Snowing in Bali

by Kathryn Bonella

  – Andre

  Andre made it his business to understand the psyche of a horse, aware it was not only about the cash and adrenalin but about power and status too. Almost always, after a first run, he watched with wry amusement his horses go out to buy expensive designer sunglasses.

  This is typical for the horses. This is famous: 90–95 per cent of horses, when they get their first money, they buy something to show, ‘Now I am someone, now I am good enough.’ And this is really, really stupid. Because the guy puts his life at risk, to buy a $3000 watch. It’s more funny in Bali, because sometimes the mule is mule, not fucking intelligent – comes here to Bali and spends his money on fake glasses, fake watch, because Bali is specialist for fake. And the mule goes . . . ‘Ah, look what I bought.’ I say, ‘Oh this is beautiful, but it’s fake.’ ‘Ah, no.’ Stupid.

  Despite his training regime, many of Andre’s horses were still busted; it was a hazard of the game, sometimes plain bad luck but usually due to small nuances that could have been avoided, such as a horse Dimitrius the Greek had organised to run to Bali with 7.3 kilos inside a surfboard bag. He went down simply because he didn’t look the part he was playing.

  The pale complexion of a man who tried to check two surfboards on an international flight aroused the suspicion of Brazilian airport security officials, who said they found nearly 7 kilos of cocaine hidden in a package between the boards. Luis Alberto Faria Cafiero, 27, was arrested Friday in São Paulo before boarding a flight to Johannesburg, South Africa, with a connection to Bali, Indon­esia. ‘He did not look like a person who’s always out on the beach,’ said Federal police officer Isaias Santos Vilela.

  –AP Worldstream, 11 October 2003

  This seemingly small detail of a lack of a suntan would later have explosive consequences for Dimitrius, when his horse turned police informant. ‘I know the benefits of the whistleblower,’ he said in his judicial testimony.

  How many of your horses have been busted?

  Many, more than 10.

  In Bali?

  No, never ever. In France twice, four horses fall in Amsterdam, in Peru, in Australia . . . many. But never in Brazil for my good luck, because Brazil is the worst, the law is hard, the prison is terrible.

  – Andre

  It was Andre’s first real red alert for his own safety when one of his best horses, Rabbit, got busted at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, en route to Amsterdam. It was seen as safer to fly to Paris or Brussels, clear customs there, and fly domestically or drive to Amsterdam, Europe’s drug gateway. Rabbit had done 10 runs, knew the game, but became cocky. Foolishly, he carried a silver ashtray in his luggage, which he’d been using to smoke joints. His arrogance coincided with bad luck. On his flight, a bunch of 12 Peruvians, smuggling blow in their stomachs, were busted, sparking an intensive search of everyone on board. After finding the tainted ashtray, they put Rabbit through the wringer, and busted him with 4 kilos of coke in his hang-glider. Rabbit was being pushed to give up his boss, but knowing the dire consequences of snitching, he didn’t, claiming he’d trafficked the coke on his own.

  He didn’t want to lose the life. He say, ‘This I buy for myself, I was crazy, totally addicted, I lose my mind and bring this for myself.’ This is the best thing to say, because the sentence comes down for addicts anyway.

  Rabbit got off with only 11 months jail. But his bust tipped Andre some gut-wrenching news. Rabbit phoned him from jail one day telling him that two officers from America’s Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) had come in asking questions specifically about him.

  I say, ‘What are you fucking talk about, Rabbit?’ ‘Two guys come here, one girl and one guy from the DEA, and ask about you by name, say, “Eh, you work for Andre? Give the guy up and you can get less time in the prison.”’ I say, ‘But how do they get connection?’ He say, ‘I don’t know, I’m just telling you about it.’ I say, ‘Fuck, now I’m fucked up.’ After this, I know I’m hot. This is the first red light, bam bam, now the DEA is behind me. I start to think why is the DEA behind me?

