A Captivating Experience

On Monday after work, I was driving through town as usual, going to pick up Mónica, while thinking about work done and left to do. Perhaps it was this reverie that kept me from seeing the motorcycle that was passing an approaching taxi at breakneck speed -- until it was too late. It hit my front bumper and careened off the street, while the agile driver leaped off into a full-body crash against two pedestrians.

As I parked the car, the taxi driver pulled up saying that it was the cyclist’s fault; that he was going too fast and had almost run into his taxi. I asked him to stay as a witness, but he refused. I walked around dazed -- in emotional shock -- watching as the standers-by shouted at the limping cyclist for his imprudence, one of them punching him in the face. Then came the crowds of onlookers, the police and ambulances. I was trying to phone Mónica, but with no luck. About that time, a policeman whisked me off to the patrol car. If I had known, and had my wits about me, I would have talked to the cyclist, agreed to settle things amicably, and avoided the interference of the police. That one little act would have avoided me most of what came next.

Once in the patrol car, I was able to reach Mónica and our lawyer friend Guillermo, who came and tried to help, but the police was determined to take me to the detention center. When both policemen got into the patrol car to drive off, what was to transpire could have be avoided by giving them a considerable sum of money. But I had no intention of rewarding the system for being corrupt, and even if I had, my wallet was empty! The police asked me for my statement, and I started to dictate it when it occurred to me that I should consult with a lawyer first. I asked if I had a right to remain silent, but they said it was just a personal explanation of what I saw. I insisted, and they begrudgingly told me my rights -- just like in the movies. At the police station, though, the traffic lawyer that Guillermo had called told me I should go ahead and give my statement.

He said I would be “kept in custody” until all the legal procedures were completed, and gave me a few pointers on how to behave in jail. After everyone left, I hung around watching TV, savoring the last minutes of freedom, until they said it was time for me to go inside. I was ushered into a long ward full of bunk beds, with a bath at either end and a mess area in one corner. As the door clanked shut behind me, a shout of “fresh meat!” brought many of the 40-some inmates crowding around, shouting obscenities and jeering. Although overcome by fear of what would happen next, I made a show of bravery, mustered up a smile, and began greeting and shaking the hands of those closest to me, in keeping with Ecuadorian custom, to which many responded in kind.

This little ritual was cut short by one of the largest men, carrying a long paddle, who said that before all else, I must have my bath. This was followed by more shouted obscenities and jeers. My mouth went dry at the thought of what this might entail and I balked, explaining that I had already bathed that morning and, besides, that I had no deodorant for afterwards. They were not to be convinced, however, and I was crowded into the bath, made to strip down to my tighty-whiteys, and pushed into the shower. The water was warm, but a few times they opened the door and doused me with cold water full of clothes detergent, saying “here’s your shampoo”. Each time I shouted “Acha-CHAY!” (Kichwa for “Brrr, that’s cold!”), which incited good-natured laughter among my tormentors.

After the shower, I was delighted to see as I dressed that nothing was missing. They explained that nobody would touch my things there, as they were all honorable citizens who had been arrested for traffic accidents and infringements. The bath was a custom to ensure hygiene and avoid unnecessary BO. I suspected it was also some kind of initiation rite -- a baptism of sorts to wash away the contamination of the outside world and enter a new life. Little did I know that the real initiation was yet to be.

As I emerged from the bath, several people came up to welcome me, explain the ropes and give me advice. There was a “caporal” (headman), affectionately called “El Capo”, who had been there longer than anyone else -- over four years -- for drunk driving that resulted in a death. It was he who ensured order, peace, security, and even hygiene in the ward, in part through the good offices of two brawny “deputies”, but mostly due to the respect and moral authority he had earned over the years. I was to pay a one-time quota of US$ 20.00 to help buy everything from food to cleaning supplies, as the police provided nothing. El Capo said that sometimes the police even asked the inmates for supplies when needed.

Someone shared a bag of potato chips and some yogurt with me, as I was questioned regarding the details of my arrest for the first of many times over the meals to come. Then El Capo showed me where to get a mattress and blanket (both old, thin and dirty), and a free space on the floor to put them. I lay down but did not sleep that night, as thoughts of what was, what was to be, and what could have been tormented me more than the flees and the hardness of my bed.

