Snowing in Bali

by Kathryn Bonella

  Fuck, it was a big job. That night my body was so tired, pain in my muscles, my hands full of bubbles, I can’t sleep; I was totally fucked.

  – Rafael

  The next morning, a fine mist of snow had settled on the room, covering everything, and they quickly got high again. But they finished the job, sent the boom with its invisible kilo to Malaysia, made $65,000 and, most importantly, had a new winning method. The pair flew to Peru to teach their packers there how to do it, under strict orders to keep it secret.

  Obviously, there were no patents in the drug business, and before long horses would talk, booms would get busted, and other traffickers would become aware of the method, but for the time being it belonged exclusively to Rafael and Poca.

  Chino knew of the new method, but he left those details up to Rafael. For Chino, being an investor with Rafael from the get-go meant an extra leg of risk, but he got a low price and it also ensured he knew when and how much blow was coming to the island.

  But it wasn’t always a win. Chino and Rafael were involved in a run by two attractive Mexicans, Clara Gautrin, 32, and Vincente Garcia, 29, who came into Denpasar posing as lovers, but with an audacious 15.2 kilos of cocaine in their surfboard bag. As Vincente picked up the bag from the carousel, it was already being watched by Bali customs officers. They’d been faxed a tip from Vincente’s ex-drug boss in Mexico, as revenge for being cut out of the loop.

  Prosecutors asked for death for Vincente; the second drug trafficker in Bali to face possible execution. But the right palms were greased. Clara got seven years and Vincente got life, with a wink that if he kept quiet he’d get out in years. It had been impossible for the judiciary to give a lesser result without the risk of exposing the bribe, as a French trafficker had just been sentenced to life for carrying a lot less.

  Michael Blanc got busted at Denpasar Airport with 3.8 kilos of hashish in his dive tanks. He could have cut a deal, but didn’t. His mother Helene had been told a payment of between $330,000 and $420,000 could buy her son a 15-year sentence. But she refused, believing her son was innocent, and threw away the only strategy that had a chance of working.

  Clara and Vincente were both sent to Kerobokan Prison, in the heart of Bali’s tourist area. By chance, Chino’s twin brother Toto, an addict, was also soon busted for using drugs. Doing a few months in Kerobokan meant he could easily be the liaison between the Mexicans and his brother. Chino organised private cells for them, and visiting time together. In the less strict men’s block, Vincente got a 26-inch LCD television mounted on the wall, internet and a pump for hot and cold running water – making his cell more luxurious than most Balinese homes.

  Vincente became a fitness fanatic and kept a low profile as advised, quickly becoming regarded by other inmates as aloof and arrogant. It was all part of the strategy to one day slip out and go home unnoticed.

  Outside, Chino was busy juggling his businesses, and delegating to those he could trust. When he invested in Rafael’s runs, he handed over the cash as well as the reins. Rafael by now had his business streamlined – with packing crews in place in Brazil and Peru – so he could call the shots from strategically chosen public phone boxes in Bali.

  Things were becoming more easy . . . I just call, organise, transfer the money through Western Union, and in Peru and Brazil they pack the bag, send the horse and I pick up here.

  – Rafael

  But it was always a gamble and a horse could crash from the slightest slip. One of his best horses, who’d done 11 runs, got busted on his twelfth. He was flying out of Buenos Aires with 5 kilos of coke in windsurfer booms. The guy was smart, cool and unflappable. On his past three runs, he’d used the tactic of driving from South Brazil to Buenos Aires, as Argentina’s airports were slightly easier to penetrate. This time, an X-ray took him down. Rafael’s packers had failed. He paid them a hefty $10,000 fee per bag, as the job was dangerous and vital. But they’d failed to fill the booms completely with cocaine, and plugged the ends with fabric. The X-ray showed different colours, creating suspicion. It was an expensive mistake.

  Rafael waited for the guy, but he simply didn’t turn up. It was always a risk that a horse would either do a runner, or get busted, which was why Rafael felt an adrenalin rush every single time a horse emerged from the airport doors into the Bali sun. Almost always he went to the airport, either to pick up the horse or to spy on them, shadowing their taxi to the Bali Subak Hotel, to ensure they didn’t flee or have a police tail.

