Snowing in Bali

by Kathryn Bonella

He also regularly shopped on his way back from jobs when his pockets, wallets, shoes and bags and were stuffed with cash. He’d gather up armfuls of Armani T-shirts, a clutch of Gucci sunglasses or five or six pairs of Diesel jeans and take the lot, rarely asking prices. These were the essentials. In Amsterdam, he stocked up on his favourite Prada shoes at €600 a pair.

  I love those shoes. I love to shop in Amsterdam. Prada T-shirts, Armani T-shirts. I wore them tight, so they stretch a little bit and can show my body. Normally white or bright colours, because I have dark skin.

  – Rafael

  Although, like most men, he wasn’t a natural-born shopper, he was lured into shops by something catching his eye in a magazine or a shop window. In Singapore one day, on the way home from a trip to pick up cash with his friend Jando, they went hunting for a Rolex he’d spotted in a magazine and had to have – the huge price tag only increasing its allure.

  I got crazy when I saw it in a magazine. I wanna have this shit, I’m gonna buy one. A big, beautiful piece; this model is hard to find but I see the price. What? . . .€25,000.

  – Rafael

  The moment he found it in a Singapore shop he unclasped his US$3000 brushed-gold limited edition TAG Heuer and sold it to Jando, who’d shamelessly coveted it, for US$1000. Rafael paid cash for the Rolex, avoiding credit cards and traceable records, and strapped it straight onto his wrist.

  Back in Bali he relished flaunting his Rolex, even risking wearing it in the surf.

  My friends say, ‘You crazy if you use it to surf, what if you lose it?’ ‘I don’t care, I’ll buy another one.’ I like to show off.

  – Rafael

  Despite his pockets bulging with more cash than most of the more distinguished-looking customers could ever afford to spend, the tattooed Brazilian didn’t always cut it with snooty shop assistants in high-end stores. They gave him plenty of Pretty Woman moments, looking down their noses, assuming he couldn’t pay and treating him rudely.

  Once, passing through Amsterdam loaded with tens of thousands of euros, he went to look for a leather jacket. Casually dressed in jeans and a pair of flip-flops, with stubble on his chin and the tattoos on his arms exposed, he picked up a jacket and asked the price. It should have been a simple conversation – he didn’t really even care. But the sales girl insulted him, insisting she could only give the price to buyers and she felt he was just browsing.

  Rafael saw red. She’d pricked his ego. He lashed out in a tirade: ‘Fuck you, bitch, who do you think you’re talking to?’ Rifling in his pockets, he pulled out a wad of €500 notes, waving them under her nose and shouting, ‘Do you know what these are? These are each worth US$600. See how many I have. You are really stupid. I come here to buy; your job is to sell. Now, I wanna talk to your manager.’

  She was losing her poise, close to tears now. ‘Please don’t say anything, I’ll get fired.’

  ‘Yes, you’re gonna get fired. You fuck with me, now I’m gonna fuck with you.’

  When the manager came and tried to cool the situation, Rafael ranted, ‘This fucking bitch doesn’t want to serve me. I don’t want to deal with her anymore.’

  Soon after, he walked out with his new €750 Diesel leather jacket.

  Another time, in Stockholm, dressed in a Bob Marley collection adidas tracksuit and new running shoes, he was looking for several pairs of sunglasses. Typically, he knew exactly what he wanted: the latest special edition Ray-Bans with a unique lens and shape that he felt suited his face perfectly; the latest US$600 Dior Biker glasses, for stylishly wearing on his bike; and new Oakleys.

  But the sales assistant clearly felt this customer couldn’t afford all the glasses. ‘Which pair are you going to take?’ he huffed.

  ‘All three’ Rafael replied. The guy raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘Ah, this is going to cost more than US$2000,’ he said condescendingly.

  Rafael’s hackles shot up. ‘Fuck you, my friend. What’s the problem? I can’t buy three pairs of glasses? Should I buy one pair now, come back tomorrow?’ Rafael pulled the cash from his pocket. ‘This is more cash than you will ever have,’ he said, waving it in his face. ‘Now I’m gonna buy three, I’m gonna pay cash. Do you have a problem with that or should I go to another shop?’

  The sales assistant changed his tune.

