Tabatinga jail

I was sitting in a cool, air-conditioned room, working on the internet, when Dad drove up with Franklin, Wilmer, Lydia, Ben, and Dave sitting in the big orange jeep. Ben ran in and got me, telling me to hurry; we were late like usual, and as soon as I jumped into the front seat with Lydia, Dad shifted into gear, and we bounced through the one-way streets of Leticia. It was another extremely hot, sticky, muggy Amazonian day, and the sun was beating intensely down on the black tarp over our heads steaming us sitting inside. While all the guys were squished in the back, Lydia and I were nice and cozy sharing the front seat. We were to meet the Colombian Ambassador, who Dad had made friends with, at the jail to visit the prisoners in less than fifteen minutes, at two-thirty. Apparently there were about twenty Colombians in there, including two girls. The ambassador would bring supplies for them, considering their family didn't support them. He was a Christian, and encouraged anyone who wanted to come and visit. One problem lying ahead of us was the fact that we really had no idea where this jail was located...

After driving all around Leticia, asking where the jail was, we arrived at a small three-story white building with two guards standing inside the gate connected to a tall chain-link fence with barbed wire lining the top. The sign said this was a “juvenile correctional institute”. We hadn't understood we were going to be visiting juvenile delinquents, but we proceeded anyways. After parking the jeep, the seven of us walked up to the gate, where the guard stopped us, telling us we couldn't go any further. Dad told him the ambassador was to meet him there in five minutes, but that didn't seem to affect the guard, he just said no.

Deciding that might not have been the right jail, we scoured the small town even more, to no avail. We decided to act upon our last option; cross the boarder and look for the jail in Tabatinga, Brazil. Immediately after crossing the line, the language switches from Spanish to Portuguese, which you realize very quickly. “Perdon senor, sabe donde queda el carcel?” we would ask in Spanish to the reply of “Nao falo Espanol”. How can it be that someone living two feet on the Brazilian side of the boarder with Colombia not know Spanish? Many things in both languages sound very similar, but I guess “Where is the jail?”, doesn't! After driving back and forth down the “international” (the road between Brazil and Colombia) about three times following the pointings, and suggestions of those who acted as if they understood what we were saying, but really didn't (or maybe it was just OUR interpretation of their Portuguese) we finally found someone who understood what we were talking about, and followed their directions. After thanking them, we drove to where they had said to turn, but the street was under construction. That didn't phase Dad, he just kept at it, and went down another street. The back-roads were SO BAD. I don't when the last time a vehicle, other than motorcycles could have possibly gone through there. The daily rain just makes the potholes bigger and bigger, some are even at least a foot and a half deep! But, that didn't phase Dad either. He just drove right through, crazy steering wheel, changing gears, avoiding the bigger of the mini-ponds and all. It was an adventure all right. Even those on either side of the street (who living there SHOULD be used to this sort of thing) looked at us like we were crazy for taking this on. I was afraid that parts were going to slowly start flying off the poor, ancient jeep. Finally, after taking several wrong turns, we arrived on the other side of the road block, and were headed in the right direction. We pulled into a gate, only to realize that it must have said something like “DO NOT ENTER” in Portuguese on the sign attached to the chain-link, because a whole group of military men in uniform with all kinds of arms ranging from pistols to knives, started waving, pointing and shouting in Portuguese. We kind of got the hint that we just might not be supposed to be there. Dad threw the jeep into reverse (which you have to do by pulling up the little black ball on top of the gear shifter and pulling it back because it's broken) gears grating, and we flew back down the driveway. There was a steeply inclined little parking lot place where we left the jeep, putting rocks behind the wheels, because the emergency brake is basically non-existent, and piled out. It was gross how all of us were drenched in sweat. My shorts were khaki, and might have given the impression I had gotten a little too scared during our excursion. Some of the guys were wearing jeans, and black, I don't know how they survive. Anyways, after getting out, we walked past all the guys with the weapons (they were having gun cleaning party or something I think) and into an open door. The man sitting at the desk spoke only Portuguese, and understanding him was pretty complicated, Dad understood more than any of us (even those that spoke Spanish), but that wasn't enough. So, despite the language barrier, Dad proceeded to tell him what he'd said at the last jail. Numbers are pretty similar, and Dad told him we were to meet the ambassador ten minutes ago, at 2:30. The man looked up at the clock on the wall “but it's 3:40 right now”. Until now we hadn't had to worry about the one-hour time change between Brazil and Columbia. But we still weren't even completely sure we were in the right place. Dad tried to get in without the man we were waiting for, but the guards here didn't want to let us either. It was decided that we would just leave the supplies we had brought for the prisoners, and go home. After talking it over, the guards decided the people with I.D. COULD go in (nobody told Lydia nor I we needed it, so we hadn't brought ours, making us unable to enter), so while all the guys went in, us two girls sat on the curb, preparing to wait for them.

