I am three floors up in San Pedro Penitentiary, La Paz. In a whitewashed cell no more than 10’ x 6’ I try to adjust to my new surroundings. The two beds may be as hard as tables, the décor a touch ‘impoverished student’, but San Pedro has a surprisingly convivial air to it. Poking my head through a makeshift skylight I can see prisoners sunbathing on corrugated tin roofs. Long gone, it seems, are the romantic days of breaking rocks and sewing mailbags. The only other person in my cell, a Canadian called Ed, tries his luck on a Playstation, erected shrine-like on rickety shelf. Spain vs Argentina fizzes into life and the electronic squabble of computer football meshes with the smoother house sounds emanating from the hi-fi. Ed’s inside for the same thing I am, but I guess that some people are just better suited to taking life in the can in their stride.
“One Nill” he joyfully cries as a trapdoor in the planked wooden floor is pushed up from underneath.

From the tiny opening two impossibly huge characters emerge like genies into our already claustrophobic cell. Both I can recognise from the crumpled end-prints depicting beaches, barbies & buxom babes decorating the walls. Introducing themselves with names that evaporate into instant history I find my hand enveloped and enthusiastically pumped by our fellow inmates. There is something almost cartoon about their appearance - the leather jackets, the slicked back hair, the polished shoes, the dark glasses – all of which makes me feel as if I have been cast as an extra in some Hispanic Scorsese B-movie. Without swapping pleasantries the taller of the two inmates hunches over a spare handset and sets about whipping Ed’s ass out on the field of dreams. In a gesture of welcome his stockier ‘cellie’ pulls out a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola from behind his back and pours me a measure into a plastic cup. Next he retrieves a sachet of condensed white powder about the size of a golf ball, breaks off a small chunk, ingests it and washes it down with a slug of cola. Sensing my feigned nonchalant disregard for the brazen flouting of prison rules (it’s Wednesday 3pm – it must be time for class A’s), my host flashes me a mischievous gold capped grin before opening the conversational gambit with a single word.
“Cocaine.”

Coming from his lips it sounds illicit and inviting. Before I can think of an appropriate response like ‘it’s the real thing’, the sachet is winging its way in a perfect parabolic arc through the air towards my lap. Feeling its crumbly texture between my fingers a frisson of excitement mingled with fear shoots up my spine. What happens if one of the guards materialise now? How many potential years in San Pedro do I hold in my hand? Only 24 hours ago I was a carefree traveller wandering around assorted downtown galleries. Today I am Cocaine Chadee. The hi-fi might be playing ‘Dub be good to me’ by Beats International but my mind is reverberating to Talking Heads’ ‘Once in a Lifetime’.

‘And you may ask yourself, well, HOW DID I GET HERE?’

My crime is simple – I am a voyeur and experience junkie of the worst kind. Add this mentality to the free market madness of South America and it is possible to entertain any number of unusual situations. In La Paz it is hardy news to say that money can buy you out of jail, what surprised me was the fact it could also buy you into jail. Roll up at San Pedro just after siesta, wait at the crowded main gate till some anonymous convict yells out in English ‘you for the tour’, wave the equivalent of a fiver under the guard’s nose and in you go. From that moment on the outside world means nothing. Chaperoned by an unsanctioned inmate you disappear into the bowels of the prison for a slice of real insider trading.

Javier, our ‘guide’, is having a busy afternoon. A party of Danes are scheduled to be shown the ropes before us so we are left to fend for ourselves in an empty cell. This is roughly where you came in. With no self-respecting traveller wanting to miss out on the experience of the hour (‘you just gotta do the tour, man’), business in San Pedro is humming. When Javier eventually returns he is stoked to see we have been properly looked after. Checking the mentioned price for a gram is the official going rate he assures us everything is above board (‘do not worry about the guards, they are our suppliers’). Declining offers of both pharmaceuticals and 98% proof homebrew the tour in earnest begins.

Divided into five courtyards San Pedro has the feeling of Butlins gone to hell. As prisoners have to pay their way, all the corridors and open spaces are hives of business activity. Mini cafes and newspaper stands vie with table football lounges and ice cream parlours. It’s a jungle in here. The first thing that strikes me as odd is the presence of women and children. For a small fee whole families are permitted to come and squat inside. Children leave each morning to go to school, partners go out to do the shopping. Money opens doors in every respect. Courtyards are segregated due to financial status because inmates are required to buy their cells. At the bottom end of the scale the grubbiest ones are putrid hellholes reminiscent of Midnight Express, at the swanky end one drug baron has actually built himself a three-story apartment with a penthouse suite. During our half-hour walkabout I find myself constantly amazed by the fucked up, bleak charm of the place. Boundaries have been completely eroded. I cannot decide if the outside world has turned in, or the inside world has turned out.

All too soon news is passed of another group of travellers who are holed up awaiting Javier’s services. Apologising for the tight schedule he explains that with his impending release he needs to get as many punters through the gates as possible.
“Business is good in here, outside it is not so easy. Still, maybe I will be back soon.”
On this bizarre note we are returned to the outside world, our preconceptions of South American prison life in tatters. Buzzing from the experience I try and process a myriad of conflicting emotions. What comes to the fore is an inappropriate soaring sense of freedom emanating from my heart. Somehow San Pedro has released me from all the cares of the world. For a brief and sublime instant anything seems possible. Heading downhill into a sun baked La Paz I am surprised to find myself singing.

‘Letting the days go by, letting the water hold you down.’