Antigone Goes to Jail

On Saturday, I decided to spend my afternoon visiting a women's prison in Quito. At two o'clock, I hopped on a public bus, laden down with a bag of toiletries for the inmates and my passport. I took the bus to the northernmost stop. Then, I hailed a taxi. When I asked the driver to take me to El Inca, he became noticeably silent. Eager to make the situation less awkward, I unsuccessfully tried to chat him up. When we finally reached the street with the entrance to El Inca, the cabbie asked me if I wanted to be dropped off at the corner or the gate. I requested door-to-door service.

When I entered the prison, I had to give my passport to a receptionist. She proceeded to place two large, appropriately tattoo-like stamps on my arm. Then, she sent me to another woman. The second lady searched my bag of drug store goodies and placed her hand in between my breasts. I was about to shout in shock when I realized that she merely needed to frisk me. After I passed inspection, I was led inside.

When someone says the word prison, I think of monolithic, gray walls, ascetic accommodations, and orange jumpsuits. I was very surprised when I discovered a yellow alley lined with inmate-run tiendas and cafés. There were hundreds of women wearing street clothes. They were surrounded by friends and family who had come to celebrate Mother's Day. The prison employee left me with an inmate selling candy bars. I gave the vendor the name of a South African prisoner that I had received at my travel club, Leona. The vendor began to buzz about like a bee. ''¿Dónde está Leona? La gringa quiere hablar con ella.'' We eventually found Leona in the courtyard. She was participating in a Mother's Day dance party. As I walked up to my host, I began to ask myself why I had come. Why would this woman want to speak with me?

Leona ended up being very eager to talk. She shares a top bunk with he mother so that she can save on rent (yes, you have to pay for your berth in an Ecuadorian prison), so my new face was welcome. She showed me around the prison, told me about the schedule, and introduced me to her friends.

We spent a lot of time with Penny Lane, a Brazilian dancer who had been convicted of nacotrafficking. Penny was larger than life. Like a four-year-old, she participated in all activities with vigor until she became bored. Then, she flitted away. We would talk for ten minutes, then dance for ten minutes, then talk, then dance, and on and on. In between salsa lessons and techno dance-offs, Penny told me about some of the inmates' more gruesome crimes. She pointed to one woman and said, ''She filled an infant's corpse with cocaine and tried to carry it across the border, as if it were alive. We still don't know where the baby came from.'' She also told me that the majority of prisoners were Colombian, not Ecuadorian.

The saddest moment came when a severely mentally retarded, twenty-five-year-old woman, Lennie, joined our group. Leona explaind that Lennie was not a convict. When Lennie was a girl, her mother had been arrested. No one in her family or community had wanted to deal with her handicap, so she went to prison, where her mother could care for her. She had spent most of her life inside of El Inca's walls.

As the day wore on, Penny, Leona, and I talked a little more. I learned that the true source of injustice in the Ecuadorian penal system as the corrupt judiciary. Some women had been waiting three years for a trial. Then, we danced to Leona's favorite song, ''Love Generation.'' At 4:30, I had to leave. I bought one of Leona's hand-made cards. Then, she and Penny walked me to the gates. They invited me to come back, promising to make a huge Brazilian lunch. I said goodbye to the most hospitable hosts that I ever met and walked out into the free world.