Nonfiction. Random Life Experiences.
That Salsa Band I Met In A Mexican Prison.
One of those weird days that stays in your head.
“Welcome, make yourselves at prison.”
That’s how one of the inmates greeted us in “good humor” when we arrived at Reclusorio Oriente in Iztapalapa, Mexico. I don’t know if it was humor, sarcasm, or resentment. On occasion, when I remember that day, his tone still tickles my memory.
In a short time, the aroma of confinement was engraved in my nose. It smells of cheap soap and chlorine, mixed with a faint touch of sewage. In my ears, the frustrated murmur of oblivion. In my eyes, the gentle lobotomy that El Sistema had performed on the color and shapes in a space stripped of contrast. Light beige and a weird “minty” tone, colored the walls.
After various pat-downs, security check points, gated corridors, a lot of barbed wire and the razor gaze of inmates and guards, we reached the auditorium. We had a chance to walk around with the band in different spaces they used to rehearse. This included the bathroom, where their basic setup was.
We were there to shoot video as proof of performance for a band that made it into an inter-prison contest. This was not a band that had gone to prison, but rather a group of men that met while doing time. Only one of them was actually a musician -the lead vocal- and he’d urged inmates he befriended to take up playing an instrument to form a band.
They played well and were decent performers, just below the kind you might find at an average salsa club in Mexico City. After some hours with them, I noticed their cardboard smiles, fragile. It was a futile attempt to avoid revealing a sadness that can’t be hidden. A dark serenity, evident in their gaze, dulled the natural shine of their eyes.
They never asked about the life outside. They stuck to the song they were going to perform, ideas about how to look good on video, and kept joking about the lack of women in prison. They even had a small choreography they did when they hit the chorus. Their solos were the best part, they seemed to disappear into them. Except for the guy who played guiro. He didn’t get a solo, but he didn’t give a damn and was happy he made it into the band. It was almost like a scene out of a movie, but every now and then I’d see them casually look away, like in a fleeting daydream.
When it was time for us to leave, something a bit awkward happened. After saying goodbye to the band, one of the inmates said “So that’s that, right? We never see you guys again, right?”, I’d never experienced that kind of adieu.
He was right.
We would never see each other again. His question left me thinking about the abandonment that lines a prison farewell. Every time a visitor leaves they go back into the real world, to a life that has nothing to do with the micro universe of an inmate. For all they know, each goodbye could be the last because they stay in a box.
Every now and then as I’m going through my archive I stumble across “the prison folder” and wonder about those guys. What could have possibly happened back in that box? Since then -seven years ago- I’ve moved cities twice, switched jobs, traveled to fifteen countries, and started a family.
“We never see you guys again, right?”, could be translated into “you leave and I stay”. A sadder meaning I later derived from those words was “you experience life and I don’t”.
One of the guys approached me at the last second, his hand extended with a small paper. He said it was a number to call his girlfriend. I was reluctant to take it but he was so close I couldn’t refuse. He said to call and let her know he was in there. To say I felt extremely uncomfortable is an understatement. That paper never left prison.
Perhaps it was a real cry for help. I’ll never know.
I guess this is one of those random life experiences that stays with you, scratching the back of your head as if about to say something, only to quiet down and yield for you to speak. Except you can’t say a thing and it just leaves you pondering about how you spend time.
Thanks for reading.
I write about and photograph life, nostalgia, love, melancholy, time, and a nameless place where I search for dream filled crepes.
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