A BRIEF PAUSE FOR PRISON IN LA PAZ

LA PAZ, Bolivia--William Aponte, my tour guide, was waiting. He has
plenty of time these days. Ten years, to be exact. That's how long a
judge gave him for drug trafficking. He's serving his sentence at San
Pedro Prison, across from the Plaza Sucre in downtown La Paz. San
Pedro's convicts pay their own expenses. Aponte leads tours to get
by. Anyone with 51 bolivianos (about $8) and a twisted sense of
adventure can see his home.

San Pedro is a notorious prison. The 1,500 inmates run it. The cells
are apartments that lock only from the inside. When an inmate's time
is up, he sells his unit and furnishings to the highest bidder.
Convicts buy and cook their own food or eat in restaurants run by
other prisoners. Those with money live well; those without subsist on
bread and watery soup and sleep outside.

I read about the place in a guidebook and figured it might make for a
memorable visit.

Tours are unofficial. There are no ticket windows or postcard stands.
After I agreed to Aponte's fee through the bars of the front gate, he
made eye contact with a guard who let me in. Aponte would later pay
the guard 40 bolivianos and split the rest with a robber named Romeo,
the prison enforcer, a burly man who followed me for my protection
and perhaps to ensure that I paid.

The gate clanged behind, and I stood in a courtyard thick with
murderers, rapists and thieves. Andrea stayed behind, ready to call
whomever you alert when a Bolivian prison tour goes bad.

I shook hands with Aponte, 42, the father of three. He wore a clean
polo shirt, jeans and a gold watch. He was caught at La Paz airport
trying to sneak 11 pounds of cocaine onto a flight to Switzerland. He
grinned as I kept swiveling my head, looking for anyone who might
harm me. "Don't worry," he said. "No problem."

I followed Aponte through a maze of dark passages that emptied onto
connecting patios surrounded by two-story buildings. Inmates sat
behind piles of potatoes, carrots and onions. Others sold canned
goods, cigarettes and toiletries from tiny stores. A convict clipped
hair in his barbershop, and a few doors down, a fellow inmate shot
portraits in his photo studio. Prisoners ate lunch under red
umbrellas emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo. One vendor poured fruit
smoothies from a blender. Two inmate-doctors staffed a for-profit
clinic; one is in for drugs, the other for murdering his wife.

Accommodation in the convent-turned-prison ranges from hovels that
sell for a one-time fee of $200 to penthouses that fetch $3,500 when
vacated. I did not see it, but Aponte said one rich drug dealer had
contractors outfit his flat with a sauna. We stepped over a few
penniless inmates sleeping on a balcony to reach Romeo's room, which
had a refrigerator, stove and microwave oven. In his bedroom loft
were a double bed, color TV, VCR and PlayStation computer games. The
Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody" came from the CD player.

"This is like a small town inside a big city," Aponte said. "If you
have money, you can have anything you want here." That includes
liquor, prostitutes, weapons, even a band to perform at your birthday
party.

Many of Aponte's "tourists" are people buying drugs. One inmate
offered to sell me 10 grams of pure cocaine for $100. Of course, I
refused. Guards don't search visitors coming or going. They rarely
enter the prison. Their job is to keep inmates from escaping--and to
take a cut of all contraband that passes under their noses.

The prison's town-like look is made all the more real by the presence
of children. About 100 kids live with their fathers; the number
swells at Christmas and Easter. Many of the children attend a nearby
school, returning to the prison in the afternoon to play on a patch
of asphalt. Aponte insisted no one dares touch the kids, but on New
Year's Eve 1997, a girl was raped and murdered.

Aponte led me farther into the rambling complex. Peruvian terrorists
played cards and watched TV outside. Younger inmates shot pool for
money in a billiards hall decorated with pinup girls. A man sold ice
cream from a freezer. A bartender poured beer and whiskey.

"The time goes fast here," Aponte said.

After I left, I sat across the street in the park and wondered what
to make of the tourist site. What a strange world, I thought. The old
woman next to me must have read my mind. She threw her head back and
laughed.