Free Trash by Andy Mulligan Page B

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 itwas 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 showingimpatience – 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