The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare

by Farrell, Jeff

  * * *

  It was over an hour’s drive to the upmarket district of Altamira in Caracas, where I was due to meet Bruce for dinner. The driver couldn’t find the address and drove around in circles. I looked out the window, staring at the life outside. Motorists pulling up in cars at a McDonald’s drive-through. Waiters in dickybows bringing pizza to diners in sidewalk cafes. All the simple things I hadn’t seen in so long.

  ‘Here, I’ll walk from here.’ I saw a building I recognised and knew the restaurant was close. This was the area where I’d spent my last day of freedom before I went to the airport, more than two years ago. It felt strange.

  I paid the driver and walked into the restaurant. I saw Bruce down at the back sitting at a table. ‘All right, Bruce,’ I shouted down, waving.

  ‘You Irish bastard. You made it.’ He stood up and threw his arms around me. He introduced me to his girlfriend. She was in her 30s and nicely dressed in smart clothes. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘A freedom beer.’

  I put a bottle of Polar Ice to my lips, took a sip and let it swish around my mouth. I ate a steak meal and devoured the succulent beef. After a few hours of more drinks and catching up I was bleary-eyed and tired. We walked back to Bruce’s hotel.

  On the way we passed through the main plaza. I saw all the sights I’d seen when I’d stayed here over two years ago. The stone fountain at the centre where water gurgled. Courting couples canoodling. The whole thing gave me déjà vu. It was weird.

  ‘It’s just here, the hotel.’ Bruce snapped me out of my daydream.

  ‘Here. See that hotel beside it?’ I said, pointing to the hotel next to his. It was a four-storey building with white balconies. I couldn’t believe I was seeing it. Another experience of déjà vu. It was where Damo, the lad from the Dublin gang, gave me the suitcase with the cocaine. ‘That’s where I stayed before I got caught. Before I went to the airport.’ It was true, but it all seemed like a dream.

  ‘Same for me – that’s where I stayed before I did my run,’ Bruce said. ‘Must be fate.’ Some little bastard of a hotel clerk probably tipped off the cops in the airport every time a gringo stayed and had people visiting him in his room with a suitcase. I could have been angry, but I didn’t care. I was out of Los Teques: not quite a free man but halfway there.

  Chapter 26

  STROKE OF LUCK

  I WAS BACK AT THE COURTHOUSE IN VARGAS. IT WAS MY THIRD TIME HERE. IT was where I was first charged and later sentenced. I’d always been whisked in the back entrance with an army escort. Now I was here for my parole hearing, standing at the front door. It felt weird. This time no one had hauled me here in handcuffs. That also felt strange. But I knew if I didn’t come they’d track me down. I had no passport or ID. I couldn’t even book a hotel room – or buy a long-distance bus ticket. I was at the mercy of the system.

  I pulled at the glass door. It didn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. It was locked. Strange, I thought. A court usher in a dark navy uniform inside the building walked up and opened it. ‘Tribunal, juez,’ (‘Court, judge’) I said. It was Friday morning and there were about 20 minutes to go for my hearing, which had been set for 10 a.m. The judge was to give me my parole conditions and rubber-stamp my release.

  ‘Sorry, there is no judge today,’ said the usher in Spanish. ‘Tuesday is the next day.’ What was going on here? ‘What’ll I do?’ I said to Bruce. He stood beside me in shorts and flip-flops, holding a suitcase. He’d taken the three-hour trip by bus from Caracas with me. He was off to rent an apartment in a resort an hour away from here on the coast where he’d spend his days swinging in a hammock and drinking rum.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Join me to watch hot ass in bikinis on the beach?’

  ‘Can’t,’ I said, ‘need to sort this stuff out.’ I had to think. Where would I go? I had a few quid but didn’t want to blow it on 80-dollar hotel rooms. Bruce had taken care of last night. Now he was leaving.

  I decided to ring Father Pat on my mobile. I told him the judge hadn’t shown up. ‘Come up for dinner, Paul, come up here.’ He gave me directions.

  ‘I will, Father Pat, be there later. Looking forward to it.’ I turned to Bruce. ‘You might as well come with me.’

