by Rusty Young
La Paz was a shock to my system after Santa Cruz. Apart from the cold, the first thing I noticed was the altitude. When I stepped off the bus, I couldn’t breathe properly because of the lack of oxygen. I had to get the taxi driver to help me carry my suitcases because I felt like I was going to faint. The whole look and feel of the city was also completely different. Santa Cruz is flat and spread out and its roads are wide. The buildings are only a few storeys high, even in the business centre. However, the streets in La Paz are narrow and winding and blocked with traffic. I was now surrounded by multi-storey office blocks and billboards. It didn’t seem like I was in Bolivia anymore. Even the people looked and dressed differently.
I checked into a cheap hotel on Avenida Pando then rang the colonel from a telephone booth down the street. He must have been expecting the call because he answered the phone in English.
‘Hello?’
‘Um. Aló,’ I said. ‘Colonel Lanza, por favor.’ The colonel recognised my accent immediately.
‘Ah, Mr Thomas. You must call me Mario, please. How are you?’ He had a pleasant voice and spoke firmly.
‘OK, then. Mario. I’m fine, thank you.’
We spoke briefly and arranged for him to pick me up from my hotel at eight o’clock in order to eat a meal together.
You can tell a lot about people when you first meet them. I liked Colonel Lanza as soon as I saw him open the hotel door and stride confidently into the reception area where I was waiting. He was about forty years old, of medium height with broad shoulders, and he was dressed smartly in pants and a jacket with no tie.
‘Good evening, Mr Thomas,’ he said, looking me straight in the eye and shaking my hand very firmly. He had a forceful way about him – which I had expected, since he was a colonel – but he was also friendly and extremely polite. When we went out to his four-wheel drive, he walked around and opened the passenger’s side door for me.
‘So. How you like La Paz, Mr Thomas?’ the colonel asked as we drove off. ‘Very cold, no?’
I didn’t feel comfortable enough just yet to tell him he had my name wrong.
‘Freezing,’ I said, looking over at him. Now that I could see him up close, I noticed that his cheeks had been scarred by acne and the sides of his mouth drooped down whenever he stopped smiling. He looked at me sideways when he noticed me studying him. ‘But it’s nice,’ I added.
During the drive to the restaurant, we talked mainly about Santa Cruz, which was where Colonel Lanza was originally from. He told me he had brought his wife and two young children to La Paz when he had been transferred.
‘How old are your children, Mario?’ I asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing.
‘Mario junior has eight years and Catalina has six years. They are very beautiful. You must meet them.’ The way he talked about his children made me think this was a man I could trust. We also talked about Tito, but by the time we were seated in the restaurant, we seemed to be running out of things to discuss.
‘Do you like a beer?’ he asked in order to break an awkward silence that had settled upon us. I didn’t want one, but I didn’t want to risk offending him on our first meeting.
‘Yes, thank you. I’d love one.’
‘Have you tried the beer of La Paz? Is called Paceña.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is not like beer of Santa Cruz. You will see.’
He was right. For a start, it was impossible to pour.
‘Slowly,’ the colonel warned when he saw the glass filling with froth. ‘You see. That is the altitude.’ I tried again with the glass tilted almost horizontally, but it still didn’t work.
‘The beer is like the woman,’ he instructed me, snatching the bottle from my hand and demonstrating how it should be poured. ‘You must treat it very nice. The woman from La Paz is also called paceña, like the beer. You must treat them with same respect.’
After the first beer, Colonel Lanza seemed to relax a bit. However, I still had the impression that he didn’t fully trust me. He was polite, but I think he was trying to work out whether I was an undercover American agent. He kept asking me questions about England. His suspicion made me trust him more.
‘Salud,’ we said at the same time, clinking our glasses after I had successfully poured the next round of Paceña. I was already feeling a bit light-headed.
‘That’s strong beer,’ I said.
‘Yes. That is the effect of the altitude also. You know, many people have died from drinking too much and taking cocaine on their first night in La Paz.’
This was the first time drugs had been mentioned and he made it sound like a passing comment only. However, I knew that he had thrown it in to test me. I took a small sip of my beer and didn’t react.
‘I’d better have only one glass more then,’ I said when the critical moment had passed. ‘Normally, I don’t drink when I’m on a business trip.’ He didn’t react either and I sensed we were beginning to reach an understanding.
When the waitress brought our desserts, we finally got around to the real reason behind our meeting. It was Colonel Lanza who brought up the subject.
‘I understand you have hurry to catch your flight, no?’
Without mentioning specifics, we agreed that I would fly the day after next. When I asked him how much I could give him for his assistance, he asked for double what I normally paid Tito. Added to the cost of the flight, it would use up most of my remaining money. However, I didn’t want to bargain with him in case it caused problems later. We shook hands and agreed that I would come to his house the following day to meet his family.
The next day was Tuesday and much of the city was out shopping because it was Easter week. I purchased an Apex ticket from a travel agent on the main road, known as the Prado. The flight was for the following day at 7.15 am. The date couldn’t be changed and the ticket was non-refundable, but it was the cheapest available. Afterwards, I returned to my hotel room and swallowed the seventy grams of cocaine balls.
