Drug mules in South America

Inside the Garcia Moreno prison

Everyone who has travelled knows how drugs and backpacking often go together. All of us have heard stories: strangers slipping things into your luggage when you are in the toilet; hostels being raided and everyone getting arrested; the suspicious ‘retailer’ who offers a bag of something, even travellers on their way to a jungle village to sleep in a hammock all day and eat magic mushrooms. This is the other side of those stories. The dark side, when travelling turns to tragedy thanks to drugs.

The first time I ever came into contact with drugs was in Quito, Ecuador. I’d been offered lines of cocaine in a bar by some travellers I knew, yet I was so inexperienced that I thought they were offering me a drink. Turning down their offer, I didn’t realise that my drug story was only beginning.

Two days later, I was in the Quito tourist office. Scanning through the noticeboard I came across an unusual leaflet. “Plan to do something exciting whilst in Ecuador? Why don't you visit Quito prison,” it read, followed by the list of names – the foreign prisoners imprisoned in Garcia Moreno prison. I found one western name – Marc – and decided to visit this bizarre tourist attraction.

A strange attraction

The next day, I climbed the high mound in the heart of Quito where the Garcia Moreno prison had been built, back in 1875. I’d filled two plastic bags with Nutella, chocolate, honey, cigarettes and newspapers, and joined the long queue that snaked down the hill, full of relatives, lawyers and prostitutes.

“Drugs,” a local shopkeeper whispered in my ear, smiling as he observed the queue. I looked suspiciously at the pretty young girl in front of me carrying what looked like a birthday cake. “Inside the cake... drugs,” he whispered. I decided to ignore him and queue patiently for my turn at the gate.

The guard didn't take one look at the birthday cake when he waved the girl through. Then he checked my bags – a lot more carefully, I have to say. He asked a lot of questions in fast Spanish, leading me to yell out the only phrase I’d learnt might get me in: “Mi hermano! Mi hermano!” My brother, I said.

It was five years later that I realised the irony behind the words. Long after Marc was released from prison, my real brother was caught in Caracas International Airport with 0.8 kg of cocaine in his stomach. He now serves a 3-year prison sentence in El Rodeo prison in Venezuela for drug trafficking. I haven't had a chance to visit him.

Back in Quito, I was learning about the system fast. South American prisons don't have special visiting rooms, glass walls and telephones. Visitors are simply let loose among the general prison population, all of whom are free to roam about the prison ground at will. A guard locked the door behind me and there I was pushed against the wall trying not too look to white, too touristy or too gringo. The only thing distinguishing me from the inmates was a inky logo stamped on my arm, of the kind that gets you in to night-clubs.

The prison-city of Garcia Moreno was designed to hold 400 prisoners, but housed around 4000. The inhabitants didn't even notice me. Children ran around screaming and playing. Shops and restaurants, run by prisoners, continued their life. Hookers walked in and out of cells looking for customers.

I looked at the stern messages, aimed at the prisoners and posted by the entrance: ‘Respect families on visiting day and don’t use bad language in front of women’. In 2004 there was a notorious riot in the very same prison. The inmates held 270 women, 50 men and 40 children demanding better living conditions and shorter sentences. Yes, I might get stabbed and kidnapped – but at least they’ve been warned not to swear while doing it.

Meeting a mule

I met Marc in the main square. We strolled downstairs, past a few curious stares and a couple of pool tables, to the courtyard, where the prison’s informal marketplace was just getting going. Stalls run by prisoners were selling mobile phone accessories, toiletries and food. Bread and cakes were baked nearby. I asked Marc few times about life in there. “My first memory of the prison was fear. Fear of the unknown. Being alone made it ten times worse but in no way could I show it,” mused Marc. “That could have been fatal.”

I learnt his story. Young, broke, out of a job and out for adventure, “a friend” offered Marcc a chance to earn £1500. It’s a story that continues to happen to hundreds of young travellers and adventure-seekers around the world. It happened to my own brother, and due to the credit crisis, I expect it will happen to hundreds more.

The first prison Marc was transported to after he was caught in the airport and sentenced was an old school house with a courtyard. The cells were former classrooms with 40-50 prisoners each. “Bunk-beds were made out of old blankets. It was really crowded, and almost impossible to move. During the day we were allowed to walk in the courtyard unless there was a football match scheduled,” remembers Marc.

The drug problem inside

The Garcia Moreno penitentiary was his second prison. From the air the prison is shaped like a daisy, with each petal forming a different sector – A, B, C, D, E. “Newcomers are sent to sector B, which is also the poorest and most dangerous residence,” Marc told me. “That's where I was sent to as well.” If prisoners don’t have money, they hardly eat and have to sleep on the hard floor of the communal areas.

