Colva, however, was something else again.
We drove on cracked roads. The pavements were broken, and it looked as if there’d recently been an earthquake. We drove between low-rise flats, strewn with washing and electricity cables. There were people everywhere, mainly sitting as if they had nothing ever to do. The taxi’s air-con wasn’t working, and it was getting hotter and hotter. This was the dry season, but there was talk of a freak typhoon coming in from the sea. There was real heat in the breeze.
We turned, and on our right was a high concrete wall. Gardo said, ‘Prison,’ and pointed, but you did not need to be told. There were coils of barbed wire at the top, some of it straggling down where it had come loose from its moorings. There were guard towers every fifty paces, open to the sun and rain. We turned right and followed the next wall. On the left were huts of bamboo and straw, and more people – many of them tiny children. I always notice the tiny children, sitting in the dirt, playing with stones and sticks. I learned later that many of the families in these shacks had relatives as inmates on the other side of the wall. They had to live there and get food in, or the prisoner would starve.
We came round to the entrance and I paid off the taxi. Then I walked up to the guardhouse. It was a concrete box with a large window. Several guards sat inside. Beside it was a red and white barrier to stop vehicles, and a man with a machine gun. I showed my passport and delivered the speech I had prepared.
They made a phone call. I noticed that Gardo was holding my hand, and I too was scared. We were kept waiting for no more than two minutes, and another officer came to the window and asked me to repeat what it was I wanted. I told the story twice because another person arrived, and then my passport was taken away. I was given a register to sign, and a visitor badge. Gardo got one too. Then we were led round the barrier and across a yard.
To walk into a prison is a very frightening thing, because you cannot help but think, What if something goes wrong and they won’t let me out? I was also thinking about that line – the line there has to be, and you have to cross – that separates freedom from complete incarceration. What door would it be that would swing open and shut again behind us?
We were taken past an office, and to what looked like a large waiting room. There were benches all the way round it, and we were invited to sit. Seconds later, a guard came to escort us out of the waiting room, down a corridor. At the end of the corridor was an iron gate made of bars. It was unlocked for us, and we all walked through, and it closed with that dreadful, clanging, ringing slam of metal on metal. We were shown to a smaller waiting room and asked to sit. We sat there for nearly an hour.
You don’t get anywhere in this country by showing impatience – I learned that very quickly here. It is so much better to wait, and smile, and nod. Gardo said almost nothing. I could see his lips moving, as if he was saying a prayer.
Out of the blue, he said to me, ‘What is in memoriam?’
I said, ‘I think it’s Latin. When somebody dies, you write that and it means, “in memory of”.’ I asked him why he wanted to know.
He smiled at me and said, ‘Video game.’ Then he started muttering again, as if he was reciting the same long prayer.
Eventually the door opened and a man in a short-sleeved shirt came in. He had a very warm smile, and he shook my hand and introduced himself as Mr Oliva. I told him my name was Olivia, and it seemed to break the ice instantly. He assured me that Mr Oliva would help Miss Olivia if he possibly could. He had a photocopy of my passport in his hand, and he sat opposite me.
He was quietly spoken and so polite, and apologized for keeping me waiting.
‘I’m the social welfare officer,’ he said. ‘The governor is busy with some problems at the moment, or he would see you himself – we always try to accommodate these requests. The inmate you wish to see, he does get these requests quite often. You’ve given us his number, but it’s not the right number. Are you quite sure it’s Mr Olondriz that you want to see?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Yes, please, sir,’ said Gardo. ‘Gabriel Olondriz.’
‘Like I say, he does get visitors and is always keen to see them. You know he’s a very sick man?’
Gardo nodded at me, and I said: ‘Yes.’
There was a silence.
‘It’s one of the reasons we’re here,’ I said.
‘It is not out of the question,’ said Mr Oliva. ‘There are some formalities, however. Usually we can set these things up all the better if we have some notice, you see. You could come next week, maybe?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. I could feel Gardo’s panic – he could sense we were close to success. ‘I’m embarrassed, in fact. This is my friend Gardo, and he only told me about the problems yesterday, and he says it’s urgent. I think it’s incredibly kind of you to even consider seeing us.’
Mr Oliva smiled. ‘You are very patient and very educated. You’re a social worker, yes? In Behala?’
‘I’m an unpaid worker – it’s completely voluntary.’
Mr Oliva extended his hands and shook mine firmly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Without people coming to help like this, things would be worse than they are. This city has many problems. Every city has problems – but maybe this city has more than most, I don’t know. You are looking after this boy?’
I said, ‘He was very upset yesterday. I didn’t understand everything, but he told me I might be able to do something.’
‘Is he a good boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘He goes to your school?’
‘Not as often as I would like,’ I said, and Mr Oliva laughed.
He exchanged a few words with Gardo and patted his arm. ‘You know the man you wish to see is in the hospital at the moment?’
‘I don’t know very much about him,’ I said, ‘except what Gardo told me.’
‘He’s not a well man. I think you might be upset. Also, the conditions – the meeting area. You’ve been in a prison before?’
