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‘You have to pay for the food here too. And they don’t give you any clothes. You have to buy those. The rich prisoners have it all right here. Look over there, on the second floor. There’s a wealthy political prisoner. He has a furnished apartment: a television, you name it, everything. You won’t find any of the big-time pushers here ‘cause they just plain don’t get arrested in the first place. They only lock up the small fry like me here.’

Life in the courtyard revolved around a water hole in its centre. The prisoners did their laundry there and in hot weather took a dip. A shower cost money. A prisoner passed by, selling Popsicles. I offered to buy one for Pete. He refused politely.

‘Come on, and I’ll show you the prison’s slum,’ he offered. At the edge of the wall huddled a few small cells made of wood and tin, dark little cubicles that looked more like pigsties than human habitats. That was where you lived if you were penniless, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

‘When I first got in here, they had a coup. The army took over. The rebels broke through the prison walls, and almost everybody escaped. Me, with my luck, I was still being held over in the wing for guys awaiting trial, and I couldn’t get out.’

We wrapped up our tour with visit to a few of the other rooms and the restaurant. Pete stood looking at us.

‘I’ve sunk just about as low as a man can sink,’ he said. ‘I’m reduced to having to ask you for a handout. You saw the way things are here, and my