving his opponent a good jab.

No one ever asked how the Duck ended up with his feet pointing the wrong direction. It was obvious. He’d got a beating over something in the past. And if you got a bad kicking nobody would treat you in a hurry. There was a prison clinic staffed by inmates and a doctor who came in a couple of days a week, Silvio said. I doubted anyone got first-class medical care there – and I’d later find out at first hand my belief was true.

Beatings were common. One day a prisoner was called in for a luz and we all had to stand in the yard while the bosses dealt with him. He walked out of the jefe’s cell after about 15 minutes, hobbling, tear marks streaking down his face. His right leg was concave, like a piano’s. He struggled over to a bench in the corner of the yard, sat down and started weeping. His amigos walked over and comforted him. Within a couple of weeks he started walking properly again but with his leg in the shape of a bow.

Another day a new inmate walked out into the yard after his ‘induction’. He had no clothes on, only a blanket wrapped around him. That was because, like a lot of them, he’d soiled his trousers over a hiding by the bosses. He limped in and fell onto the ground in the yard, sounds like a baby gurgling coming out of his mouth.

He was no sapo, though. In seconds, word arrived that he was a kiddy fiddler. We knew anyway. New inmates weren’t beaten by the ‘welcoming party’: the bosses waving guns in the faces of the new prisoners. Only the paedophiles got a hiding – that’s how we knew the guy was a kiddy fiddler, when we saw he’d been battered. There were about seven or eight paedos in all. I used to shout in their faces, ‘
molestar ninos’
, which meant child molestors. Most of us did who had children.

* * *

Despite the lockdown, coke was sold as usual. Every evening when the troops pulled out after the headcount a ‘light’ was called. The jefes fetched their guns and went bagging and tagging one-gram lines of perico. The lucero foot soldiers then went about as usual, dealing it in the yard to inmates out of bumbags on their belts.

The visits went on as usual, too. One morning after the clean-up on the wing, before the families and lovers came in, I was ready for another day behind the curtain sitting on my empty cooking-oil drum. But first I went into the toilet and sat down on the pot. It was an open door and all the lags could see in at you doing your business. I found it uncomfortable; the lack of privacy was something I never got used to. But even though others could see in, you couldn’t just walk in if the pot was being used or if someone was having a wash. That was one of the rules. But a Veno walked in past me and started bathing, ladling water over his head from a drum of water in the corner and splashing me.

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ I shouted.

‘No,’ he said. I started standing, pulling my trousers up to have a go at him. Before I properly got to my feet, he shoved me. I slammed back into the wall. My glasses fell off and smashed to the ground. Blood rushed to my head. My eyesight was blurry, but I could make him out. He wasn’t a big man, a couple of inches smaller than my 5 ft 10 in. height. I lunged forward and wrapped my hands around his throat. His eyes started bulging. The veins in his neck stood out like rivers on a map. He pushed against me, but I had him pinned. ‘
Mama huevo
, I’ll kill you, you little bollocks,’ I shouted in his face. I realised it was visit day. Nobody fought then or you were in big trouble.

‘Paul, no, wait till after the families leave,’ said Silvio. He had run into the toilet and was pulling at my arms. A lucero then ran in after hearing the noise, a pipe gun at his side. He grabbed me and pulled me back.

‘Shhh,’ he said, nodding back out to the yard. I could hear the voices of women and children. I let my grip go and stood back. I glared at the lucero and said to him through Silvio, ‘I want to fight him. After the visit.’

‘
No problema
,’ said the lucero, glad the struggle was over and I’d calmed down. Silvio looked relieved, breathing heavily.

‘Boxing match: me, you, later,’ I said to the little runt. He grinned and walked off. I bent down and picked up my glasses. One lens was smashed and the arms bent outwards. They were useless. I fired them onto the ground and kicked the wall.

‘Paul, take it easy,’ said Silvio. ‘We sort this later.’ I looked out towards Billy, Ricardo and the others. All I could make out were blurry shapes where faces should be.

‘That muthafucker is dead.’ I wasn’t letting this go.

‘You’re not going to fight him, are you?’ said Billy, not believing I was serious.

‘Fucking right I am.’

‘It’s your right to fight, Paul,’ said Silvio. ‘That’s the way it works.’ That was how rows between inmates in Maxima were settled – you took to the gloves.

* * *

Chávez had ordered troops and tanks to the border with Colombia. The whole country was on alert. Colombian pilots had invaded Venezuelan airspace. That was an aggressive move and had to be dealt with, bellowed Chávez. From inside Los Teques, the whole country seemed like a war zone.

The Colombians, however, denied the charge and were puzzled by Chávez’s move. I was sitting down in the wing hallway watching the news pan out on CNN, the screen looking fuzzy without my specs. The whole rift between Venezuela and Colombia was at another stage, with the two countries going head to head. Colombia complained that Venezuela’s left-leaning government was harbouring FARC (the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) guerillas in rural hideouts. Chávez fired back at his neighbour, saying their allegation was part of a US conspiracy, paving the way for the Yankees to invade Venezuela from US bases in Colombia in the country’s War on Drugs, to supposedly chase the guerillas and then steal Venezeulan oil while they were there.