I shook my head.
Mr Oliva smiled. ‘You see, our government has many pressing problems. It does not put money into its prisons – I think the same was true in your country a hundred years ago. I think you will be upset by what you see. Perhaps just the boy should come – if it’s between him and Mr Olondriz?’
‘I think I ought to be with him,’ I said.
I didn’t know why. I was getting frightened again – but having come this far, would I really sit in the waiting room? This was my year of seeing the world, and it occurred to me that to see the world of Behala, and now a jail – perhaps it would teach me more than I’d ever found at university.
Mr Oliva said, ‘The problem is the fees. To organize visits like this – to “fast-track”, so to speak. They told you at the gate?’
‘They didn’t,’ I said.
‘They were embarrassed,’ he replied. ‘It is a question of getting security clearance – we have to send somebody very fast for approval. We could get a waiver if you gave us some time.’ He looked so honest. ‘Is it really so urgent?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I can check in a moment,’ he said. ‘But I think it will be ten thousand. And a receipt – with the governor so busy …’
‘I don’t need a receipt,’ I said. I must admit, I felt slightly sick. The day was costing me a fortune. ‘The problem is, I’m not sure I’m carrying as much as that.’
Gardo was looking away.
‘I’ll get the forms and check,’ Mr Oliva said. ‘I want very much to help you, but … I don’t set the fees, they are set by the government.’ He smiled. ‘I think the government must be very rich!’
Ten minutes later he was back. He had a form in his hand. ‘You will have to be photographed also, I’m afraid. And I was right: it is ten thousand.’
I was carrying eleven thousand. I had been to the bank that morning and had withdrawn extra because I was meeting friends for dinner in a very expensive restaurant tha
t night. In half an hour they’d made a security pass for me, with my photograph and a number of signatures. Mr Oliva shook my hand again.
As he left, he called out loudly, and in a moment there were four guards in the corridor. One said something to Gardo, and he said, ‘Come.’
I remember their echoing boots.
We were led to another room with lockers. We were asked to take everything out of our pockets – we had to take off our shoes and shake them. They put everything inside and slammed the locker doors, and we set off down another passageway, and I could hear people in the distance, shouting – I knew the dividing line was close now, and my heart was beating fast. Sure enough, the corridor took us into a long hall, bisected by floor-to-ceiling bars, and the shouting of men was louder still, as if we were coming to some kind of market place. We were led to a gate in the centre, and as the guards opened it, I became aware of the constant banging of metal on metal. Everywhere, doors were slamming, and I could hear the ratcheting of keys in locks. Suddenly we were in a strange no-man’s-land, like a decompression chamber – a space in which the door behind us locked before the door in front was opened. Under all the shouting there was laughter, and – I have to say it – it was like animal noise, with a dreadful echo. It was also, if it were possible, getting hotter, as if something was breathing on us. Orders were shouted: everyone was suddenly in a hurry. That final door was unlocked, and we were beckoned through.
‘Welcome!’ cried the guard receiving us.
He smiled at me. A smile of genuine interest and warmth, which seemed so wrong for the hell we were walking into.
4
I had expected cells, but all I saw was cages.
They were on my left and right, and they were the type of cages you might put lions and tigers in, in an old-fashioned zoo. They were just high enough for a short man to stand up in, and they were about four metres long, maybe two metres deep. I looked up and saw that these cages were stacked three high, with ladders up the sides. They continued in long rows, and I could see that there were alleyways between them. It was so terribly hot. As we passed the alleyways, I saw that they led you deep into more cages. It was like a warehouse, but every cage held people.
As I walked among them, I was being stared at from left and right, and from above. Also, because many people were lying down or sitting, I was being stared at from below.
The noise was impossible – everyone seemed to be shouting. Gardo put his hand in mine again and it steadied me.
‘Hello, ma’am!’ was being shouted, again and again. Cheerful cries – friendly cries, and so much laughter. There were hands stretching out between the bars, and there were solemn faces as well as the laughing faces. ‘Can you spare something, ma’am? Ma’am! Ma’am! How are you? How are you?’
I looked to the right and stopped dead.
I was looking at a boy who could not have been more than eight years old, wearing only shorts. He was smiling at me. In his lap sat a younger boy, sleeping.
I think I said, ‘No,’ and just looked at him, unable to move – stuck for a moment.
Gardo eased me forward gently, but the eight-year-old started calling eagerly, and he stood up and came to the front of the cage so that he was holding the bars with both hands. ‘Hello, ma’am!’ he said. ‘Hello, ma’am – twenty pesos, ma’am.’
I turned round in a full circle. I was in the centre of the place by now, and to turn was to lose yourself, because all the cages were identical, and though there were big signs with numbers, they meant nothing to me. I had no sense of direction any more: all I could see was faces and hands waving. Man then child. Young man, then older man, then child again – thin bodies, glistening with sweat. Almost everyone in shorts only, and a smell of old food, sweat and urine.
‘It’s OK,’ said Gardo, keeping his hand over mine.