That's when the ambassador FINALLY did show up! He apologized for being so late. I am still confused to as whether someone called him and told him we were there, or he just showed up an hour after we were to meet! Now that we knew we were in the right place, and met up with the ambassador, stuff began to make more sense. The reason there were only twenty Colombian guys, and two girls, was because they were in a BRAZILIAN jail, and we were visiting with the Colombian ambassador was because he was their representative, and was in charge of them.

Being with him was the key, although we had no identification, us girls were allowed in as well. As we walked through the narrow, cement-walled hallways, it felt just as you would imagine a jail feeling (unless you'd been to the women's one we went to in Bolivia where everything was open, and it felt like an apartment complex, which had a lock and guards at the door leading to the outside world...). As we walked, we went through a series of black steel gates, which a guard in uniform had to unlock to let us pass. At the very top of the walls were small windows with bars covering the opening.

As we passed through the last gate, we entered into a square room with a picture of something that looked like the virgin Mary that had been painted over with orange paint. This room too had the small barred windows at the top of one wall. All around the perimeter sat men (and one woman) sitting at old-fashioned desks (the ones that have the chairs attached to them) staring curiously at us. We went around the room shaking everyone's hands. They were all very friendly, but many wouldn't make eye contact, and would look at the floor as they said their “mucho gusto”. There were no open seats, so when we walked in, the men jumped up, and first gave Lydia and I seats, then the rest of the guys with us also got to sit down.

As we had been walking, I'd been thinking how thankful I was that there were a bunch of guys with us, that would talk to the guys, and if I HAD to talk, I'd just be talking to the two girls (not that I didn't want to, but I HATE talking in front of people, especially a bunch of guys in jail). But God had something different in mind. “These brothers and sisters from the United States have come with a message from the Bible.” As he talked, I thought, yes, the BROTHERS would be glad to have a word, but the ambassador continued “Daniela, do you have something to share?” Oh man, I was just about to say no because I was scared, when I saw the reference I'd written on my hand that morning. One of the guys read it, and a few verses around it, then I talked for a little bit. Everyone was very respectful, listened, and thanked me when I finished! I was impressed. After I was done, Dad, and the other guys talked, presenting the gospel. As they talked, I looked around the room I couldn't understand how these people had messed up so bad. They looked like just normal people, and as Dave described it “If I saw any of them on the street, I'd have trusted them with my life”. The most sketchy would have been the lady, around thirty-five was wearing a lot of make-up, a short dress, cross-legged sitting at her feet was a younger guy, who was teasing her most of the time. He was outspoken, and it seemed as if everyone admired him, and respected him, but didn't trust him at the same time. Others around the room were sitting on the hard gray cement floor as well. There was one middle-aged man, wearing glasses on the end of his nose, turning to the passages, reading where the person talking was opened to. He looked just like any other nice father, with children in their mid-twenties, having children of their own. Another guy, who was a heavier-set sat quietly, looking shy, but seemed really nice. He looked as if he could never do anything wrong. It just shows how you really can't judge someone on just what they look like, as well as how nobody is incapable of doing some things like they've done.

It was SO hot in that room. All those people packed together, with no air-conditioning, or even fans in this humid 90-something degree weather, with like 30% humidity. The only ventilation was that tiny window way up at the ceiling. We were also pretty far into the jail, so we were surrounded by other cement rooms, meaning the iron-barred doors didn't do much either. Everyone was sweating profusely, but most didn't seem to notice. They were accustomed to the intense heat, and humidity, and listened intently.

After we were done talking, we handed out tracts, some new testaments, and bookmarks. They were all really happy someone from the “outside world” had come to visit them, and begged us to come back soon. We shook their hands as we filed back out, accompanied by one of the guards, and they went out the opposite door, back to their enclosure.

As we walked back, through all the locked gates, hearing them click behind us, I thought how hard it would be to live like that. Who would want to come and visit you in jail? It would be so lonely!

We thanked the people at the front desk, as well as the ambassador for letting us come, then all piled back into the jeep.

I've been back with Lydia one more time, while the guys (Ben, Dave, and sometimes Dad) have visited every week.