someone else to do it, but it would cost an estimated ten dollars, which was considered a small fortune in Santa Teresa. Water bottles cost seventy cents each and there were several food stands to purchase lunch, although I wasn’t prepared to trust my luck with any of them. The prison system provided inmates three inedible meals per day, a food service commonly referred to as “Rancho,” so access to any other type of food was priceless.
Rancho food came into the prison several times per day, in huge plastic barrels or buckets. According to prison rumors, Rancho suppliers were paid per meal per inmate per day, yet only a small fraction of it was spent on the food. Some inmates also believed that this is part of the reason why inmates are kept in prison beyond their sentences, to continue getting paid per inmate. I do not know if this is true, but it makes some sense. Inmates also claimed that Rancho food was much better not long ago, but that the contract had since been awarded to someone else. I wonder who the players are. Prisons must be a big business for somebody.
There was no cafeteria, so Rancho food was distributed at each cellblock three times per day. Inmates had to have their own plastic plates and cutlery since the prison did not offer any. Bread or machine-made tortillas were a staple, along with black beans, which many inmates wash, drain, and recook, adding their own spices to make them edible. Vegetables were a rare commodity, and when they were available, usually included plantains, potatoes, chayote, and zucchini. Sometimes a ham and spinach concoction was served that I mistook for pasta when I first saw it. Sundays were usually cereal and banana days. Sometimes coffee was available, delivered in a huge transparent plastic bag, and was so weak that it could easily be mistaken for iced tea. A prized lunch came on Wednesdays when plain boiled chicken was served. The women would rinse it and finish cooking it properly by adding their own spices, onions, and other vegetables, which were available for purchase inside the prison. Some inmates had permits for their own individual electric burners, and there were two communal burners available for the rest of us. As with everything else, you had to wait in line.
Cellblock gates were opened between 9 and 10 a.m. and inmates were allowed to wander around until noon. There were many women and not much to do. Inmates were locked in again from 12 p.m. to 2 p.m. Final daily lockdown happened at 4:30 p.m. This meant that enjoying the night sky was forbidden.
There was one public telephone in my cellblock and official Guatemalan Penitentiary System Calling Cards had to be used. Calling cards could be purchased from Mimi, but they cost twenty percent more than stated on the card, which was the fee she charged and most likely went straight to her pocket. I was warned to be very careful about one’s calling card number because if another inmate should see it, she would use your minutes before you did. There was a system to call and a woman named Enma was in charge of the calling queue at that time. I put my name in at 8:40 a.m.; however, the day rolled on and by 4:50 p.m. I still hadn’t been able to make my call. This new prison reality had me completely disconnected from the outside world.
To keep busy that afternoon, I set out in search of a book, another rare commodity in this prison. I had been told there was a library of sorts at the prison school, but books could only be used by official students and they couldn’t be checked out. I was then directed to the Social Services office, and to my surprise, the prison’s social worker, Marta, had begun a small project she liked to call “The Reading Corner.” She had managed to get hold of close to thirty books. The options were limited, but there were about ten novels and Marta happily let me borrow one. I chose Amor, by Isabel Allende. My quest was over. I had a book—but a book I was unable to dig into like I usually did due to a newly acquired lack of concentration on my part—so I set out to visit Carmen, the woman I had met months earlier during my overnight stint in the carceleta. On the day she’d been sent to this prison back in September, I never imagined that I would be looking for her a few months later, in search of the only familiar face in this new world I was thrown into.
I found her in a section of the prison called encamamiento, a former prison hospital that was now the designated cellblock for inmates whom a judge had deemed unfit to live within the general prison population. The reasons for being placed in encamamiento varied, but usually they had to do with inmate health or safety. Carmen remembered me. We spoke for a little while and I thanked her for her generosity during our first encounter in the carceleta, but she did not seem very happy to see me. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. We barely knew each other, and I had already been advised by Mimi of one clear prison rule: one did not make or have friends in prison. We were all in that dark hole together, doing the best we could while trying to survive. That became the most important thing: survival.
In my efforts to make myself useful, busy my mind, and survive, I visited the labor department to offer my services as an English teacher at the prison school. María, the woman in charge, was very pleased with my offer and asked me to come to a special meeting the next day at 10 a.m.
As I observed how my new prison society worked, I realized there were several unofficial jobs available for inmates. One such position was an inmate caller. Callers received no pay, but many visitors tipped them or gave them a little thank-you gift for locating the inmate in question. That afternoon one of these callers came looking for me to tell me I had a visitor. I went to the prison’s inmate gates and found Emilio, an attorney and member of my extended family, waiting for me. He had stopped by to visit a client, but also wanted to check up on me, thinking I might appreciate a familiar face and a break.
I was let out through the inmate gates, the normal practice when an attorney visits an inmate, and sat waiting for Emilio to finish his professional visit. To my surprise, in that moment, my brother-in-law Ed, his wife, Vania, and their friend Yvethe walked into the visiting room. Since Vania and Yvethe are both attorneys, they were allowed to visit me outside of regular visiting hours, while Ed posed as their assistant. They were all carrying supplies: a pillow, two blankets, pants, T-shirts, sweatshirts, Crocs, bathroom items, a towel, toilet paper, money, bread, and some extra goodies. I also received two boxes of cereal courtesy of another dear friend, and six new undies courtesy of an angel I had never met from Vania’s office. Once Emilio finished with his client, he joined us, and we took advantage of his expertise as a former Vice Minister of the Interior, a position that put him in charge of prisons, to make a list of other things I might need. Their visit and the plentiful supplies were all a godsend on such a bleak day.
When I finally returned to my cellblock, I found that Mimi had assigned me new living quarters. I was to move into a bunk bed area (also referred to as plancha, the same word inmates use for punishments) with Clara, Mimi’s maid and assistant. Mimi considered it a safe place for me, but there were already three women sleeping there: fifty-three-year-old Clara had the top bed; twenty-seven-year-old Verónica had the lower bed; and thirty-seven-year-old Mariana, a foreigner who had arrived a couple of days earlier than me, slept on the floor. Since the weather had recently turned cold, Mariana had begun sleeping with Verónica on her bed. However, with my addition to the group, it was decided that I was to sleep with Verónica, and Mariana would return to the floor. I felt bad for Mariana, but maybe having the floor to oneself was better than a small cement bunk bed for two. So far, they all seemed like nice women, each going through tough times and experiencing indescribable pain. As my first day in prison came to a close, I realized that some of these women, whom we may normally fear in the outside world due to their crimes, had been nothing but helpful and supportive to me so far.
At 5 p.m., right after we were required to return to our cellblocks for lockdown, I climbed onto Clara’s upper bunk hoping to read for a while. It was Día de los Reyes (Three Kings’ Day) and a celebration was underway, but all I wanted to do was dive into a fictional world and disappear. As I opened my book, I was suddenly overcome by sadness and tears started rolling down my cheeks. I thought I would cry for a while, let it all out, and then try to read again, but the tears didn’t quit. It was all too much. This new reality, the thought of Nina and Fabián without a father and now missing their mother, how I was aching to kiss and hug them, not knowing how long this nightmare would last . . . it devastated me. While the party, loud music, games, and jokes grew louder, I felt worse and worse, incessant tears