  ‘Why not?’ he said.

  We walked off and I looked out into the aquamarine Caribbean sea beyond the courthouse. The waves lulled back and forth on the shore just a few yards away. A brisk breeze brought the taste of salt to my lips. A flock of white birds with yellow-tipped beaks on the shore took off into the sky. My thoughts drifted off as I looked at them flapping their wings. The judge not showing up. It was a sign. I wasn’t due back here till Tuesday morning. Five days away. No one would be looking for me till then.

  In that moment I knew I would flee Venezuela. ‘Bruce, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll go to the priest’s.’

  ‘No, I mean I’m leaving Venezuela. The judge not showing up. No hearing till Tuesday. It’s a lifeline. I’m going to get to Colombia and get out of here.’

  ‘You’re mad. You’ll be caught.’ Bruce hesitated, looking troubled. He sighed heavily. ‘But if you’re set on it, I can hook you up with people who specialise in getting illegals in and out of Colombia. See how it works out.’

  * * *

  Father Pat’s home was a giant parochial house belonging to his religious order. It was set on the outskirts of a barrio, a short walk from the tube station. He said gunfire crackled into the night from the slums just a few blocks away. Like most of the ghettos, life there was pretty much a mirror of life inside Los Teques: gangs, guns, murder and coke. The difference was that families lived in the barrios: men, women and children trying to get on with their lives.

  The door opened and Father Pat’s housemaid let us in. ‘Paul, good to see you,’ said Father Pat in his slow drawl as he walked towards me in the hallway. We shook hands and I introduced him to Bruce. It was great to see the padre outside the grimy passageways of Los Teques. ‘You’re out at last. Come, come.’

  We walked through a courtyard in the middle of the house, dotted with white sculptures and blooming with flowers. In the middle stood a statue of Our Lady.

  The housemaid went back and forth with cups of tea. Myself and Bruce were chatting away with Father Pat in the kitchen. I told him about my last few weeks and the hell in waiting for my release papers to be signed. But I kept my plans to flee Venezuela under my hat for now.

  Billy arrived back from his day working in the gardens of a university.

  ‘Billy boy, good to see you.’ We shook hands. ‘I made it. I’m out.’

  ‘Great, great,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit better here than in Los Teques,’ he laughed, grinning from ear to ear.

  After lunch and the chat, myself and Bruce decided to head back to the centre of Caracas. We agreed to stay in Sabana Grande, a run-down neighbourhood where you could get held up by both the robbers and the cops – but it was cheap. We’d get a room for half the price of one in upmarket Altamira. Billy wanted to come. He wanted to party with his two mates, his old buddies from Los Teques. The boys were raring for a big night out. Coke and women. I just wanted a steak dinner and a couple of beers.

  We got two rooms in a hotel on a busy street. I put my bag down on the bed. Bruce and Billy walked into my room. I filled Billy in on my plans. ‘Billy, I’m leaving, I’m getting the hell out of Venezuela.’

  ‘What, with no passport or nothing – are you mad?’

  ‘No, I’m going. Bruce is making a few calls to get me to the border.’

  ‘Done already, Paul,’ said Bruce, standing next to him. ‘I got a hold of this guy. Steve, a Slovakian. Got free from Los Teques a few years ago, met a nice Colombian chica in Caracas and stuck around. Now he’s hooked into a Colombian drug outfit working out of Cali. They say they can get you to the border.’

  ‘Excellent. How much?’

  ‘Talk to them yourself. They want to meet tonight. One hour.’

  ‘This is
madness,’ said Billy, pleading. ‘You’ll get caught and get sent back.’

  ‘If I can get out now, I’m going. That’s that.’

  ‘No, no, it won’t work.’

  ‘It will and I’m doing it.’

  Billy sighed, leaving me to my plans.

  * * *

  Two men and a woman sat at the back of the bar. ‘That’s them,’ said Bruce. We sat down. I nodded curtly at the three. A waitress in a leather skirt and tight top put three bottles of beer in front of us. Myself and Billy sipped our beers and stayed quiet while Bruce spoke for a few minutes with Steve.

  ‘OK,’ said Bruce, interpreting, ‘they say yes, they can take you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It’s ten million bolos.’