  It didn’t take Andre long to realise how he’d hit the Agency’s radar. It was a capricious last-minute change of plan that cursed him. He’d flown to Peru a year earlier to buy 30 kilos of coke with a partner, a white-haired, 65-year-old trafficking veteran. They’d booked three horses to take 10 kilos each, but when one failed to show, the partner, after years of being a boss, decided to carry the stuff. Quickly exhilarated by the idea, he wanted to fly all the way from Lima to São Paulo and on to Amsterdam.

  Andre wasn’t thrilled. The danger was that Andre had openly hung out with the man for five days in Lima, using his real identity, his real passport, staying in the same hotel, dining together, with CCTV cameras undoubtedly recording it all. If he’d known the man was going to run, Andre would have stayed clear of him in public. With the abrupt last-minute change of plan, Andre packed the paraglider for the other two horses, always preferring to do it himself, precise and careful, and then flew out – leaving four hours ahead of his partner to avoid being on his flight or coming in behind him in case of a bust.

  His partner did get busted. The Peruvian airports were tough, with the DEA now working with local cops, and it didn’t take much to create suspicion. The man had previously trafficked at least 20 times himself, but this time made an error. He wore a business suit as well as carrying a paraglider, and his incongruous look cast suspicion. The Peru police and DEA took him down for 10 kilos. He didn’t snitch, but Andre was sure the DEA would have investigated whether the old man had been seen with anyone in Lima.

  That’s the start of my problems, because after this I know the DEA know my face, know my passport.

  But Andre didn’t slow down the game. Aware he was hot, he took extra care, but was still living the high life. Like Marco, and many of the players, Bali was where he’d spend months at a time, broken by occasional trips overseas to fix deals. Sharing the apartment in Amsterdam meant Andre and Marco often worked together through sheer convenience. If Andre was in Amsterdam, Marco would sometimes organise a horse and ask Andre to meet him. No one ever did gratis favours, but Andre would do it for a commission, usually buying some Lemon Juice or ecstasy and sending the horse back to Brazil reloaded.

  Despite working with Marco, Andre lamented the Lemon Juice boss’s cowboy antics and insouciant attitude to money. Andre was the antithesis, pedantically precise about cash and ruthlessly capitalistic.

  I never like to work with Marco too much, because when I do business I like details. I pay five, I sell for 10, I have five profit, clear like water. Marco is totally different. ‘Ah, I buy 2 kilos, I want to give 200 grams to my neighbour, and 200 grams for you, because you have beautiful eyes.’ Whaaaa . . . I say, ‘Hey wait, man, where is your profit?’ For me this is stupid. If I put my life at risk, I will not give it away. Marco is crazy.

  It was Marco’s endless frivolous antics that fazed Andre – like the time Marco had phoned him in Brazil from their flat in Amsterdam, asking if he knew anyone who had 30 grams of coke he could buy to use on the weekend. Andre did and the supplier organised a courier. The courier then vanished. It turned out Marco had invited him in and spent three days sniffing the entire $3000 worth of cocaine with the total stranger. Another time, Andre and Marco invested in a 2 kilo run to Bali. Andre sold the stuff to Chino and later learnt Marco was buying it back at street prices.

  I talk to Chino, just talk cos he’s my friend, ‘Hey Chino, is everything okay?’ ‘I’m okay but I’m fucking angry with Marco – he calls me 10 times a day.’ ‘Why?’ ‘To buy cocaine.’ ‘Are you selling cocaine to Marco . . . for how much do you sell?’ ‘$150 a gram.’ ‘Are you kidding me?’ Marco sells to him for $60 a gram, now he buys it back for $150. Fucking good business. This is typical example how stupid he can be in the mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  007

  Indonesian Police on Tuesday were questioning 13 European tourists arrested on the resort island of Bali during what police have
termed a ‘drugs party’ in their rented villa . . . The group includes nine French citizens, three Italians and one Swiss National . . . Officers confiscated 2.5 grams of cocaine and 10.2 grams of hashish . . . Police in Indonesia, where drug crimes had previously been treated as minor offences, have declared war on drug traffickers and users in the past year . . .

