*Names have been changed to protect the already incarcerated.
*Not suitable for children
"You don't 'hype up' in the wake of tragedy. You underwrite, letting the events speak for themselves." -Gay Talese
"You have to know someone to enter," an Ecuadorian lady with bright red lipstick and a crocheted blue sweater told me in line after I had asked what the easiest way was for a foreigner to enter the women's prison in the North of Quito.
I didn't know anyone. The only reason I found myself staying in line outside of the prison is because a couple of days before I left Portland my favorite yoga instructor told me that if I were to do anything out of the ordinary in Quito, this would have to be it.
"What if I don't know a name?" I asked.
"You have to find one or you won't enter."
"What if I just show the guards some gifts I want to bring?"
Her eyes lit up. AH! She realized, "Just say you are a volunteer from the United States, and want to bring presents to the woman from the United States. Then they will let you in. But stay in line with me." She grabbed my arm, and once the metal doors synched open, dragged me past the guards toward the check-in.
"Who are you here to see?" The guard asked as she flipped through my passport.
I recited what the woman had dished out a few minutes earlier.
She locked eyes with the guard standing by. "Veronica," she wrote on the form, but never once gave me a name. "Pasale," she said. Pass through.
I proceeded to the security stand, where I was searched head-to-toe along with my bag, in which I could have hid countless commodities never to be detected.
Walking onto the basketball court, the scene came straight out of a movie. Clicks of women with bulging arms and sweatpants lounged around, smoking cigarettes and selling whatever they could get their hands on. A slight nervousness ran through my body. How in the hell am I supposed to find "Veronica" from the United States?
"Psssst," a guard grabbed my arm and led me to a chained up door. Three women peered out from the foot-wide crack. "Who you here to see?" they half-interrogated.
"I'm here to see Veronica." I said with a straight face.
One woman led me through the dining hall, past the vegetable stand and through to a small cafe, where I immediately recognized Veronica, sitting at a colorless plastic table that looked like it came straight out of k-mart with two Nigerian women, dressed like princesses, and who I would learn was her boyfriend, also a Nigerian.
Veronica creaked her head around toward me as if it was about to snap. "How you know me?" Veronica sneered at me in her hot-pink T and leggings, with dyed red hair to match.
I returned the dour glare, but quickly softened my eyes again. "I don't. I just have some extra things to get rid of before I leave the country, and I thought someone in this place might want them. So they sent me to you."
"Sit the *f* down! Whatchu bring me?"
I slid onto the plastic stump. "From New York?" I asked.
"Hell *f*in' yea girl. You bring drugs?"
"Nah. But I brought some nice toiletries and a couple of books," I snickered.
"I tell you what. You're the first American to visit me here. That's awfully nice of you to bring me some shit, especially some shit I could use." She began flipping through the "self-help" book and reading passages out loud. "Man, I tell you, these Americans, they always talkin' about they emotions and shit. How they feeeel and what's botherin' them on the inside, like it got any practicality in the real world. You and me though?" She nudged me like I was already an old-time friend. "You and me, we ain't gotta worry about none a' that weak shit."
I nodded at her with vulnerable eyes; ones she couldn't detect. Vulnerability is beyond her reality, I thought. It was this humility I had been needing.
After some questions about accommodations, a little girl with tight curls and toys in her hands ran up and laid her head in Veronica's lap.
"This is my baby girl," she said.
Suddenly, I began to sense strongly all the children's presence. I looked around. There were kids playing everywhere I decided to look. Kids crying, being yelled at, being held, drinking soda.
"How long is she aloud to stay in here with you?" I asked.
'Till I'm gettin' out, baby! So soon! Nobody's takin' my baby girl from me."
"Ah. So what do you plan on doing when you get out?" I felt anxious for an answer, I didn't know if these questions were too soon.
"Whatchu think? They same shit that got me in here. I'm trafficking drugs. I need some money to pay back this debt and get my ass home," she said emphatically.
Everything in this prison costs money. The rooms, the food, the toiletries. Jobs on site are sparse and pay a dollar a day, the cost of the room. So if there is no outside help for these women, they're forced into debt and have to find some outlet while there to make ends meet, or else they feel their best option is back onto the streets to sell drugs until they can get "back on their feet again."
Of course, there are always the guards who are willing to pay a little bit for some time alone with the prisoners.
"Why do you think there are so many babies runnin' around in here?" Veronica's boyfriend later said to me in confidence.
Veronica was a tough cookie. I learned quickly why all the guards gave me a puzzled look when I'd mention her name. She had been transferred from Guayaquil to Quito due to starting too many fights. Not that there are better rehabilitation programs in Quito. I'm told there's not much different. Just guards getting fed up.
She didn't intend to stop fighting.