  I think my face looks like a Brazilian bankrupt. They discriminate a lot against me. Maybe because of the tattoos, they think I’m a criminal or something, or they think I come here just to bullshit, just ask the price and go. And then when I start saying, ‘This, this, this, and this’, they say, ‘How you gonna pay?’ and I say, ‘Cash’. ‘Which ones you gonna take?’ and I say ‘All’. Fuck, they get crazy.

  – Rafael

  In Bali, the discrimination was reversed. He was the man, hugely popular and, as a VIP guest at all the most exclusive parties, was given bracelets for free drinks. People would invite him to dinners at the best restaurants, telling him to bring some friends, refusing to let him pay. In return, he’d always bring blow and give friends free lines in the bathrooms.

  It was funny because I was very friendly, people loved me because I was a nice guy, I know how to be nice in restaurant, eat properly, good education, but my English a little bit broke, but I think this is funny – they laugh when I say some words.

  At the parties they give me the VIP bracelets, I cannot spend money because people call me, ‘Hey, Rafael, can you come to Warisan tonight, 10 pm, to have a dinner? I invite you.’ It was like this . . . ‘Come here, you can bring your friends, and bring some stuff.’ I say, ‘Okay.’

  They never let me pay. I just do trips to the toilet, give some lines to people, but sometimes when the bill comes I want to show off . . . I hide myself and go pay and when the guy asks for the bill . . . ‘Oh, it’s already paid,’ because usually nobody lets me pay for anything.

  – Rafael

  Rafael’s fame was growing exponentially. Because the island was small, people knew he was the coke guy. When he walked into a glamorous party, wearing his tight Armani T-shirt, gold chains, with his blond hair and good looks, heads would turn. People would shout, ‘Rafael, Rafael’, trying to get his attention. When he went to the toilet, people would race behind him asking to buy some blow.

  It was funny because I’m busting to piss, I go to the toilet, everybody boom boom boom on the door: ‘Rafael, please give me 1 gram.’ ‘Stop, I want to piss, man,’ but they don’t give me peace.

  – Rafael

  The next night he’d do it all over again – swanky dinner, clubs, private parties, orgies at villas, never wearing the same designer clothes on consecutive nights, but always wearing a pair of his favourite Prada shoes, his Rolex, and a splash of his signature, babe-luring, Paco Rabanne XS. ‘Fuck, all the girls like that shit.’

  Sometimes he’d be sitting in a restaurant and call for the bill, only to be told another table had fixed it up already. He’d ask the waiter who’d paid, often spotting someone looking slyly at him, trying to establish eye contact. Rafael would avoid it, quickly telling the waiter to give the guy his money back; he’d pay his own bill.

  When totally random strangers knew he was a coke dealer, it freaked him out. That was way too dangerous.

  At orgies and private villa parties, he’d often pull out 10 grams of coke, warm up a plate and make lines for everyone, showing off; and often creating sales, as tourists on holidays or expats were usually keen to buy more. At parties he’d also meet expats who were buying from one of his own customers, who was cutting and selling. After meeting Rafael, they’d be keen to buy direct and cut out the middleman, to get it purer and cheaper. He’d always keep a stash in the doors of his car outside to sell at night, for top prices, to these people.

  When I come to this party, they meet me, they wanna buy straight. ‘Oh great, I wanna buy some, can you give me a big quantity?’ And then the business blow, you know. Before I sell 5, 10 grams and then people come, ‘Can I buy 100 grams? You give me a better price.’

  �
�� Rafael

  Rafael didn’t curb his wild partying, despite now living with Anna, an attractive blonde Swede who he wasn’t married to but called his wife. They’d met in a bar in Legian, and soon moved in together. Anna liked using coke, and started helping Rafael with business, usually the accounts, as well as pushing him to be tougher. When she’d fallen pregnant with twins, Rafael was thrilled and they’d had another baby soon afterwards. But creating a family hadn’t stopped his promiscuous lifestyle and he knew he was still getting away with it because Anna spent a lot of time drinking and being pretty out of it.

  His partying was getting so excessive that he’d drink, use coke and have sex with random girls all night, then get home at dawn and sleep until 3 pm. Usually he’d surf two or three waves, too unfit now to stay in longer, his party lifestyle so frenetic and all-consuming that he was sacrificing the reason he’d come to Bali in the first place. In the afternoon, he’d start snorting a bit of coke, then doing his deliveries, or organising his runs, and be ready to party all over again.

