In the Prison of Your Skin

I’m in Lurigancho prison, home to some of the most dangerous murderers, thieves, drug dealers, and rapists in Peru, and I’m all by myself. The previous day, I’d spurned police protection despite warnings against walking around the prison alone. I’d already visited several times in the company of the warden—and by now, most prisoners knew I was a reporter, and that I was giving away money and cigarettes in exchange for a picture of their tattoos. Those visits had allowed the photographer to capture some striking images of inked skin, but I’d tired of getting such a peppy, tailored tour of the place, with lunch thrown in for good measure. I decided to come to the prison like any woman wanting to meet with an inmate would.

Following the instructions to a T, I carried ID and wore a long skirt, sandals, and a hat for camouflage. I brought a loaf of bread and a roll of toilet paper to appear more convincing. I was supposed to meet Calambrito, a young prisoner who’d promised to guide me through this inferno, but I didn’t have the slightest idea how to find him without blowing my cover.

Luckily, I ended up queuing beside a girl who, like me, was on her way to block twenty. By imitating her, I was able to navigate all the security checkpoints and get through unnoticed. I wondered if this girl’s name was inscribed in bleeding letters surrounding a thorny heart on the chest of some murderer, but decided not to pry. To all these queueing women, the man they’re visiting inside is innocent. I remember spotting an enormous white-and-blue dolphin swimming on the dark arm of a woman who stood amidst that sea of wives, lovers, daughters, prostitutes, friends, aunts, and cousins. I seized the opportunity to compliment her on her tattoo, hoping for some comment on the dolphin’s meaning, but she ignored me.