  I nearly spat out my beer. ‘That’s about two thousand euro. Bit steep, no?’

  ‘He says another option is they take you for free. But in Colombia they give you cocaine to take back to Europe, to Madrid.’ This was how I ended up in jail in the first place. No way. But I wasn’t turning it down flat. I had about ten million bolos spare to pay them. But that was cash for my flight home from Colombia. I wasn’t using that.

  ‘Tell him I’ll sleep on it.’ They were betting I’d go for the drug-mule option, knowing I probably didn’t have ten million bolos. But I was sure I could play them too.

  * * *

  There was a knock on the door in the morning. I got up out of bed. It was Billy. He had been sleeping in the next room with Bruce. His hair was sticking up in all directions. ‘I’m going, Paul, I’m going with you. I can’t stay here for another five years.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, sitting up. ‘We’ll get out of here together.’ I knew there was a long, dangerous road ahead. But I was getting out of this country.

  Later I told Bruce I was up for the trip and that I’d carry the drugs back to Europe. I knew in my head I wouldn’t do it. Not after all I’d been through. But I could use these people to get to Colombia. There I could slip out of their hands. No matter how dangerous it was. I wasn’t telling Bruce of my plans; there was no point.

  He made a phone call to Steve that evening. ‘Right, it’s on for Monday.’ Here we go.

  An hour later the phone rang again. ‘Sorry, he says no, it’s Friday now.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ It was a hiccup, but I could deal with it.

  Myself and Billy bade farewell to Bruce at the hotel reception. A man in a string vest sat behind the counter waving a folded-up newspaper in his face in the heat. ‘You sure you’re not coming with us?’ I said to Bruce.

  ‘Nah, I’ve a hammock on the coast. Rum and cokes for a few months, with the chica coming up to visit me.’

  ‘OK, Bruce.’

  Billy made a call to Father Pat. ‘He says the two of us can stay for a few nights.’ Great. That was that sorted out.

  Later we stood in Father Pat’s kitchen drinking tea, chatting about how lucky myself and Billy were to get out of Los Teques alive. I kept my plans about fleeing Venezuela to myself. I didn’t want the authorities knocking on Father Pat’s door some day asking questions about my whereabouts. If they did, he could honestly say he didn’t know.

  * * *

  The parole hearing. The judge stared down at me in sympathy. My cheeks bulged. I had balls of cotton wool shoved into them, stuffed up at the gums. Saliva was dribbling down my chin.

  After I got my papers I was supposed to go straight to the halfway house. My mission was to postpone that. To buy a few days till Friday, when I’d skip the country. If not, I’d have to go to the halfway house tonight and sign in and out every day. Questions would be asked if I didn’t return after the day release.

  Billy stood up and spoke in Spanish. ‘Mr Keany is very sick, your honour, in a lot of pain,’ he said to the lady judge. She nodded earnestly. ‘He has had heavy dental work and asks that he delays going to the detention centre for another few days till he finishes his appointments with the dentist.’

  I started rolling my head back and forth. ‘Uugggh, ugggggggggh,’ I groaned, pointing at my cheeks. The public gallery was packed. Some were laughing. The Venos looked on as though myself and Billy were in a two-man gringo comedy act. They’d be right.

  ‘Yes, tell Mr Keany I had some heavy dental work too recently,’ she said in Spanish, ‘and he can take all the time that he needs.’ Another stroke of luck.

  The next few days passed easily in Father Pat’s house. He gave me a list of odd jobs to do to pay for my keep. I was delighted. It was the least I could do considering all he’d done for me over the past two years. I busied about fixing his washing machine and hinges on doors and doing other DIY work around the house. It helped me keep focused on the escape.

  Chapter 27

  ON THE RUN

  WE EMERGED UP FROM THE TUBE STATION OF LA BANDERA IN A GRIMY DISTRICT in Caracas. On the opposite side of the road graffiti of a hammer with a red star read ‘Sigue con Chávez’ (‘Follow Chávez’). That was the last thing I wanted. It was Friday lunchtime. Cars and buses had ground to a halt. No one was going anywhere in a hurry. I wondered whether Steve, his girlfriend and his father would get here on time.