The colonel picked me up in his four-wheel drive again. I handed him the money immediately. We hadn’t finalised the details of our arrangement yet, but I wanted to pay him beforehand as a show of faith. Colonel Lanza liked this.
‘Yes. It is good idea to get business out of the way first, I think. After we can enjoy the nice meal my wife will cook.’
On the way to his house we stopped at the markets so that I could buy the food.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘I show you where the poor people buy everything cheap.’
We dodged our way around the crowds of people wandering through the busy market. I had to stand aside as old men carrying heavy sacks ran through the spaces between the tiny stalls calling, ‘Permiso. Permiso.’ Everything was for sale in those markets, from electrical goods to strange vegetables I had never seen before.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, when I saw some kind of meat bubbling away in a pot.
‘Believe me. You do not want to know,’ answered the colonel. ‘These people are Indians. That is the Aymara and Quechua languages they are speaking. These people are not educated, you see.’ He motioned around him and spat on the ground. ‘You know, some of the people does not even know Spanish.’
After I had paid for the food, we continued walking through the markets, discussing as we went how we would get the merchandise on to the plane. Colonel Lanza was to come to my hotel that evening to pick up my suitcases. He would take them to the airport in the morning and personally ensure that they were placed safely onboard.
‘After that, is not my problem,’ he said. ‘Anything happen, is your problem, OK?’
I nodded. ‘OK, but I can definitely get on the plane without touching the suitcases?’
‘Exacto. There will be no problem in Bolivia. You get on the plane, the plane flies to Europe and then is not my problem. You say nothing about me. I deny everything.’ We shook hands.
Before we returned to Colonel Lanza’s four-wheel drive, I bought a bottle of wine for his wife and
a tricycle for each of his children.
‘You are very kind, Mr Thomas,’ said the colonel, putting his arm around my shoulder. ‘My children will like you a lot. Maybe one day my family will come to visit you in England.’
Bolivia is a very poor country, but I could tell there was money in the south of La Paz – La Zona Sur – where Colonel Lanza’s house was located. You could almost smell it. Everything was bigger and cleaner and more modern. As we drove south, the dirty, cramped apartment buildings in the city centre gave way to freshly painted houses that were surrounded by high walls with private security guards patrolling outside. The cars were newer, and the traffic flowed more quickly along wider roads that were lined with trees. Even the people looked different. There were no colourful Indian markets. I saw only boutiques and modern shopping arcades with big window displays set up for Easter. The few people on the sidewalks looked taller and thinner and whiter. They wore imported jeans and designer T-shirts. It was almost as if a little piece of the United States had been transplanted into the heart of South America. Even the sun seemed to be shining more brightly.
We arrived at the colonel’s house, which was one of the smaller ones on the block but tastefully decorated inside. I got along very well with his family. I didn’t get to know his wife very well because she couldn’t speak English and spent most of the time in the kitchen cooking. However, Mario junior and Catalina played with me the whole afternoon. They were very well behaved at first and I could tell that the colonel was strict with them. After lunch, I taught them how to count in English and we played chasings around the small garden. Colonel Lanza watched us from the door and laughed.
‘You see. They like you.’
Now that I had met his family, our trust in each other grew. He even mentioned doing some more business together after this run.
By the end of the afternoon the children were climbing all over me, squealing in delight.
‘¡Basta!’ roared the colonel suddenly when Catalina put her feet on his sofa. Her lip started to quiver and she looked like she was about to cry. Luckily, her mother came into the room and sent both children outside to play. There were a few difficult moments when neither Colonel Lanza nor I knew what to say.
‘Another cup of tea, Mr Thomas?’ he asked, pretending nothing had happened. He was obsessed with the idea that Englishmen drank a lot of tea.
‘Yes. Thanks a lot.’
Through the open window we could hear Mario and Catalina’s screams as they raced around on their new tricycles. We drank three more cups of tea. The colonel smiled as he watched his children pedalling up and down the driveway. One time, when I looked over at the colonel, I noticed that he had stopped smiling. The corners of his mouth were drooping and I saw him glaring at the children with a look that was something like resentment or jealousy.
I finalised everything that night. I rang my buyers in Europe and then my contact who worked in customs at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. I would leave the suitcases on the baggage-claim carousel and, when no one claimed them, they would be placed in the lost luggage room. My customs contact would then switch them with the two identical suitcases he had. From there, it was simply a matter of him getting them out of the airport which, for a trusted customs official, would not be difficult. While I waited for Colonel Lanza to collect the suitcases, I did one final check over my luggage and ran through the timetable for the following morning.
I had everything carefully planned. I had booked a wake-up call from reception. I’d also set my alarm clock as a backup. I’d estimated the time it would take to get to the airport, with an allowance for traffic. Officially, passengers were supposed to arrive at the airport two hours before take-off for international flights. However, I had booked the taxi to pick me up so that I would arrive about fifty minutes beforehand. This isn’t so late that it raises suspicion, but it doesn’t give customs much time to do a proper search. I also had two industrial hair machines with me – a steamer and a dryer. I had bought them in Paris as a present for a hairdresser friend of mine in Holland who wanted to start her own salon. They were heavy to carry around, but they would also provide a good distraction at the airport. If the police were suspicious, that’s the first place they would look.