In the same stories on the TV, Chávez was throwing jabs at the US itself, saying he’d shut off oil supplies to them. CNN rolled out analysts who brushed off the threats, pointing out that the US was Venezuela’s biggest customer, and
el presidente
had made such noise before.

Days later, Chávez’s whole drama of war and oil ran out of steam and was shown for what it was: hot air. Barrels of oil continued to be shipped north to the US. And foreign correspondents in Venezuela said there wasn’t a tank in sight anwhere near the frontier with Colombia.

Way to go, Chávez.

Anyway, local news stations were saying it was all just a ploy to distract Venezuelans from the misery within: supermarket shelves empty of basics, such as dairy foods and chicken; the cost of living soaring in line with Chávez’s temper; and bodies piling up in morgues across the country amid rising crime. The revolución was looking dodgy to me.

Overall, I was starting to think life as a ‘free man’ for many Venezuelans wasn’t much better than being banged up in Los Teques.

* * *

There was a buzz in the yard. All the lags had heard that the gringo wanted to go fisticuffs with the Veno. ‘
Guantes, guantes,
’ (‘Gloves, gloves’) they started shouting. ‘Fidel, boxing, boxing,’ I shouted over to the padrino, throwing shadow jabs. I was enjoying having the crowd in my thrall.

‘Sí,’ Fidel said. He called out to a lucero, who came out of the cells with the gloves.

‘
Muy bueno,
’ (‘Very good’) I said. I looked around but couldn’t see my nemesis. A few of the inmates were gathering around, starting to form a circle.

‘You’re a spacer, Paul,’ said Billy. ‘Are you really going to do this?’

‘Yep, don’t worry, I used to do boxing as a kid.’ It was true, I fought for years with a local club in Oxford, England, where I grew up – and did well, taking part in tournaments. But that was a long time ago . . . I slipped my hands into the navy-blue gloves. They were a proper professional pair. A lucero laced me up. More lags gathered. The gringo was about to fight. What was he made of?

I still couldn’t see the little runt. Maxima wing wasn’t big, so he was obviously in one of the cells. One of the inmates went in looking for him, and I saw them shoving him out into the yard. He saw me gloved up and ready to roll. His eyes opened wide like he’d seen a ghost and he sprinted past me and ran into the toilet. All the prisoners started cheering and laughing. ‘
Maricón, maricón
’ (‘Queer, queer’). It was hilarious. They knew he was all talk.

Fidel went down to him. ‘Juan,’ he said, ‘
peleas, ahora.
’ (‘Fight, now.’)

‘No, no,’ he shouted. Maybe the reputation of the fightin’ Irish rattled him.

‘He won’t come out,’ said Silvio, smiling. All the inmates were laughing now. All enjoying the drama and fun. Anything to break the boredom.

But I was standing there gloved up and with no one to fight. My adrenalin was pumping and I was charged for action. I started shadow boxing again, pumping out more jabs into the air, enjoying the moment. ‘Waay-hayyyy,’ the lags were roaring. Carlos walked up to Silvio and spoke, seeing the inmates wanted a bout. ‘He wants to know do you want another opponent?’ Silvio said.

‘Yeah, let’s do it.’

‘
Sí, no problema,
’ said Carlos.

Minutes later a black lad stepped out from the cells into the yard. He was bare-chested, wearing tight shorts and basketball boots. His upper body was rock solid, bulging biceps and defined pecs, and all topped off with a shaved head. He looked like a young Marvin Hagler. It was as if the jefes had a ready-made boxer at their disposal.

‘Ha, haha, haha.’ The lags started laughing and pointing at me, thinking I was in for it now. So did I. Holy shit, I’m going to get battered, I thought. He was a couple of inches shorter than me but with a wide frame and the body of a brick shithouse. I recognised the lag from the wing. He was always pumping a couple of concrete-block free weights with Ricardo down the back of the yard.

‘No, Paul, don’t do this,’ said Silvio, pleading, being his usual worried self. But I wasn’t standing down; if I got beat I got beat: either way, I was gonna fight.

‘We’ll see how it goes,’ I said. No backing down now.

The lucero gloved up the Veno. The human circle was growing and moving in closer. My heart was thumping. The Veno started the fight in a gentlemanly way and we touched gloves. I swung out the first punch: a left jab to his right temple, seeing a gap his gloves hadn’t covered. I followed with another left, when he was expecting a right, and clocked him on the head. I saw surprise in his eyes. The old gringo had a proper fight in him. We danced back and forth. I was bouncing on my feet. The Veno threw out a volley of jabs. The crowd gasped. The gringo was going down. ‘Go on Paul, go on Paul,’ I heard Billy shouting. ‘Gringo, gringo,’ shouted one of the Venos. The fighter was fast and sharp, but I countered the punches, defending and absorbing his blows with my gloves. I returned a couple more punches, catching him out again, jabbing with a left and then following through with a wide left hook when he expected a right. Thump. He stepped back a bit as if he was getting his balance. He then threw back a couple of fast punches. One got me on the side of the head. I felt the blow, but I was pumping with adrenalin and didn’t even feel a twinge. A few minutes had passed. I felt myself tiring. My legs were weakening. I was holding my own, but if the fight went on I was sure I was a goner. My steps became laboured. Both of us started throwing weak blows. I was exhausted and wanted the fight to end.