Bolivia, pt. 4: Prison, Sucre & Home

Standing outside the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, it was hard to believe the stories about what is really going on inside. Unlike other prisons, the inmates of San Pedro have almost complete freedom with the exception that they cannot leave the grounds. They live in apartment-style cells with their wives and children, have restaurants, stores, and gaming areas. Eighty percent of the prisoners inside San Pedro prison were arrest for drug-related crimes, and the prison itself is a makeshift cocaine plant. We met several people along the way who had actually been inside the prison. Though illegal, tours are a huge source of income for many of the inmates and guards. Marching Powder is a novel by Rusty Young and former prisoner Thomas McFadden about the laws, community and workings of San Pedro Prison. We stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the menacing faces of the guards, and watched as women, holding the hands of small children clad in school uniforms, casually walked inside.

From there it was straight to the bus station. I slept through most of the overnight bus ride to Sucre. Meredith and I wanted to see as much of Bolivia as we could, so after dropping our bags at the hostel we started walking back toward the bus station to catch a bus to Potosi.

Ever the gentleman, Kevin carried his backpack and mine due to my handicap

Before I left for Buenos Aires my Mom gave me a piece of advice that I have taken with me every time I leave my house, be it in the direction of the grocery store or Bolivia. She said something to along the lines of, “You walk around that place with the bitchiest attitude you can muster. People don’t bother those who walk around with confidence.” Well, it’s kind of hard to walk around with a don’t-eff-with-me attitude when you’re in a cast and sling. Walking around Sucre looking for the bus station was one of the most unnerving experiences of the trip. Every person we asked for directions seemed to think it was in a different part of town. Sucre was smaller than La Paz, making the poverty somehow seem more conspicuous and drastic. Not somewhere I was keen on walking around.

We did find the bus station eventually and were about to hand over the money for our tickets when we noticed a big poster of Potosi. The town looked shabby, dirty and terrifying to me. I’m typically not one to turn down an opportunity to see or experience something new out of fear, but I knew that in the off chance that something should happen there would be very little I could do to defend myself. My gut was telling me that Potosi, as much as I wanted to see it, was a bad idea. Meredith agreed. We said our apologies to the women at the desk, put our money in our purses, and walked back outside to explore Sucre.

We found Kevin at the hostel and met up with Agata in the main plaza shortly thereafter. Sucre is nicknamed “the white city” and after spending a few minutes in town it’s not hard to see why: the majority of the buildings are white. Sucre stood in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of La Paz. It was a nice change and suited our moods for the day. We walked around a few parks, had a small lunch on a European-style balcony in the main plaza, and saw as much as would could in the last afternoon we had left together.

Rocking my sling under a fake Eiffel Tower in Sucre

Kevin and Agata had to catch the early bus down to Uyuni, so Meredith and I said out goodbyes that night. On the way down to Uyuni the next day, they stopped in Potosi for a few hours and were almost robbed by a cab driver, a fake tourist and someone posing as a police officer. Luckily, both Agata and Kevin had heard about this kind of tactic to rob tourists and didn’t go for the bait. Turns out Meredith and I’s instincts were right on the money about Potosi, though.

Our flight to Santa Cruz didn’t leave until the late afternoon so we did the only thing we know how to do when in a beautiful city with time to kill: buy a couple liters of beer and head to the nearest park. This is one of our favorite Buenos Aires past times and, now, one of our favorite Bolivian ones as well. We sat on a bench in the main plaza for several hours passing beers back and forth, reminiscing on the trip and what was to come. Sitting there, donning my cast and sling, sipping on beer, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to go home. And it took me a few seconds to realize as this feeling washed over me that for one of the first times I wasn’t thinking about Florida. For now, Buenos Aires is home and I couldn’t wait to get back here.