  ‘Where are they?’ said Billy.

  ‘They’re coming. Steve texted me.’ I saw the three of them abandon a taxi a block up the road and run towards us.

  ‘Bit late. Traffic crazy,’ said Steve, panting.

  ‘I see that.’

  ‘But you know the deal: you go with my girl’s father to the border.’ I didn’t know he could speak such good English. ‘Myself and my girl,’ he said, ‘we gotta go for a meeting. My girl’s father Miguel will take care of all.’ The old guy nodded. He was in his 50s, had a leathery face and wore a checked shirt. Too old for drug running, I thought. Then again, so was I. ‘The bus station is just a few minutes’ walk,’ continued Steve. ‘The bus goes all the way to the border overnight.’ His girlfriend pulled at his arm. ‘I gotta go,’ he said, running off hand in hand with his chica. ‘Miguel will take care of everything.’

  Billy spoke with Miguel. ‘We follow him,’ he said.

  The entrance to the bus station was a mass of bodies pushing and shoving. We walked up three ramps that zigzagged up into an area where the bus-company offices were. Miguel kept a close eye on us all the time. He bought three tickets to San Cristóbal. ‘That’s it,’ said Billy, ‘the city near Colombia.’ Silvio had told us it was a good 18-hour bus journey from Caracas to San Cristóbal in one of his escape-route classes.

  We boarded the bus. It was a proper, professional coach. I was expecting something like you’d see in the movies in places like Peru: a bus with squawking chickens and kids on the roof.

  Miguel took a seat at the back. We sat in the two seats just in front. The bus pulled off and inched through traffic. I looked at my phone. It was just after 4 p.m. All going well we’d be in San Cristóbal the next day at about midday.

  * * *

  After a couple of hours I woke up from a deep sleep as the bus jerked to a halt. It was dark outside. All I could make out through the window was a thicket of trees on the opposite side of the road. We were deep in Venezuelan countryside. It was about midnight. Then I noticed two jeeps with Guardia Nacional written on the side. Blue lights flashed.

  No. It can’t be.

  One of the troops boarded the bus. ‘Just play it cool, Billy,’ I said. My heart raced, but I didn’t want Billy panicking too. The guard walked slowly down the aisle. He went from seat to seat checking IDs. We were at the back of the bus. He came closer now. My body tensed. Don’t let it all be over.

  ‘Pasaporte,’ he said, standing in front of us. My eyes jumped out at him. Myself and Billy looked at each other, thinking the same thing: what do we do? I wanted to shout ‘let us go’, then I calmed myself.

  ‘No pasaporte,’ I said. ‘Compañero,’ I added, pointing behind to Miguel. The soldier looked back at Miguel. He held out his hand with a 100-bolo note (about 20 euro) tucked in behind his ID card.

&n
bsp; I sat there sweating, my hands clenched into fists.

  The soldier pocketed the note and handed Miguel back his ID. He then turned and walked up the opposite side of the bus towards the front.

  I watched the soldier descend the bus steps. The bus engine rumbled. The cop walked over to the two parked jeeps. I saw him talking to two other troops. Please don’t tell them. Let us go.

  The bus pulled off and about ten minutes down the road I relaxed. ‘Jesus, that was a close call.’

  ‘Too close,’ said Billy, shaking his head. ‘I thought we were gone.’

  ‘That’ll be the last one now,’ I said. Silvio’s escape classes were coming back to me. ‘You will get one or maybe two army stops,’ he said. I hoped it would only be one.

  * * *

  The next morning I watched the sun rising. It peeped over a mountain ridge in the distance, almost winking at me. Soon dark clouds were scattered across the sky and light rain sprayed the window. The bus was ascending a mountain, labouring up steep roads. I stared out at the landscape. Swollen rivers. Jagged mountains.

  Soon we started descending from the mountains and doing good speed on a wide motorway with brisk traffic. I could make out a town in the distance. On the left I saw a sign for an ‘Aeropuerto’. ‘Be nice to get out of here, Billy, fly home,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, hit the skies.’ But without passports, no chance.