  Once Rafael picked up the coke from the horse, he’d meet Chino at a small beachfront hotel in Nusa Dua. Chino always turned up in a bland chauffeur-driven Toyota Avanza, non­descript on the outside, with a spruced up red leather interior, never using his attention-attracting sports cars. His soldiers would park jet-skis on the beach so, if necessary, he could sprint across the sand and be in the water in seconds. Safety was his priority and so far his scrupulous attention to detail had kept him out of jail. He always insisted Rafael come alone. Their meetings were quick; he’d efficiently test and weigh the coke, then go.

  Chino has soldiers everywhere, local people working for him. They make into small quantities and sell gram by gram in the street.

  High quality cocaine?

  Oh, but they mix, they do all the shit.

  At the clubs?

  Yeah, I think they sell in Double Six. At the door of the toilet the guys say, ‘Coke, coke, ecstasy?’

  And Chino sends it overseas?

  He has good connection; he sends it to Singapore, Malaysia, Australia. His main goal was to send it to Australia because it’s the best money.

  – Rafael

  After Chino had left the hotel with the coke, Rafael would clean up the evidence, often giving the black plastic wrapping to one of his friends. They would use a knife to scrape off the oily remains stuck to the plastic. ‘My friends were so happy, they could sometimes take 5 grams because the plastic grabs a lot of coke.’

  Other times, he’d just burn it. On his way home, he’d buy a litre of petrol in a glass bottle from one of the infinite shanty-style shops along the roads selling to local motorcyclists. He’d ride to the beach or a rice paddy, throw all the plastic bags and evidence down, douse in petrol, flick a match and burn the lot. When the coke was carried in a surfboard bag, he’d get rid of the plastic and wash the bag, simply dunking it in his swimming pool or getting the maid to wash it in the shower, making it safe to re-use: ‘The water takes all the coke, kills the coke.’

  Rafael’s deal with Chino was to get half his cash the following day and the rest a couple of weeks later. It was delivered in the same spot, same way. One of Chino’s men would ring, saying, ‘Meet me at the petrol station near the Bali Deli, 10 pm.’ That night they’d arrive on motorbikes. Chino’s guy would give Rafael a plastic shopping bag, often with about $50,000 in it and a sarong loosely tossed on top. It would be a quick, no chitchat exchange. Rafael would then take the bag home, adding it to the copious stash in his safe or wardrobe.

  Ostensibly, Rafael was exclusive with Chino, but covertly he broke the rules, operating his own pyramid of sellers – such as Brazilian Ruggiero, or several French, Italian and Australian people, who sold small packets to western customers. Selling gram by gram was riskier, as it required dealing with more people, but the prices were high. It meant that even in times when it was snowing, or a Peruvian was undercutting, Rafael could still easily make $50,000 a kilo by getting his guys to sell grams, mostly to rich expats on the island – professionals, business people, doctors and lawyers – delivering to their villas, luxury homes or sometimes their restaurants. These people often paid $150 to $200 a gram.

  Rafael also sold kilos to international buyers, but only if Chino wasn’t aware of the coke arriving. Rafael felt this was fair, as Chino was sometimes fully stocked and told him to wait because he’d bought cheaply from a Peruvian.

  As much as Chino tried to control the island, it was impossible. Bali was a frenetic drug hub, a transit point to Asia and t
he Pacific, with the world’s biggest drug mafia coming to holiday, mingle, network, and organise deals in luxury hotels, in the sun, in paradise.

  Italian drug trafficker Sergio Boeri was friendly with the cartel players, including Rafael, who’d been to parties at his villa. Sergio flew in and out of Bali on false passports often, until the day he flew in to celebrate his gorgeous girlfriend’s 33rd birthday. Instead of spending the special day sipping French champagne in a luxurious villa, they both spent it on the concrete floor of Bali’s police cells.

  The alleged head of an Italian drug smuggling syndicate, Sergio Boeri, accused of trafficking at least 30 tons of cocaine and other narcotics from Brazil to Europe, was extradited from Bali to his homeland on Saturday night.

  Under heavy police guard, Boeri, 32, was taken from Bali Police Headquarters to the Ngurah Rai International Airport, where he was transferred into the custody of two Rome-based Interpol officers . . .