  That time, I cannot surf, because I have nightlife. I come tired, I sleep all day, I wake up 3 o’clock, jump in the pool, have a shower, massage. Sometimes I put my phone off, say, ‘Today, day off. I don’t want to talk to anyone.’ And I call to the massage people, they come to my place, massage, I do a little bit of gym. At home I have the equipment to get fit, because when I stop surfing so much, I get skinny, I lose weight, lose weight. I said, ‘Fuck, I always had a nice body’, and I was like living the dream life.

  Sometimes I party for two days, party without sleep, you know we finish in club, then go to somebody’s villa for after party, take all this shit, drugs. And then you see another day, keep partying, sometimes go to the beach, jump in the water without sleeping, surf three or four waves just to put out the toxin, breathe a little bit of oxygen. But finish the session – straight away take a line to keep going. What you going to do tonight? Let’s go to the party . . . Always we meet new people. Let’s go to that girl’s villa . . . It was very crazy.

  – Rafael

  Every so often, he’d cut the partying and spend 10 days on a yacht for a live-aboard surf trip. He’d take no coke, eat fresh fish, and surf for hours every day, getting fit. It gave him a break from the party scene, especially during the high season, when it was very dangerous to deal drugs, with undercover cops from Jakarta starting to infiltrate and circulate at parties. Sometimes Marco came on these trips, and Rafael’s Peruvian partner Poca, who arranged gorgeous hookers from Brazil to come.

  A surf trip was like paradise for me, it was my escape. Go to Sumatra. The yacht worth $2 million, with a nice girl, a beautiful model, or sometimes we bring prostitutes from Brazil; import the girls. Pay for their tickets and give them $2000. They do a good job.

  A good job?

  They fuck very good and don’t complain about anything. Very beautiful and fun too.

  Do you share the girls?

  Yeah, sometimes, not everyone, but the bosses. Poca, he say let’s bring two prostitutes I met in Brazil. They stay with us, but we share sometimes. I take his, he takes mine. But we don’t share the girls with everybody, only me and Poca.

  What would your wife do if she found out you had a prostitute on the boat?

  I think she’s gonna be pissed off, but she never found out.

  And then, come back from the trip, back to Bali . . . beard grow, blond hair burned from the sun, dark skin, fit, ready to rock. Bam. And then, ‘Where is the party tonight?’

  Normally Ku De Ta has four parties in August – the best ones, I can’t miss those. They had a white party same day we got back, because I remember we arrived in the airport at seven o’clock, and I have time to come home, shave, shower, put my best clothes, take my 10 grams, put in the pocket, go whaaaah, look for girls.

  Was amazing, because everybody miss me . . . ‘Where’ve you been, Rafael? Rafael, Rafael, Rafael . . .’

  – Rafael

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR

  Fuck this guy’s crazy, like VIP movie star.

  – Rafael

  Filthy rich Hells Angels boss, Tota, from Rio, regularly flew to Bali to play for months at a time in party paradise with his drug dealer friends, and gamble at illegal casinos and cockfights in the backstreets of up-market Seminyak. He was also a fixture at Fabio’s beach bar, an unmissable sight with his sidekicks – two young, beautiful, silicone-breasted girls. He threw cash at them to come to Bali, to accompany him everywhere, have sex on call and be centrepieces in his many hotel-room orgies, which he liked to direct and film.

  He’s a little bit sexy psycho, this guy. Sometimes I come from surfing in Uluwatu, Tota was already at the bar, sitting with the two beautiful girls, sometimes with five girls, him in the middle.

  – Rafael

  He was a Hells Angel biker straight out of Hollywood Central Casting’s books. He lavished diamonds on the girls, and used them to create a spectacle. It wasn’t hard, they were bombshells – a prerequisite to being his travel babes. They dressed to bring men to their knees, bursting out of tiny bikini tops, minis so micro their underwear flashed. Whenever they threw a long bare leg with a 3-inch spiky heel over the back of Tota’s bike, tourists, both men and women, stopped and gaped.

  He brings those two girls to show off. They have silicone in the tits, big ones, amazing bodies, not one gram of fat, full of tattoos, long hair. Everybody thinks, ‘Wow, beautiful, beautiful girls.’ They wear skirts, but so fucking short you can see their underwear easy. They make many orgies, the girls with Tota. He was such a pervert, this guy, he loved to do orgies. But a glamour guy, too. Like, if he has a party at Ku De Ta, he pays for the whole table . . . champagne, dinner. He spends a lot of money. He was addicted to gambling too.