I may have dozed off briefly in the early morning, but by 6:00 I realized it was getting light and the ward was astir. My instinct told to arise and get ready for whatever awaited me, which I did as quickly as possible. Soon the guards came for roll call, for which we were herded into the visitors’ area and then called back in by name. Immediately afterwards, breakfast was served by the “cooks” on shift -- black coffee, cold cheese sandwich and a boiled egg. Then we were told to get everything off the floor for cleanup and to get ready for the daily assembly.

We formed an elongated circle around the dining area, with the newcomers grouped at one end. El Capo began by inviting those who were being released that day to give their farewell addresses. Then they were held piggy-back by one of the deputies and received one swift lick of the long paddle, leaving them in excruciating pain. El Capo then asked each person in the circle -- except for us rookies -- if there was anything that needed to be resolved. Most said no, but a few raised issues that were then thoroughly discussed and agreed upon, mostly having to do with obeying the rules, which were designed to ensure the hygiene and peaceful fellowship of the ward.

I was duly impressed, but my satisfaction was short-lived, as El Capo was announcing the next order of business -- to “welcome” the novices. Once more there arose an excited chatter of jeering and obscenities, and I tasted cotton again. Through the nauseous swell of anxiety that washed all color from my face, I prayed that, whatever happened, I would be protected from spiritual harm and would emerge with my soul intact -- i.e., without hardening my heart towards my fellow men or becoming cynical about the human condition.

One by one, we were given two chances to shout a greeting as loud as we could. If it was not loud enough (it never was), we would be given the dubious privilege of participating in a rite so debasing that it is not befitting to describe it here. Suffice it to say that it seemed designed to degrade everyone entering that little community down to the same level, no matter what their rank or station outside. This was followed by more shouting of an identity-stripping dialog between each greenhorn and the rest of the assembly: “My name is Peter” -- “It used to be!”, “I live in Sangolquí” -- “You used to!”, “I am a translator” -- “You used to be!”, “I am here because of an accident" -- "Incompetent bungler! Nincompoop!”, etc.

Later on, one of the inmates confessed that he had seen my great uneasiness during the initiation rite, had felt sorry for me and was embarrassed by the whole situation. He wanted me to know that it was all in jest and that I should not hold it against any of them. I responded that I believe human beings are potentially very noble beings, and that it was a pity that despite this we insist on continually demeaning both ourselves and others.

After the assembly it was cleanup time, and each person was assigned a duty -- to pick up trash, sweep, mop, dust, wash, sterilize, put in order, etc. -- all under the careful supervision of El Capo, his deputies and the long paddle. By the time we were through, the entire ward was sparkling clean and smelling fresh (which never lasted long), and we were allowed to take a much needed, but all-too-short rest.

Midday visiting hours came, and Mónica & Ahmad were there to see me -- what a sight for sore eyes! Ahmad had a tense look of concern on his face and Mónica was in tears. They had not slept the night before either, out of anguish over the whole situation. I did my best to console them, hide my own fears and assure them that everything would be fine. Soon we found we could rise above our grief by objectively discussing the work to be done. They had several long, hard days ahead of them -- lawyers, insurance, clinic, public offices, etc. -- to arrange everything.

Over the following days I was gratefully surprised at their strength and resourcefulness as they cut through miles of red tape and negotiated with lawyers, public ‘servants’, clinic staff, the motorcyclist, and his wife, all the while keeping me supplied with clean clothes, bedding, food, medicine, toiletries, reading & writing materials, etc. Ahmad, especially, showed qualities and capacities of clear-headedness, acute insight, human relations, mediation, and enthusiastic energy that Mónica and I had not fully seen or appreciated until then. He was a tremendous source of support and comfort to both of us.

Once the visitors had left, a first lunch shift sat at the tables and ate what had been brought to us. Each one gave the “cooks” part of the food -- not leftovers, but a soup, salad, sandwich, dessert, juice, or some sort. When the first shift had finished, the second shift sat down. These were the ones who had not been visited and/or had not received anything to eat. The “cooks” gave them what had been left by the others, supplemented by a pot of cooked rice and potatoes. This motivated me to always ask for more than I could eat, in order to have more for sharing, and to hand out or turn over all extras that visiting friends brought -- potato chips, candy, yogurt, etc.