  Boeri, one of Interpol’s most wanted men, was caught by Bali Police on 18 August when he arrived at Ngurah Rai Airport with his girlfriend.

  – Jakarta Post, 9 February 2002

  CHAPTER SIX

  DREAM LIFE

  All the people in Bali started to know I was the guy who takes care of the coke business. I was the biggest show-off. Cars, motorbikes . . . I buy a Harley-Davidson, a 1-kilo gold necklace. I go out every night, spend money. I build my house and all the young people come here . . .

  They say, ‘Fuck, whose house is this? What does he do?’ ‘Dealing coke.’ ‘Oh, I wanna do too.’ And then they try, but they don’t have any connection. In the end they come to me, ‘Please help me, I have 10 kilos, 5 kilos, 3 kilos.’ And I become an agent for them.

  I have a collection – five bikes, Honda, Harley-Davidson . . . Fuck, I was crazy. I have one Kawasaki Ninja. People looked at me and asked, ‘Who is this guy with this bike?’ ‘He’s the Brazilian guy who takes care of the coke in Bali.’

  – Rafael

  Rafael was living a decadent life, working hard and playing harder in a blaze of parties, orgies, surfing and drug dealing, often high from his own copious cocaine use. With horses now bringing up to 20 kilos some weeks, the cash was flying in fast.

  He’d built his dream house right in front of a surf beach in Bali’s Canggu area, paying a customary bribe for permission to erect it within the 100-metre no-build zone. He slung an official $15,000 to set it back just 93 metres from the water. The only catch with the island’s endemic corruption was that, within a year, someone else had slung cash to build even closer, directly in front of Rafael’s house. He could hardly complain.

  Designed by a top architect and featured in magazines, the two-storey mansion was spectacular. It incorporated all Rafael’s boyhood fantasies, like the diving board off his bedroom balcony. Most mornings he got up, coming down from a cocaine high, and stumbled bleary-eyed to the board, then dived into the 22-metre pool, racing straight back up his stylish spiral staircase to dive again and again, until he felt fresh.

  Anyone entering the high-walled playground through the sliding wooden gate could see it was a labour of love, created by a person with a passion for the ocean. The Beverly Hills-style palm-lined driveway was built with coloured pebbles, shaped in waves. Wave-shaped indents, each with its own lighting, decorated the outside house walls. Beautifying the edge of the pool were four big-breasted mermaids that spouted water strong enough for Rafael to stand under for a hydro massage, usually after a surf. For his more indulgent massages, there was a poolside cabana with its own Bose sound system, and a limestone deck for sunbaking.

  Inside the house, large twin feature doors were inlaid with mother-of-pearl flower designs and the floor was recycled teak. The jacuzzi on the deck – for champagne parties – had an expansive view of the surrounding paddy fields.

  Next to the pool was a 12-metre high water tower, which Rafael climbed up daily to check the swell. It was also an ideal vantage point to spy on police spying on him.

  I think I am the king of the world. I think nothing is going to happen, I always say this in my mind, ‘I am never going to get caught.’ Sometimes my friends say, ‘Hey man, you have to put some money away in case one day you have problems.’ I say, ‘Fuck off, man, I’m never gonna get caught. Never.’

  – Rafael

  Rafael refused to think negatively, but wasn’t oblivious to the constant threats to his freedom. For protection, he put shards of glass along the top of the concrete walls, kept three large dogs roaming and installed state-of-the-art cameras, infrared laser sensors and intercoms bought in Singapore. His elaborate security wasn’t to stop thieves, but to prevent Bali cops scrambling over the wall and planting drugs.

  But most of the time he was lax anyway, keeping evidence inside his house.

  When you do this shit for a long time, you think it’s normal. Sometimes I sit with 5 kilos of coke in my house. I know I am doing something wrong, breaking all the rules.

  – Rafael

  He was also keeping up to half a million dollars at home, which could be used as evidence against him in a drugs case. After a run or two, the whole house would be billowing with cash – bursting from his Bose speakers, the wardrobes and his capacious safety deposit box, which was sometimes so overstuffed with money he had to bang it shut with his feet.

