It could happen anywhere in the world but this is the continuing story of a trusting – some might say gullible – North American man called Terrence and his very unfortunate experience with a vicious, cunning and deceitful woman which led to a stay in prison in Costa Rica.

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I entered the jail as evening fell. Getting out of the police car, I was taken in handcuffs through the gate and stood outside the door of the Officer’s office. Standing under the glare of the fluorescent light, I waited calmly as the police laconically greeted the prison guards.

I kept myself tightly focused, limiting my attention to the space directly in front of my eyes. But that was just the visual aspect. I was intensely aware of my surroundings in 360º including the sounds, the movement of the air, the smell and the feel.

To my left was the gate by which I had entered this grimy, open, roofed space — sort of a car-park leading from the road to a gated cage in a large opening in the 10 meter high cement block wall of the building, the entrance to the jail.

Outside that gate passes the dirt road that leads to the prison’s main gate, past several other encampments each individually fenced and towered and guarded and presumably containing the most dangerous people in Costa Rica.

Tamarisk trees line the road standing in silhouette against the late sunset sky and the profile of the mountain to the south of Santa Theresa, where until barely an hour ago I lived. Puesto Nueve, at the far end of the main road down by the chicken coops and sheep pasture, is my new “home” where I will be sharing lodgings with approx. 150 other men for the next 6 months, unless God wills otherwise.

In front of me the jail office presented a view of an anteroom with a prison guard sitting at a desk. Across the room on another desk is an ancient computer. To the side stands a waist-high counter with a 45º bend that divides the anteroom in two parts.

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At the back, the door to more offices beyond. A whiteboard hangs on the back wall with figures listing the number of men in each of the 4 modules inside, A,B,C and D. On this particular evening, we are 148. I am number 149, assigned to Módulo “D.”

To my right there is a lot of vocal noise coming from a group of men inside. I still haven’t looked at them. I am having a hard time assimilating all the sonic material being hurled in my direction, but I get the gist.

Comments like “Ay caraPIcha! GRINGO! HuePUTA mae, QUE!?” keep surfacing through the din. Lots of opportunity to start off on the wrong foot, best to just keep quiet for now. Turns out that this kind of verbal repartee comprises maybe 75% of every language-based sound that I will absorb for the next few weeks, not counting TV and music videos.

Nobody really expects an answer, which suits me because I have no idea how to respond to comments like that and other popular vulgarities.

Behind me the edifice harbors ambiguities that I save for understanding more clearly as I become familiar with La Reforma in the next few months.

I am a little scared to be here I guess, but I think that the last 5 years and particularly the last year have prepared me for this. I don’t feel bad actually, just inconvenienced in the extreme. Somehow this doesn’t feel like defeat, it feels like a detour on the way to final vindication and just settlement of the issue with my “wife,” Doña Violeta.

Join us again later in the week for the next chapter of A Gringo Doing Time In Costa Rica when Terry tell us more about why he has been granted the privilege of becoming a prisoner of the state for the next 6 months.

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Written by Terrence who is a 53 year old Gringo living in Costa Rica.

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