"I'll do what I gotta do to get my baby some diapers and juice," she yelled while we sat on her bed. "Nobody here's gonna think they can mess with me."
"No one messes with Veronica," the Nigerian woman laughed. Her presence was so calm in comparison. I later learned she had found God.
Veronica's boyfriend asked her to calm down. A wind of pain washed through his eyes whenever her temper rose up. "I'm just worried about you baby," he'd say. "Something serious can happen to you in here."
Veronica laid back on her bed next to me and spread her legs to resonate in us more soundly her following point. "What the fuck you think Imma do all day? Sit like every other American motha and tickle my pussy all day while watchin' soap operas, not showerin' until the afternoon? Imma hustla, and Imma do what I need to do to raise my daughter and get up outta this place. You feel me?" She nudged me again.
Luckily, she didn't give me time to respond. This woman was wound up. She tore pages out of one of the books I gave her, wrote down numbers for her man to call. I could guess through the whispers exchanged what those numbers were for, but I'd rather not jump to conclusions, especially on a blog.
Then she hopped up and left the room in search for her daughter, who'd been downstairs playing on her own for awhile. The women make it a point to keep the children safe, though.
Veronica showed back with some food to offer me. I took a bite and said I was full. It was an excruciating process, forcing it through my throat. I don't know if it was the taste itself, or the fact I was in a prison, and assumed the food could not be good, especially after Veronica had told me how many times she'd gotten nearly fatally ill from it (not sure if that's dramatized or not).
"I assure you this plate is good," she pushed the plate back in my hands.
"Honestly, I just don't want to eat it right now, thanks though," I had to refuse, I felt I had a right to. She inhaled it anyway, and I'm glad she got some food in her stomach. I didn't need any from her.
The bell rang, and a bustle started on the floor below. Visiting hours were coming to a close.
"Keep this girl safe when you get outside, alright? I don't want nothin' happenin' to her." Her boyfriend nodded and pulled out a bit of money to give to her.
"Yes. Thanks baby. Imma turn this into double reallll quick."
He shook his head and walked away.
"Hey girl!" Veronica shouted from down the hall. "Come back and see me Wednesday! There ain't shit else to do in Quito anyhow!"
"I'll be back," I smiled, and turned the corner back onto the basketball court.
I thought of offering a reflection, but it's simply too early. I think this story speaks for itself, and you can form your own opinions. I do know that during my three months travelling all throughout Ecuador, this experience is right up there for one of the most powerful.
*Not suitable for children
"You don't 'hype up' in the wake of tragedy. You underwrite, letting the events speak for themselves." -Gay Talese
"You have to know someone to enter," an Ecuadorian lady with bright red lipstick and a crocheted blue sweater told me in line after I had asked what the easiest way was for a foreigner to enter the women's prison in the North of Quito.
I didn't know anyone. The only reason I found myself staying in line outside of the prison is because a couple of days before I left Portland my favorite yoga instructor told me that if I were to do anything out of the ordinary in Quito, this would have to be it.
"What if I don't know a name?" I asked.
"You have to find one or you won't enter."
"What if I just show the guards some gifts I want to bring?"
Her eyes lit up. AH! She realized, "Just say you are a volunteer from the United States, and want to bring presents to the woman from the United States. Then they will let you in. But stay in line with me." She grabbed my arm, and once the metal doors synched open, dragged me past the guards toward the check-in.
"Who are you here to see?" The guard asked as she flipped through my passport.
I recited what the woman had dished out a few minutes earlier.
She locked eyes with the guard standing by. "Veronica," she wrote on the form, but never once gave me a name. "Pasale," she said. Pass through.
I proceeded to the security stand, where I was searched head-to-toe along with my bag, in which I could have hid countless commodities never to be detected.
Walking onto the basketball court, the scene came straight out of a movie. Clicks of women with bulging arms and sweatpants lounged around, smoking cigarettes and selling whatever they could get their hands on. A slight nervousness ran through my body. How in the hell am I supposed to find "Veronica" from the United States?
"Psssst," a guard grabbed my arm and led me to a chained up door. Three women peered out from the foot-wide crack. "Who you here to see?" they half-interrogated.
"I'm here to see Veronica." I said with a straight face.
One woman led me through the dining hall, past the vegetable stand and through to a small cafe, where I immediately recognized Veronica, sitting at a colorless plastic table that looked like it came straight out of k-mart with two Nigerian women, dressed like princesses, and who I would learn was her boyfriend, also a Nigerian.
Veronica creaked her head around toward me as if it was about to snap. "How you know me?" Veronica sneered at me in her hot-pink T and leggings, with dyed red hair to match.
I returned the dour glare, but quickly softened my eyes again. "I don't. I just have some extra things to get rid of before I leave the country, and I thought someone in this place might want them. So they sent me to you."