  – Agence France-Presse, 22 August 2000

  Criticised for its futile attempts to curb drug trafficking, the government has now decided to change tack . . . The President also voiced her disappointment over the light sentences meted out to convicted drug traffickers . . . ‘Major offenders, like producers and dealers, should be punished by death. For me, it is better to have a person suffer capital punishment than to see the whole community become addicted to drugs,’ she remarked . . .

  Indonesia has become well known not only as a place of transit for international traffickers, but also as a producing country.

  – Jakarta Post, 30 October 2001

  People used to joke, ‘It’s snowing in Bali, it’s snowing in Bali.’ I used to joke with my friends, I’m the only one riding a Jimny that’s worth a Ferrari, because I had all the doors stocked up with coke.

  – Alberto

  The more it was snowing in Bali, the hotter it got. Undercover police were stalking the nights; infiltrating clubs, bars and restaurants, and raiding luxury villas and expatriates’ homes, often after a Balinese dealer or vengeful staff had tipped off the cops for a fee.

  It wasn’t slowing the dealers down. Peruvian drug dealer Alberto always watched his rear-vision mirror. With the clique of big players overtly partying and splashing cash at the same few top restaurants, bars and clubs nightly, he had no doubt the Intel cops knew exactly who they were. The island was small. But for Alberto, this charged the game with extra zing. He relished outwitting the cops, never letting them catch him red-handed, cleverly using Bali’s labyrinth of infinite hotel rooms like a house of mirrors, going in one door and out another, vanishing in a smoke of tourists.

  You’re always on the edge, always risking your life, no matter how many times you do it. I loved that feeling of a big adrenalin rush. I was addicted to it. More than the money, it was the rush that kept me hooked. Whenever you open a bag with a lot of cocaine, your life can end right there. If the wrong person knocks on your door, your life’s finished.

  – Alberto

  Ensuring the wrong person didn’t knock on his door, Alberto trusted almost no one. One day a Peruvian wanting to sell 2 kilos of blow he’d brought to Bali contacted Alberto to be his sales agent. Alberto quickly found some Italian buyers and set up the deal for 6 pm at the five-star Nikko Bali Resort. Alberto and his client booked into a $350 room so they could use it to party in after they had their bag of cash. The Italians were on the same floor and Alberto was waiting for his contact, who’d found him the buyers, to call so they could all meet, at first without the coke. But when he called, he made the tactical error of using the room phone, instead of his mobile. The deal unravelled fast.

  ‘Eh, why the fuck you calling from the room? Now the guys know which room we’re in,’ Alberto snapped.

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay, they’re my friends,’ the contact replied. But it wasn’t okay; these buyers were new and could be undercover cops. It was vital they didn’t know where the coke was until they’d met.

  Alberto’s client started to panic. ‘Fuck, let’s get out of here now.’ Alberto was feeling paranoid too, but suggested just changing rooms. The client was already bolting out the door, so Alberto raced after him.

  We went straight down, got into the car and drove off. He was freaking. We didn’t have time to pick up our clothes or anything. He drove all the way to Jimbaran, and dropped me off at the Inter­Continental Hotel. I told him, ‘This is kind of risky and stupid,’ because I was in sandals, board shorts, a T-shirt, with a little bag, arriving at night at a five-star hotel to book a $375 room, with no luggage, no passport, looking like a beach boy. I was like something very unusual, strange . . . it was all wrong. You don’t want to be unusual; you want to blend in to the scene. I always check in to nice hotels in jeans, shoes, a nice collar shirt, put perfume, have a shower, shave, walk in nice. I don’t go with a backpack, looking like I can’t afford this type of hotel.

  I was feeling completely nervous . . . so I book into this hotel; I had some story like I always did. ‘Oh my luggage just got lost, please can I check in now? Tomorrow I’m going to get my passport and my luggage.’ But I was thinking, ‘Fuck, man, this is too suspicious, too stupid.’

  Alberto went straight up to his room, locked the door and put a chair against it. Then he filled the bath with water, opened the bag of coke and put it on the bathroom floor, ready for the worst.