The guard who was escorting us had not noticed that we’d stopped. Now he did, and waited. I was being asked questions. ‘Where are you going? Where are you going, Sister?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What country?’
‘American? American? Hi there!’
‘I love you! I love you, Joe!’
The guard came back. Gardo had my hand and my arm, and was trying to get me moving. It was oven-hot, and the smell was getting worse. I knew that if I didn’t move, I would fall. I had a water bottle with me, thank goodness – and I drank deep and long, and there were people cheering. People were shouting out for water. I lost my balance and staggered against bars – Gardo was there, but he couldn’t hold me. I felt hands on my arm and on my hair, and voices whispering close:
‘Help me, ma’am …’
‘Nobody here, ma’am – nobody coming, ma’am …’
There was a young boy with dyed hair lying back in the arms of an older man; there was a child in a pair of torn pants curled up on a piece of newspaper. They were living in a furnace.
Gardo disentangled the hands – they were stroking me. Anxious eyes, still so well-mannered – even in despair, to keep your manners – I could feel tears, useless tears rising in my stupid eyes.
I managed to walk on. It was like going uphill – I managed to take one step, then another, and as if I was on stepping stones, I continued up the corridor. I looked ahead, at the guard’s blue-shirted back, and followed him, and we came to a metal door and went through it. When it shut behind me, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes and cried.
There was a staircase, and when I had recovered, I went up it. The noise and the smell gradually faded from me.
The guard said, ‘He is in the hospital now.’
He said something to a second guard, and another door was unlocked for us. We moved out of the bright light, and I was aware of a breeze from a wall fan. My eyes took time to adjust, because the light was dim. I was led along a narrow corridor – I think there was a wheelchair. Then I was taken to the right, into an empty room, and there was a table, and several folding chairs. I sat in one and put my head low down, because I still felt that I might pass out. I think Gardo disappeared for a moment – I think I was left alone. I drank more water, and after some time I felt better.
Gardo reappeared and sat next to me.
I said, ‘There were children in there.’
Gardo just looked at me.
‘What have they done?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re poor. They do many things.’
‘But … you can’t lock people up like that. What have they done?’
Gardo said nothing. ‘They steal,’ he said, after some time. ‘Maybe fighting.’ He smiled his thin smile, as if to encourage me. ‘They get some food. It’s not so bad.’
We waited for … I don’t know – time had changed. Maybe not long. And then we heard voices, and two guards arrived. They were helping a very old man towards us. They had to be slow and patient with him, because he could not walk very well. He was wearing dark, loose-fitting trousers and a white shirt, buttoned at the neck. The guards supported him, but I saw that he had a stick as well, and he made his way painfully along the passage. He was staring at me, and I was struck by his burning white eyes – short-sighted, but hungry – peering, as if he had been waiting for me.
5
Olivia still. They asked me to write all of this but maybe Gardo needs to say things as well. I noticed that he – Gardo, I mean – had stood up and moved behind me. I stood up too. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do.
‘Miss Olivia?’ said the man.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He blinked. ‘Sit. Please, sit.’ Then he said something in his own language, and the guards helped him to the chair. He was perspiring heavily – I could see moisture all over his forehead, and he found a handkerchief and mopped first his brow, and then his face, and then his neck.
At last he sat back and smiled. ‘They told me your name,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for visiting me. I hope it hasn’t been too … dreadful for you.’
It was clearly an effort
for him to speak. He seemed very sick to me – far too sick to be in prison. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I do not recognize your name,’ he continued. ‘And nobody would tell me the reason for … paying me this honour. Please … forgive me, I’m … As you can see, you’ve come when I’m extremely weak. But I never say no. I never say no.’
The man was not simply weak: he was dying. I don’t know how I knew, but I was certain of it. His skin was drawn tight, and breathing was so hard. There was a large growth under his jaw, and he seemed to be in pain. Everything was an effort. Sitting still was an effort, and lifting his head was an effort – I saw him wince as he adjusted his position. He smiled at me again, and I saw his skull clearly through the skin. This was Gardo’s … grandfather? But something didn’t seem right. The man had not even greeted him.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I will tell you anything you want to know. What is your brief?’
I still hadn’t spoken, and I wasn’t sure that I could. I wasn’t sure what my voice would sound like if I did. I moistened my lips and said: ‘I’m so sorry to have …’ I couldn’t think what to say. ‘To have … disturbed you. But Gardo …’
I looked round and Gardo was standing there, still as a post. He had not greeted the man, and the man had still not greeted him.
‘Believe me,’ said the old man, ‘a visitor is always welcome. Without visitors I would have gone mad, and they come in fits and starts. I can go several weeks with nobody. Then it is as if I am back in fashion: I have two in a day. You, my dear, are the first face for some time. And your boy, this is … ?’
‘This is Gardo,’ I said. ‘You know each other, don’t you?’
The old man looked at me and then at Gardo. He seemed puzzled, and he smiled.
‘You do know each other,’ I said. ‘It’s actually Gardo who wants to see you. About your house.’