The afternoon was free time, which I spent trying to pray, read, write in this journal, and study my musical Portuguese “lessons” despite the discordant racket of sundry radios, CD players, TVs, and DVD players, not to mention two rowdy card games going on at the same time! At mid-afternoon some of the inmates invited me to have coffee with them, so I contributed a package of biscuits I had received and we spent over an hour discussing life with a lawyer, a professor, a commercial engineer, and an economist, among others.

One guy had been waiting at a stoplight and was hit from the rear by a lady who paid her way out while he got put in the pokey. As if it were a crime to have an accident -- no matter whose fault it was! Another man had been parked in the street with some partners, celebrating a business deal with a bottle of whiskey, when a policeman arrested him for drunk driving. When he objected that he was not planning to drive, the cop said “How do I know that?" and then told him bluntly, in front of his friends, that for 500 dollars he would let him go free. When he told this “law officer” that he wouldn’t give him a red penny, he got a 3-week sentence. The man was determined to sue the officer out of the force once his term was up. Story after story was told of injustices and abuses of authority, all for the purpose of extorting as much money as possible out of the hapless citizens.

Before we knew it, it was the evening visiting time, which was always the most crowded. During that week, several friends and relatives called and visited, to share their consternation and encourage Mónica, Ahmad and me. They called to mind Bahá’u’lláh’s forty years of prison and exile, from the galling chains of the Black Pit in Tihrán to the agonies of the Most Great Prison in Akká, and I felt honored to taste a tiny drop from the ocean of suffering He had accepted to bear for love of humanity. They said they would pray for us. I said I was sure that God would never cause tribulations to befall any soul unless he wanted to exalt his station and buttress his heart, that it might not become inclined toward the vanities of this world. So I asked them to pray only that we might learn well the lessons for which we were placed in this predicament.

We came to the conclusion that one unexpected benefit of these difficulties was realizing how many people really cared for us and stood by us in so many ways. Even my dear little niece, Gabriela, wept when she heard the news, asking what I would eat, where I would sleep, what they would do to me. She was assured that all would be well, but insisted tearfully that the family should gather to pray for me. When they called me from Cuenca and it was her turn to talk, that sweet, innocent little voice, so full of tender concern and caring, touched my heart so deeply that I wept freely and could hardly speak.

One thing I realized is that no matter what happened inside the jail, those who really suffered the most were not the inmates, but their loved ones, looking in on them through the bars. As children we were taught to see imprisonment as one of the worst things that can happen to someone -- a punishment for terrible crimes --, graphically represented by the prisoner looking out through bars. When one lives it, though, one realizes that it is not so terrible after all. However, that image still haunts the minds and hearts of those who visit and brings tears to their eyes and a lump to their throats. With this in mind, I appealed to my ward-mates during one of the daily assemblies to be on their best behavior during visiting hours, in order to avoid fueling the apprehensions of family and friends.

Anyway, this turned out to be the daily routine. Visiting time was followed by dinner, things started to wind down, and lights were out by 10:00. That night, after I had gone to bed, a newcomer came in who had been badly knocked around in an accident. He was given the space next to me on the floor, and groaned as he lowered his battered body stiffly onto the flimsy mat. As he told me his story, I remembered that Mónica had brought me the little bag of basic remedies that I carry when I travel. So I gave my new friend a painkiller, a balm for his bruises, and something to help him sleep. The next morning he thanked me profusely, saying he had been able to sleep all night and felt much better.

That is when I suddenly discovered a sense of purpose and mission in the midst of such a ludicrous situation. I started looking around for people in pain and treating their ailments as best I could. I became acutely aware of the man limping back and forth from the bathroom, of headaches and tummy aches, of insomnias, of pulled muscles from getting down from the second bunk too quickly, even of the neck and shoulder pains from the stress of imprisonment. That day Mónica brought me a whole list of basic medical supplies, which were notoriously lacking from the first-aid kit hung conspicuously on the wall. Soon I was being nicknamed “Doc” and people were coming to me for all kinds of minor aches and pains, and I was happy as could be... except for one thing.

