History

How to Starve a Prisoner Without Really Trying

In 18th-century New Spain, prison management was a complex affair. The Acordada court regulated prisons, with cases lasting up to two years. A document from Guadalajara (1789-1807) reveals struggles in funding prisoner meals due to collection delays and officials shirking duties.

Mexicanist

Nov 7, 2024 — 6 min read

When feeding prisoners is harder than catching them!

Prisons. Those charming institutions where, for centuries, we’ve collectively decided to stash away society’s wrongdoers like the family silver at Christmas—just in case they ruin the festivities. You see, ever since man first realized that his neighbor was a bit of a scoundrel who couldn't be trusted with a pig, we’ve been finding ways to deal with them. And what better way to ensure someone regrets their dodgy decisions than by locking them in a cold, dim room for a while, presumably with a bed made of rocks and a view of absolutely nothing? That’ll teach them, right?

Except, as we all know, the art of punishing people is never quite as straightforward as it sounds. Take, for example, the grand experiment that was New Spain in the 18th century. At first glance, the prison system of that time may seem like an obvious solution to crime—an efficient, judicially savvy way to deal with the riff-raff. But beneath the surface, it was a bubbling cauldron of mismanagement, bureaucracy, and the kind of slapstick governance that makes you wonder how anyone kept track of anything, let alone actual people.

Let’s dive into the fascinating tale of New Spain's prison system, a place where time moved slower than the average traffic jam, and feeding prisoners became a comedy of errors worthy of the Monty Python crew.

Mexico's Judge Judy with a Dash of Inquisition

The Acordada was the big dog in the criminal justice park. Set up in the early 1700s, its job was to keep an eye on bandits, criminals, and probably anyone who looked a bit suspicious. And, by all accounts, it did this rather well in its early years. It was like the Wild West sheriff in a cowboy film, chasing down the bad guys and slinging them into the local lockup. The Acordada court didn't muck about, and if you were hauled before them, your fate was either swiftly decided or you languished in jail awaiting some sort of divine intervention—or worse, a bureaucratic one.

During this time, prisons were more like holding pens for anyone accused of wrongdoing. And by “holding pen,” I mean exactly that—think of a sheep market where the sheep are guilty of crimes like highway robbery. Until a judge could get around to sentencing, you stayed put in jail, safely locked up until someone somewhere decided what to do with you. A sensible enough system, except for one glaring issue: prisoners had to eat.

Now, you might think feeding prisoners is one of the more basic obligations of running a prison. After all, you can’t exactly punish someone effectively if they starve to death before their trial. But in New Spain, feeding prisoners became a Herculean task—like trying to fill a bathtub with a sieve.

Fundraising for Prisoners’ Meals

Enter the farcical world of 18th-century prison funding. Feeding prisoners was supposed to be a collective effort, funded by taxes and contributions from the local authorities. In theory, this was a brilliant idea. In practice, it was like asking your friends to split the bill at a restaurant—everyone suddenly remembered they had something else to do.

The Acordada's solution? Appoint a tax collector, someone who would go around with a little basket and ask local officials to chip in. Surely, they'd contribute, right? After all, these were good upstanding officials tasked with enforcing the law.

Wrong. The tax collector’s job was akin to trying to convince a cat to take a bath. Soldiers in particular were notorious for excusing themselves from any form of payment. The "San Carlos Mixed Region Soldiers," in all their grandeur, decided they were far too important to bother with this “feeding the prisoners” nonsense. And they weren’t alone—officials from the court of the agreement also ducked out of paying their dues. Everyone had an excuse, and it usually involved pointing the finger at someone else, while the prisoners slowly wasted away, presumably nibbling on their fingernails.

A Marathon of Ineptitude

The inefficiency was, to be polite, staggering. There was a document dated somewhere between 1789 and 1807 that outlined the nightmarish task of feeding prisoners. It was a delightful mix of royal orders, fiscal reports, and “he said, she said” nonsense. Tax collectors and public officials were all tangled in a bureaucratic dance where no one wanted to take the lead.

One particular letter from a Lieutenant General reads like a frustrated Yelp review of the prison system. He explains, with no small amount of exasperation, that he's tried—oh, how he's tried—to collect the hundred pesos for the prisoners. But, alas, no one seems keen to contribute. Soldiers from the San Carlos region refused to show up for meetings, and when it came to paying up, well, they made themselves scarcer than a politician’s apology.

Even the royal decrees, one from 1769 and another in 1785, which ordered public officials to cough up some cash, fell on deaf ears. Officials would nod enthusiastically at the orders, then turn around and mysteriously develop amnesia. You can almost picture the scene—some poor prison administrator standing in the town square, waving royal decrees at people while everyone pretended they couldn’t see him.

When in Doubt, Add More Bureaucracy

Eventually, after years of not feeding the prisoners properly, someone in power thought, “We need more rules!” Thus, new decrees were issued to monitor every peso coming in. Thirty-six neighbors were even enlisted to keep a daily watch on the funds, like some medieval version of an HOA but for feeding people instead of lawn maintenance. You'd think this would solve the issue. Alas, no. The documents are packed with testimonies from local officials complaining about their inability to do the one thing they were supposed to—collect the blasted money.

In the end, what we have here is a classic example of administrative ineptitude at its finest. You had all the right ingredients—laws, courts, a tax system—but none of it actually worked. Prisoners continued to starve, officials continued to dodge responsibility, and the whole thing became a tragic comedy of errors.

So, what did we learn from the prison system of New Spain? Well, if you’re ever running a penal institution, perhaps the first thing you should prioritize is figuring out how to feed the people you’re incarcerating. It sounds simple, but as we’ve seen, even that can get tangled up in bureaucracy faster than a politician’s expense report.

The story of New Spain's prisons is one of frustration, inefficiency, and ultimately, an indictment of how not to run a criminal justice system. And yet, you can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—the officials wringing their hands, the soldiers giving the equivalent of a shrug, and the poor prisoners caught in the middle, waiting for a meal that may or may not ever come.

In short, if you ever think modern-day bureaucracy is a nightmare, just remember: at least no one’s starving in a dungeon because the tax collector couldn’t convince a group of soldiers to chip in.