  I went to the toilet maybe five times that night. I had full-on diarrhoea from stress. I had the bag of coke open next to the bathtub, so if they bang on the door, I could just run to the bathroom and throw it in the water – it’s gone, in one quick second.

  It was an interminable night of broken sleep, drifting off, then jolted wide awake, alert to the littlest noise, listening to hear if cops were assembling outside his door. It was a relief to still be lying in his soft five-star bed at daybreak, not sprawled on the concrete floor of some police cell, as he had visualised many times during the night.

  Now it was time to go, so he raced downstairs, jumped in a cab and went straight to the popular four-star Padma Hotel on Legian beach. It was his deal bolthole, the hotel where he felt comfortable and did most of his big deals, sometimes two or three a week.

  When I got there I was like, ‘Phew’. I loved to do deals there. I knew the hotel and felt safe. There were a lot of escape routes; you could run to the beach, run to the side, and all the rooms had balconies so you could jump, and a big garden too, so a lot of hiding places. And it had a lot of different buildings, so we would always do tricks. I would book into a room and have a friend book into another. Okay now, boom; I would run with the gear to his room, and he would come to my room. So if somebody was following me and they knew the room I booked, I’m not there anymore. One step ahead.

  This morning he did his ‘hey presto incognito’ trick, but was still twitchy, and keen to get rid of the blow fast. The deal with the Italians was off, but Alberto found another buyer, offloaded the coke and was safe. This time.

  In the time before the deal takes place, you are sitting on a bomb, and you have that edgy feeling, like okay this could be my last deal. You don’t want to think about it, but you always have the thoughts in the back of your mind that your life is on the line right here and now, these are the crucial moments. Once it’s finished, you have a bag full of money and you have this feeling like, ‘Yes, done it again, fuck yeah! Phew . . . finished.’ You get real happy, it’s time to party.

  Just like Rafael, Andre and Marco, Alberto had been lured to Bali by the lifestyle. He’d first arrived for a surfing holiday, met an Australian girl and stayed a year, racking up huge debts and visa overstay fines. So when Diaz brother Poca, who he’d met on the night scene, offered him a fast way to wipe his debts by a quick trip to Peru, he decided why not.

  I did it because I realised there were a lot of people doing this, and I needed the money. I was with debts, like a lot of bills piling up, so I took my chance. I crossed the globe, picked up this bag with two and a half kilos, put it on my back, and then starts the Midnight Express movie.

  He’d spent two weeks surfing in Lima to give himself a viable cover. Then, on the final day, Poca’s local contact passed him a loaded backpack. From that moment, his muscles were flexed tight, as on every leg of the run he imagined jail, just waiting for the barred door of a cell to slam shut: ‘I thought there was a 50:50 chance of going to jail.’

  He was on his own, and knew if he got busted no one would come running to help, so he decided to play by his own rules, using his instincts. Instead of risking Lima’s airport, as advised, he took the bus to Santiago, Chile. Typically, all bags were of
floaded at the border, and searched one by one. Alberto was anxiously watching as sniffer dogs prowled the bags. ‘This yours?’ an official shouted. ‘Yes, that’s mine,’ Alberto said, acting blasé as the man unzipped his backpack to let a Labrador stick its nose inside. Alberto tensed in a split second of terror, but the dog lost interest fast. The repellent spray had worked.

  His next test was a passport check. Alberto reached the front of the line. The customs official was a cliché baddie, laughable if it hadn’t been such a scary moment. He had a hulking body, huge hands, big head and face, dominated by a handlebar moustache and mirrored Ray-Bans. Alberto handed him his passport. He lifted his sunglasses – it was night time – stared into Alberto’s eyes and asked, ‘What’s your full name and date of birth?’ These were ostensibly benign questions, but clever in their simplicity to catch anyone travelling on a false passport, who at the critical moment blew it on the basics. Alberto was using his real name and had mentally rehearsed on the bus trip for the notorious border quiz.