By the time we met, Marc had survived half of his four-year prison sentence. He was very thin. When I met him again, several years later, he confessed of being heavily on drugs when I first visited him. As ironic it might sound, a drug mule’s biggest problem after getting caught is drugs. “The drugs in South American prison are plentiful and very cheap. Four years is a long time and it's a way to escape from reality,” explains Marc.

Cocaine and marijuana are the main narcotics, though not exclusively so. “We even had a local brewery that bottled moonshine. Heroin was widely available. I stayed away from it because of its reputation,” lists Marc. “There is also a powder which is a left-over product from making cocaine. That cost 25 U.S. cents.” The drugs are smuggled in by the guards and visitors, but their relative cheapness is an illusion. Prisoners get hooked fast and the debts grow.

Begging for help from home

This downward spiral became clear to me when my own brother was brought to El Rodeo Prison in Caracas.  He shared his block with four other foreigners, one of them a guy called Alex. After only a few months, Alex's mother Kate started receiving strange phone calls. “At first he just called to say hi, but very soon he started asking for money,” Kate tells me. “First the sums were small, from £200 to £600, but then they got bigger and bigger. In the end he would call seven or eight times a day begging for money. Abnormal sums up to £6000.”

When she didn't send the money, fellow prisoners started harassing her, threatening to kill or harm Alex. “They called me in the middle of the night and promised to break his legs if they didn't receive the money by tomorrow. I didn't send it. I just didn't have it.” Two months before his release Alex was attacked with a baseball bat and was killed. He was buried in the local graveyard. The local ambassador attended the funeral and sent the photos to his mother.

Marc has met plenty people, like Alex, whose lives were ruined by addiction. “The funny thing is the drug addicts are predominately Europeans and local low-life. Others hardly ever use this crap.”

Too far from help

The hardest part of being in prison is knowing there is nobody to help you. “Your family is thousands of miles away, you have no friends and no lawyer. There is nobody you can trust,” Marc says.

The local ambassador in Venezuela has a policy: he never visits drug mules. “There are slang words locals use for such ‘work’,” the Ambassador tells me. “Easter Egg and Kinder Surprise are the nicest. Going to a Venezuela prison is a suicide. It's dangerous, and as a representative I can't risk my life,” he explains.

Most of the prisoners in Garcia Moreno are local, with a smattering from neighbouring countries like Columbia and Peru. “There were few Europeans and we stuck together,” Marc recalls. “If you bother to learn the language you can interact and do business with them. Otherwise you are quite segregated.”

There is only one rule in South American prisons: everything is money. If you have money you can order a prostitute for $10 a night. When I called an official of the Ecuadorian prison system, she agreed that bribes are common and corroborated these descriptions. She said that none of the prisons should cost inmates money, but corrupt officials often take bribes to award different standards of living to prisoners with more money. When you have money, you can eat what you want, you can choose where you live and what to have in your cell. “Just the thought of the food still makes me nauseous. Many times the only food was rice because nobody can eat chicken with its head and claws still attached. The worst was cow's udder,” remembers Marc.

There are two things that helped Marc survive prison life: a skill in avoiding problems, and a will to live. “I set myself goals which might sound ridiculous in normal circumstances. For example, the first year was the year to adjust, settle down, learn the language and learn the rules. My second year was a real waste – I was high most of the time and just read a lot. The third year was the year to break away from bad habits like drugs, and even smoking. I started studying and exercising. The fourth year I bought myself a small store and prepared myself mentally for my release.”

When we met after his release, I wanted to know if he remembered my visit all these years ago. “No details, but I remember the emotions. I remember the pants you brought me were too big and I had to find someone who made them smaller for me. I wore them for some time.” 

When Marc was finally discharged in 2006 he left Ecuador and returned home. ”When I came out I didn't think about going on with my life. Everything had changed. The hardest part was to deal with prejudice and satisfy my family's expectations and fears. They didn't know who I was. I had to gain their trust again.” He married few years later, and now has a good job and a child. He’s even thinking about writing a book about his grim years in prison. “What did I learn from this experience?” muses Marc. “That there are better ways to live and earn money.”

A warning to travellers

About 2,600 Britons are in prison abroad, the majority on drugs charges. Some are convicted on questionable police evidence. Others have no lawyer to argue their case in court, or are presumed guilty because they unwittingly have had links with known criminals during their travels.

When flouting the law overseas, many people overlook the fact that the convictions will stand when you're back on home soil. If you are found guilty of a drugs offence in Jamaica, where even possession of a small quantity of cannabis can lead to imprisonment, that conviction will remain with you every time you apply for a job, a loan or somewhere to live.

In Tunisia, serious drug-related charges may result in 20 years’ imprisonment plus a fine. In some countries, such as Venezuela, drug traffickers face life imprisonment. Algeria, Indonesia, Iran, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand can impose the death sentence for offences related to narcotics.