As it got later and later, I began to worry. The colonel still hadn’t called. After another half an hour, I went out and called his house from the phone booth down the street. No one answered. I called his work number. No answer. The hotel receptionist shook his head when I asked if there had been any calls while I was out. After another half an hour, I went out and phoned again. There was still no answer. Finally, at 11.30, I heard the phone ringing in reception. I ran downstairs. It was for me.
‘Hello.’
‘Mr Thomas, hello. There has been a small change in the plans. Nothing big.’
My heart started thumping, but I didn’t say anything. I hoped it wasn’t bad news.
‘Hello. Mr Thomas?’
‘Yes.’
‘We change one thing only. I cannot come to take the bags on to the plane. But everything else is the same, OK?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is too suspicious, if I arrive to my work with two big bags. People might see.’
‘What do we do, then?’
‘Is OK. You just take the suitcases to the airport yourself. Check the bags in at the counter, then get on the plane and fly to Europe. You understand?’
As soon as he said that, I wanted to call the whole thing off. I never liked to change my plans. But I was locked in. I’d swallowed the stuff and I’d set up everything at the other end. I’d paid the money to the colonel. I’d paid for the flight and couldn’t change it.
‘Mr Thomas, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You understand how we going to do it now?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
I had trouble getting to sleep that night. I was angry with the colonel for changing everything at the last minute. Why was I paying him so much money if he couldn’t put the suitcases onboard? Finally, I managed to settle myself down. I went through the situation logically and decided I didn’t really need the colonel to take the bags on, anyway.
For a start, I was confident of the job I had done in packing the coke. But even if police found the drugs, there was nothing linking me to the suitcases. A false name was written on the identification tags of the two suitcases containing the coke. As an extra precaution, I had packed these two suitcases with women’s clothing. My own possessions were in a third suitcase that I originally intended to check in on its own and that looked nothing like the other two. I also had my briefcase as carry-on luggage. Nothing would go wrong, but if it did, at least I could rely on the colonel’s help to get me out of it. I wiped the luggage for fingerprints one more time and then went back to bed.
In the morning, I followed my usual routine. I had a shower, then slowly dressed myself in my best suit and tie. I put on my gold watch and the special gold ring that had always brought me good luck. I did my hair using the steamer and dryer. Then I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. By the time the taxi sounded its horn, I had forgotten that I was transporting cocaine. I was a successful businessman.
The taxi driver was an old, wiry man with tattoos. So as not to get my fingerprints on the suitcases, I got him to carry the two bags containing the cocaine for me. The driver looked at me curiously in the rearview mirror and tried to make conversation as he drove. I didn’t understand what he was saying and went back to studying the business faxes I kept in my briefcase. Halfway up the main highway that led to the airport, we stopped and the driver got out. There was a roadblock and flashing lights up ahead. Suddenly, I heard sirens. I looked out the window and saw three police cars speeding up the wrong side of the road towards us. I panicked and grabbed the door handle, ready to jump out of the taxi and run. But the cars flew past us and continued up the highway. My driver looked at me strangely through the window.
When I l
ooked more closely, I saw that the roadblock was caused by a demonstration. Hundreds of protesters were marching down the street waving banners that read ‘Cocaleros’. They were Bolivian coca farmers and they were protesting against government restrictions on growing coca and against pressure by the US government to fumigate their crops. The delay was throwing out my timetable, but there was no way that I could tell the protestors they should let me pass because I was one of their best customers and had a plane to catch.
My driver didn’t think there would be much of a delay. He seemed prepared to wait for the police to clear the cocaleros off the road. However, as the protesters dispersed down the hill towards us, we noticed that they were carrying planks of wood. They began throwing rocks and the windscreen of the car next to us was smashed. My driver quickly started his engine and did a U-turn.
‘To the hotel,’ I instructed him.
I had decided to call the whole thing off. There had been too many bad omens: first, Tito not being able to help me; then the colonel changing the plan; and now the protest. Someone was trying to tell me not to get on that plane. However, the driver was determined to earn the full fare and must have known a different route.
‘Sí, señor. Vamos al aeropuerto,’ he said, turning up a side street.
The back streets that went up towards El Alto Airport were steep and unsealed. Several times the tyres skidded on rubbish as we sped our way up the hill. We passed through poor neighbourhood after poor neighbourhood where the houses had no windows and were made of mud bricks. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the highway that we should have been on. The route we were taking was a lot longer and I didn’t think we’d make it in time, but the driver pretended not to understand when I told him to turn back.
Finally, we arrived at the airport and he held out his hand for payment. As soon as I got out, a swarm of porters surrounded me. The driver dumped my three suitcases on the pavement and one of the porters loaded them onto his trolley without being asked. He started racing ahead to the check-in counter. It was too late now to back out.