By Joshua Ryan
The gate was stuck in the wall like a black tooth. “Cargo of eight,” we heard the driver say. “Yeah. OK. Thanks.” Soon there was the sound of an old motor reluctantly starting up, and half of the double gate swung back on its hinges. The bus moved through and halted, blocked by another enormous gate. The first gate closed behind us; we waited in the stone box between the gates, engine switched off. Finally two men in gray were seen, walking around the bus and inspecting it. Then the engine came on; the second gate opened; the bus crept into the prison.
What’s the first thing you see when you enter the walls of Maskawa? You see crap. You see a giant wall with razor wire attached to its top and a line of prison trucks parked at its foot —white bugs ganging in a basement. You see a garage made out of an old Quonset hut. You see delivery trucks — Philly’s Farms, Industrial Needs, Plastics Plus — backed into a loading dock. Then you see a low brick building with glass blocks where windows used to be, and RECEPTION carved in stone over the door. That’s where the bus stops and you have to get out.