There was a poor young man there who had been riding with his girlfriend on his motorcycle when they crashed. She was killed, and he was badly injured and taken to the government hospital. As soon as they had patched him up, they released him to begin his term in jail. There he was, barely able to speak coherently, with three inches of stitches up the nape of his neck, two broken ribs, a tube through his trachea to his stomach, and barely able to walk on his bruised legs and feet. Feeling powerless to alleviate his health problems, I spoke to the daily assembly, insisting that he should not be there and asking what we could do to get him back to the hospital. They all agreed, however, that once he was signed in, there was nothing we could do to get him back out again. It angered me to think that wealthier victims of accidents, who had perhaps more reasons to be locked up, were attended hand and foot in their comfortable clinics while this impoverished youth lay half dead in that dreadful place.

Speaking of which, the motorcyclist suffered a bone fissure and scraped skin on his left foot, and spent the week in a nearby clinic, where Mónica and Ahmad visited him several times. His insurance paid for his medical expenses, and my insurance paid to fix his bike. His wife spent the week trying to squeeze more money out of us, but we courteously insisted that we would take care of whatever our insurance covered. She even contracted another lawyer, but that achieved little more than increasing her own expenses.

Besides attending to people’s ailments, the other activity that brought me the most joy was the long afternoon talks over coffee and cookies. When my friends learned that I was a Bahá'í, they spoke of their confusion and concern over the proliferation of religions and the growing conflict among them. They appreciated the Bahá'í view of the oneness of the world’s great religions, whose Founders were like perfect mirrors, sent from age to age to reflect towards humanity the light, warmth and life of one same God in a never-ending process of progressive revelation and guidance. They agreed that the major reason each of these religions became divided internally and also rejected the next Divine Messenger who came to the world, was because their different religious leaders usurped the authority to interpret the Word of God for others. They were enthusiastic about the Bahá'í approach of encouraging the independent search for truth, eliminating the clergy entirely, and putting in its place a method of frank but courteous exchange of ideas called consultation.

And so it was that my life in jail became more and more tolerable, until someone threw a monkey-wrench into it. I was supposed to get out on Friday afternoon, which was a good thing because we had a National Assembly meeting that weekend, and Mónica would not have had the heart to attend if I was still in jail. But on Thursday evening, towards the end of visiting time, the lawyer called and told me to be ready in half an hour because he had my release form signed. I guess I should have been ecstatic, but my first thoughts were “What about the ‘patients’ I have been taking care of? What of the unfinished conversations over coffee? I won’t be able to give my farewell speech at the daily assembly!”

I told Mónica and Ahmad, and they were so happy that I knew I would never get away with asking for another day to tie loose ends. So I packed my things, gave El Capo the bag of medical supplies with a list saying what each one was for, congratulated and thanked him for having made the place so livable, and shook the hands of all 40 of my new friends, saying that I hoped to see them again under more favorable circumstances. The elderly taxi driver who took us home that night had been in the detention center three times. His contribution to life in confinement had been his guitar and a golden voice. He got so emotional while sharing notes with me that he decided to sing for us. As he sung of how God cried when seeing the horrible things that people do to other, I saw tears running down his wrinkled cheeks, and I knew that there was still too much goodness and beauty in this world to let oneself become embittered.

That weekend I took all my hurt and frustration out on the garden rake, and left the yard as clean as I could get it. Now my soul is at peace, and my hands full of blisters.

Epilogue:

So why do I stay in a country with so many problems? I recently saw a unique T-shirt design, with a map of Ecuador bleeding to death and the message “Last one to leave, turn out the lights”. Some 20% of Ecuador’s population has migrated abroad in search of work since the financial collapse of 1999. People keep asking me why I haven’t left yet, as it would be so easy being an American citizen. Others who seem to know what is coming down are advising those who have the means to leave now while they still can. Ecuador is no longer the island of peace it once was.

Monica and I have discussed this, and she reminds me that I did not come here looking for a comfortable, easy life, but seeking to make a difference. Sure, we would love to live elsewhere for a while, in order to achieve certain goals that we have. But we don’t want the reason to be because we are running away from trouble or looking for a cushy life. And even if we wanted to, the collapse of the old world order is increasingly affecting every nook and cranny of our beloved planet. No country or town can remain an island for long.