  To help solve the problem, he hired a Frenchman who specialised in designing magician-like hiding places, and whose ingenuity was a godsend to Bali’s drug dealers. He built Rafael a TV cabinet with invisible drawers, towel racks with large hollow tubes and a vacuous Buddha head that opened with an undetectable screw.

  I have so many secret spots but I still have too much money. I have half a million dollars in my hand, in my safe. Money was not a problem at all. I have plenty of problems, but money was not one. The only problem was this: where am I gonna put these fucking bags of money because I don’t have any more space? It was totally crazy.

  – Rafael

  Early on, Rafael had accepted payments in rupiah, creating impossibly bulky stashes, given that $100 converted to about 1 million rupiah. Some nights he drove around delivering deals of 5, 10, 20, even 100 grams, to friends; he started out filling his pockets with the cash, then moved to the glove box, then shoved it under the seats and in the door pockets. By the end of the drive, cash would be spilling out everywhere. At home he’d gather it all up, shoving fistfuls into plastic bags, then toss the bags up onto a shelf in his wardrobe, throwing clothes on top. Soon, he started accepting payment only in dollars or euros.

  Although his fortune did go up and down, most of the time he was so flush that he lost count of his bags of cash. One afternoon he grabbed a plastic bag stuffed with $50,000 out of his safe to take some to buy a motorbike. Not wanting to expose the cash in his fishbowl upstairs bedroom, in case police were spying with binoculars, he nipped into his en-suite. When there was a knock on the door, high on coke and paranoid, he flung the bag under the sink, but left a stray US$10,000 out. He saw it and stashed it into a toilet bag. At the door, it was only a friend. But it wasn’t until six months later, on the first night of a live-aboard surf trip, that he went to brush his teeth and found, mixed among his condoms, toothpaste and cologne, the US$10,000.

  I totally forgot about it. I was like, ‘What?’ And then I didn’t have a place to hide it in the boat. I was, ‘Shit, why did I bring this sort of money?’ But I made a hole in the surfboard cover and kept it there.

  – Rafael

  Rafael was flinging cash around like it would snow forever. With a young family, he now employed a staff of four maids, a driver and a gardener, who were paid double the average US$80 monthly wage and given bonuses, like their kids’ school fees or new motorbikes. In return they were loyal, and Rafael got them to do little tasks, like changing bags of rupiah to dollars at the money changer, or unwittingly delivering drugs to customers, usually rolled up in a magazine or somehow hidden. If friends needed cash, he often gave them a bundle. He also sponsored Balinese ki
ds to surf at the beach in front of his house, buying them new boards, clothes and equipment.

  Before, they looked after cows in the paddock. Now they are professional surfers, sponsored by Volcom. Now they are champions. That money was not so clean, but I used some for good things.

  – Rafael

  He was known for his largesse, tipping like a titan at restaurants and hosting sumptuous weekend barbecues open to all his friends, mostly the island’s drug dealers. They all turned up for the endless free beer, wine and French champagne – which his wife got cheap from a Garuda employee who stole it from the airline’s stock. Fresh fish and lobster was delivered to his door in the morning still flapping in a bucket – only the best and freshest would do. It would always be a lively feast of food and nose candy around the pool.

  Fuck, I don’t have peace, I have so many friends. My fridge was always full of Heineken; I have a fridge only for beer, only for wine, barbecue every weekend. I buy 5 kilos of meat, tenderloin, three boxes of beer . . . Door open, I don’t care who comes. I refused to accept anything from anybody. My house was a club every weekend. It was like a king’s life. The money looked like it’s never going to finish.

  – Rafael

  He easily spent US$20,000 a month on extravagant living expenses, splurging US$500 a day on groceries at the western food supermarket, Bali Deli, or out at restaurants. He relished the power kick of slipping off and fixing the entire table’s bill, usually exorbitant given his group’s penchant for top restaurants and French champagne. He also used at least US$3000 worth of cocaine a month. ‘I really fucking love this shit.’

  After a successful run and surge of cash, sometimes he’d lighten the load by paying his three young kids’ school fees or his Canggu Club membership two years early or he and his Swedish wife, Anna, would fly to shopping mecca Singapore with $30,000 to blow on anything their hearts desired – usually designer clothes, sunglasses, face creams, shoes, toys, computers and cameras.