Snowing in Bali (11 page)

Rafael looked down at the Judas. ‘I will kill you, fool, but first I want my money. Now stand up, motherfucker, let's go.' Marco's men moved aside, clearing a path for the crazed drug boss to pass with his captive.

I get, like, evil.

As they walked, a reckless stranger flew over and snapped a photo. Rafael went beserk, yanking the knife out of his back pocket and pointing it at him, screaming, ‘You come here, mother­fucker, give me the fucking camera now.' He handed it over instantly.

One of Marco's horses tried to calm him down. ‘Rafael, come on, don't do this.'

Rafael spun around with his knife held ready to attack. ‘You want to fight me too, motherfucker, come on then, try your luck,' he shouted. He swept around with the knife, slicing the air, daring anyone to make a move, then grabbed Marco, and snapped, ‘Marco, come with me, come.'

He came like a chicken.

The atmosphere in the car was tense. ‘How're you going to pay me, motherfucker?' Rafael spat tersely. ‘I want my $20,000 plus the cost of the pills.'

Marco was obsequious, eager to comply with anything. ‘I have $3000 cash now; I'll give it to you. Let's go to my room.'

At Bali Village, Marco gave Rafael $3000 cash, two surfboards and another camera. Rafael did his own sweep, taking anything else of any value, including a paraglider, which he knew Marco needed for Lemon Juice runs, and his passport. ‘I don't want this shit, I want my money. I give you two weeks. If you don't pay, first I'm gonna burn your passport just to fuck you. Second, I'm gonna torture you. The rest is secret. You gonna have to wait to see what I do.' Rafael was calmer now, and trying to scare him into submission.

It worked. Marco organised most of the cash within two weeks.

Everybody on the island talked about this. Nobody ever expected me to do that. I was the nicest guy in the world and then I went crazy. But nobody fuck with me after that. Because Marco was the top, famous guy here, and then I made him like a chicken in front of all his guys on the beach. I don't know why nobody had done that before because he was bad, he did bullshit with everybody, small things like he takes money and promises, ‘Tomorrow I bring your Lemon Juice,' and then, ‘Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow.' But I was the one who give big shit to him.

Afterwards, we become friends again. He say, ‘Oh, I never think you're gonna punch me like that.' I say, ‘I never think you were gonna fuck me like that. You're lucky I didn't stick the knife in you; I was ready. I was thinking to clean my name, the best way to kill you and then everybody's afraid, nobody going to try to bullshit me anymore. Because you know how people talk, everybody will say, “Oh, Rafael killed Marco, don't play with him, because he can kill you.” '. . . Like I say to Marco, ‘You're going to be my marketing to be a bad boy.' He says, ‘I'm sorry. I was too high on coke, and I see you full of money, cars, motorbike, I get big eyes at that time.'

– Rafael

Marco had been riling a lot of people, paying horses late, not delivering Lemon Juice on time and being generally arrogant.

He was too much of a motherfucker to pay – tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. And then the horse or other people get crazy, want to punch him, but if you punch him, you won't get the money. That's what he wants. Lose your temper, punch him, ah fuck, you're not going to get anything. It was hard to work with him.

– Andre

Being Bali's Lemon Juice boss had given Marco the kudos and power that had eluded him as the underdog growing up. He'd been the poor kid, ingratiating himself into the rich crew by using his big personality, and quick wit. His gregarious, sunny personality had been his ticket to the playboy lifestyle since he was a teenager in Brazil.

He was a clown, very funny, always full of jokes, but very arrogant. He really liked to be noticed, very egocentric guy and always liked to be the centre of attention. He was always pretending he was the number one boss in Bali, but he was just dealing marijuana. When you deal marijuana you are nothing compared to people who deal cocaine or ecstasy or heroin, unless you're dealing tonnes of marijuana.

He always thought he was the best, because everybody was always looking for him to get the best marijuana on the island, he was always acting like he was on top of the world . . . he walked around full of attitude . . . sitting in a restaurant full of arrogance, always with superiority.