  – Rafael

  Tota had dark curly hair hanging to his shoulders and tattoos covering his whole body, running up and around his neck, and was contemplating getting a Mike Tyson-style tattoo on his face, even sometimes getting henna swirls around his eyes and temples to test it out. Several times Rafael arrived at Tota’s hotel, and found him with henna tattoos all over his face. Rafael would laugh when Tota insisted they were real, but a couple of days later they would be gone, until the next time.

  Adding to his dark looks, Tota wore a thick beard and moustache shaved to a sharp point at the corner of his jawbone. And his signature outfit, sacrilege to Armani and Gucci-obsessed Rafael, was a mesh singlet, jeans and bulky sneakers, for his absurdly tiny feet. He accessorised with chunky gold rings and a heavy gold chain that hung to his navel, dangling a gaudy circle pendant with a large number 13 in the centre.

  He looks evil, he’s the guy you don’t want to meet in the night.

  – Rafael

  The master of spectacle loved turning heads and being in the spotlight. He’d enter a super-chic bar with the two babes, barely clothed, draped on either side of him, turning to passionately kiss one and then the other. People always stopped to look, curious about who this huge, muscular, tattooed guy with small sneakered feet – and two gorgeous goddesses all over him – could be.

  Seminyak’s coolest beachfront bar, Ku De Ta, was his favourite place to create a scene among the voguish set.

  Any nightclub he comes to with these two girls, it’s big trouble for girls with boyfriends because the boys get crazy looking at the girls, crazy, because they are a dream for any man. The kind of body, the sex appeal, the way they dance, the way they talk, like professional porno movie stars. Beautiful. Beautiful, young and very well dressed.

  Tota was very generous . . . gives nice jewellery, diamonds, he likes to pay everything. They have a kind of deal: you come to Bali with me, I’m gonna give you $10,000, but you have to stay in the hotel with me and you have to fuck with who I point to.

  High-class prostitutes?

  Exactly. They speak good English. And they get attention wherever they go. His English was very broken but he can communicate, his extravagance make
s people want to meet him.

  He plays like he has two wives, when people introduce him. ‘Hi, my name is Tota. This is my wife number one, this my wife number two, we live together.’ And people, ‘What?’ And sometimes he put them out to dance. ‘Go there and make a dance, just to show my friends how hot you are.’ And they give a performance.

  – Rafael

  Years earlier, as a teenager in Brazil, Rafael had seen Tota several times rock up at Rio clubs on his Harley-Davidson with a big group of Hells Angels bikers, so meeting him in Bali was like meeting a legend. But with Tota’s sense of humour, and naughty nature, the two quickly bonded. Tota was so impressed with Rafael’s tattoos that he went to get more ink at the same Bali tattooist. ‘We became very close friends.’

  Tota knew Rafael was also a conduit to the biggest drug bosses on the island, and the pair struck a deal for Rafael to organise tens of thousands of ecstasy pills from Chino for Tota to sell in Brazil. And, he’d sell Tota’s cocaine in Bali for a 20 per cent cut. It should have been simple, but the game was dicey and their first deal was a disaster.

  Tota soon had a horse running with 3 kilos of cocaine. Rafael told Chino to prepare the cash. The island was dry and prices were hiked up to $50,000 a kilo. When the stuff arrived, Rafael went to the Brazilian girls’ room, where it was kept, to test it. It was bad coke, yellowy brown, with a strong kerosene smell and when Rafael used some, his nose bled. He guessed it was mixed with glass shavings to give it a bit of a pearly sheen and fool rookies into thinking it was pure. He scooped a bit onto a spoon, and heated it up, to do a proper quality test by weighing the rock left after burning. The original gram crystallised to only 0.7 gram, proving it was only 70 per cent pure, not 100 per cent, which Chino demanded.

  Tota went ballistic, screaming obscenities and threats to kill the guy who’d sent it. Against his instincts, Rafael offered to show it to Chino anyway. Chino was incredulous. ‘What! Come on, man, what’s wrong with you? Why do you even bring this shit here? . . . Take it away,’ he snapped, with a dismissive wave.