"Sit the *f* down! Whatchu bring me?"
I slid onto the plastic stump. "From New York?" I asked.
"Hell *f*in' yea girl. You bring drugs?"
"Nah. But I brought some nice toiletries and a couple of books," I snickered.
"I tell you what. You're the first American to visit me here. That's awfully nice of you to bring me some shit, especially some shit I could use." She began flipping through the "self-help" book and reading passages out loud. "Man, I tell you, these Americans, they always talkin' about they emotions and shit. How they feeeel and what's botherin' them on the inside, like it got any practicality in the real world. You and me though?" She nudged me like I was already an old-time friend. "You and me, we ain't gotta worry about none a' that weak shit."
I nodded at her with vulnerable eyes; ones she couldn't detect. Vulnerability is beyond her reality, I thought. It was this humility I had been needing.
After some questions about accommodations, a little girl with tight curls and toys in her hands ran up and laid her head in Veronica's lap.
"This is my baby girl," she said.
Suddenly, I began to sense strongly all the children's presence. I looked around. There were kids playing everywhere I decided to look. Kids crying, being yelled at, being held, drinking soda.
"How long is she aloud to stay in here with you?" I asked.
'Till I'm gettin' out, baby! So soon! Nobody's takin' my baby girl from me."
"Ah. So what do you plan on doing when you get out?" I felt anxious for an answer, I didn't know if these questions were too soon.
"Whatchu think? They same shit that got me in here. I'm trafficking drugs. I need some money to pay back this debt and get my ass home," she said emphatically.
Everything in this prison costs money. The rooms, the food, the toiletries. Jobs on site are sparse and pay a dollar a day, the cost of the room. So if there is no outside help for these women, they're forced into debt and have to find some outlet while there to make ends meet, or else they feel their best option is back onto the streets to sell drugs until they can get "back on their feet again."
Of course, there are always the guards who are willing to pay a little bit for some time alone with the prisoners.
"Why do you think there are so many babies runnin' around in here?" Veronica's boyfriend later said to me in confidence.
Veronica was a tough cookie. I learned quickly why all the guards gave me a puzzled look when I'd mention her name. She had been transferred from Guayaquil to Quito due to starting too many fights. Not that there are better rehabilitation programs in Quito. I'm told there's not much different. Just guards getting fed up.
She didn't intend to stop fighting.
"I'll do what I gotta do to get my baby some diapers and juice," she yelled while we sat on her bed. "Nobody here's gonna think they can mess with me."
"No one messes with Veronica," the Nigerian woman laughed. Her presence was so calm in comparison. I later learned she had found God.
Veronica's boyfriend asked her to calm down. A wind of pain washed through his eyes whenever her temper rose up. "I'm just worried about you baby," he'd say. "Something serious can happen to you in here."
Veronica laid back on her bed next to me and spread her legs to resonate in us more soundly her following point. "What the fuck you think Imma do all day? Sit like every other American motha and tickle my pussy all day while watchin' soap operas, not showerin' until the afternoon? Imma hustla, and Imma do what I need to do to raise my daughter and get up outta this place. You feel me?" She nudged me again.
Luckily, she didn't give me time to respond. This woman was wound up. She tore pages out of one of the books I gave her, wrote down numbers for her man to call. I could guess through the whispers exchanged what those numbers were for, but I'd rather not jump to conclusions, especially on a blog.
Then she hopped up and left the room in search for her daughter, who'd been downstairs playing on her own for awhile. The women make it a point to keep the children safe, though.
Veronica showed back with some food to offer me. I took a bite and said I was full. It was an excruciating process, forcing it through my throat. I don't know if it was the taste itself, or the fact I was in a prison, and assumed the food could not be good, especially after Veronica had told me how many times she'd gotten nearly fatally ill from it (not sure if that's dramatized or not).
"I assure you this plate is good," she pushed the plate back in my hands.
"Honestly, I just don't want to eat it right now, thanks though," I had to refuse, I felt I had a right to. She inhaled it anyway, and I'm glad she got some food in her stomach. I didn't need any from her.
The bell rang, and a bustle started on the floor below. Visiting hours were coming to a close.
"Keep this girl safe when you get outside, alright? I don't want nothin' happenin' to her." Her boyfriend nodded and pulled out a bit of money to give to her.
"Yes. Thanks baby. Imma turn this into double reallll quick."
He shook his head and walked away.
"Hey girl!" Veronica shouted from down the hall. "Come back and see me Wednesday! There ain't shit else to do in Quito anyhow!"
"I'll be back," I smiled, and turned the corner back onto the basketball court.
I thought of offering a reflection, but it's simply too early. I think this story speaks for itself, and you can form your own opinions. I do know that during my three months travelling all throughout Ecuador, this experience is right up there for one of the most powerful.
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