In what way?

The way he talked to the people . . . he always liked to feel important. There was a time he started to tell people his name was Max, because he was the ‘maximum'. I was like, ‘Fucking Max, give me a break.' Max is minimum, not maximum. But he was a funny guy.

– Alberto, drug dealer

The Lemon Juice boss's fortunes had gone up and down ever since he was a child. Marco had begun life with a silver spoon in his mouth, but it had quickly tarnished. He was born into a rich family in Manaus, the Amazon's capital city, to a young beauty queen whose own father was a wealthy media mogul. But life turned dark for the young boy when he first saw his father bash his mother. They moved to Rio, where before long his mother left behind her two toddler sons.

My mother escaped from the house when I was three years old because my father beat her. I don't use my father's name because I'm angry with him. I saw him beat my mother. I was a very small boy, but even now I can still remember.

– Marco

There was still money for a while, enough to give Marco ten years of show jumping lessons – and a nanny and maid in a nice apartment 50 metres from the beach in Rio's up-market Ipanema district. When the cash ran out, he became the poor kid from the Amazon jungle, mixing with Rio's rich kids, earning him the nickname
Curumim
– or little Indian boy – which stuck. But he was popular, winning his place in the elite group by being able to make people laugh.

He became a beach boy, with all the rich-kid toys like surfboards, jet-skis and hang-gliders, courtesy of his best friend Beto, Marco's idol, who seemingly had everything: parents who loved him, good looks, money and as many gorgeous girls as a rock star. He was also an exceptional all-round sportsman, with tennis, surfing and hang-gliding his main pursuits. His father was a Rio property mogul. If the family flew to Aspen to snowboard, or Europe for a holiday, they'd take little Marco, paying for everything and slinging him spending money.

Marco was the funny guy in the group, the poor one. And then they go to Aspen to snowboard, and let's bring Marco because he's fun, so funny, makes jokes all the time.

– Rafael

My friend Beto was always using cocaine, but he was a strong guy, blond guy, much more beautiful than me. I'm nothing compared to him; he's a very beautiful guy and very rich. More than 100 girls want to marry him. But listen, the guy did everything for me. When I turned 16, he gave me a green Volkswagen. I had no licence, but I could drive. I was his driver for two years. I drove Beto up the mountain when he was hang-gliding and after he flew I went to get him on the beach. Beto said if I crashed the car, ‘No problem, papa will buy you a new one.' This family brought me to Europe, America, to everywhere, because before I have no money, no money and no family. The problem was like that.

– Marco

But Beto's largesse came at a heavy cost. Four years younger and indebted, Marco did anything to please his best friend. Beto soon had his hilariously funny, pliable young acolyte, at just 14 years old, running up into Rio's dangerous
favelas
– mountain slums full of criminals and drug dealers – to get him cocaine. The kid did it like a grateful puppy.

I've been playing narcotics in Brazil for a long time. My friend Beto put me in this business when I was a little boy. He pushed me to get cocaine, not for business – he's a user. He would bring me to the bottom of the
favela,
stop the car far away, and say, ‘Go.' Then I walk up 20 minutes, all the way to the top of the mountain with my schoolbag, past 20 dangerous policemen with guns. At the top they call . . . ‘Little boy, what you want? Black or white?' Black is marijuana, white is cocaine. ‘I want white.' ‘Ooh, good boy.' I say, ‘I like cocaine.' Bullshit. I never used the cocaine. I was a little boy, I was a child. I go up with my lunchbox and come down with a stack of cocaine for my friend.

– Marco

It wasn't long before Marco was doing much more than filling up his lunchbox. Starting to hang-glide at just 14 years, he quickly realised a natural talent. By 16 years he was competing inter­nationally, with his first overseas trip to Bogotá, Colombia, Pablo Escobar's turf. Marco won and flew home with a gold trophy in his hands and white snow in his pants.

Beto told me, ‘Marco, take this.' So I arrive back in Brazil with seven hang-gliding pilots, a trophy and 100 grams of cocaine in my underwear. Nobody checked anything.

– Marco

To Marco it was the perfect set-up; trafficking drugs gave him the means to fly, and flying gave him the means to traffic. It catapulted him into a playboy lifestyle. On his second overseas trip to America, at 17, his career of commercial trafficking began.

Believe me, when I go to California there is [a man like] Pablo Escobar – a boss, selling drugs around Brazil, around the world – he came to me and says, ‘Marco, now listen to me. You go to America. I have many friends in America, international, so you can make more money.' I take 3 kilos the first time, came through easy. There is another Pablo Escobar . . . came to my hang-glider.

I compete everywhere in the world and always I bring narcoba [drugs]. I take cocaine to America, to Italy, to Spain, to Portugal, Switzerland, Germany, Australia, everywhere. I'm a Brazilian champion, so when I come, they check but they don't really check.

– Marco

The trafficking gave Marco his own cash for the first time. It gave him freedom to fly, and he would often soar in the skies above Rio, sometimes 3000 feet up – so high that the arms of the famous statue of Christ would fade out, then disappear. Sometimes he'd circle with 10 or 20 others, flying close for a chat, before swooping through the sky like a god – with adrenalin in his veins and peace in his heart. Often, to enhance the bliss and awe, he'd smoke a joint before launching off.

Ooh, it's the best you know; a very good sensation if you smoke a joint to fly. Wow. I always smoke and fly, smoke and fly, you know, like meditation. I have flown many places in your country, you know. I fly everywhere over there: Adelaide, Stanwell Park, Byron Bay, the Gold Coast, I fly everywhere. I fly competition for 12 years, I always carry some cocaine.

– Marco

A near-fatal accident when he was 19 undoubtedly instilled a deep sense of invincibility. It was as if some angel was perched on his shoulder. He crashed his glider into a sheer Rio cliff. Miraculously, his glider clipped a single isolated branch and snagged on it, leaving him precariously dangling 700 metres up. A friend flew his glider close, calling, ‘Marco, you okay?' There was no answer, but the friend couldn't risk going closer and getting entangled. Two helicopters flew in to rescue him, but it was a sensitive and complex mission to ensure the wind from the rotating blades didn't blow him off, into a death plunge.

I hang by one tree for four and a half hours. I need two helicopters to help me, because my position in the rock is negative [concave], so they cannot get me. After four hours, a helicopter pilot rescued me. It was like a miracle. I have no injury and they put in television, newspaper and radio.

Straight after his TV interviews, he borrowed a glider, went back up to the top of the cliff and took off again. Those who knew him weren't surprised.

The accident undoubtedly swelled his sense of invincibility, which equipped him well for drug trafficking – never showing any fear – but also making him dangerously reckless.

Blithely, he flew all over the globe with his hang-glider loaded up with blow, even to notoriously tricky countries like Australia. Twice he flew to Sydney for competitions, making double his usual trafficking fee, at $10,000 a kilo – ‘Australian people love cocaine so much.' He breezed into Sydney on his first trip with 5 kilos, as part of a 12-pilot Brazilian team. ‘There are 20 hang-gliders and only one has stuff – mine. But they don't check at all.' On the second trip to Sydney, he took 7 kilos, tipping a friend to bring some coke too, telling him it was easy. Marco made it in, but his friend, and friend's partners, didn't.

When I came second time I call my other friend in Brazil, I say come over because it's no problem.

I flew Rio-LA, LA-Honolulu, Honolulu-Sydney. My friend came the other way; he flew Rio, Argentina, Auckland, Sydney. But in Auckland, there was this very small dog, and they found the stuff in his hang-glider. They don't arrest him because he was in transit, so they call the Australian police and say, ‘There are two Brazilian guys arriving with drugs in their hang-glider.'

Did they go to jail?

Yeah, my friend went to jail for five and a half years in Sydney.

– Marco

The court was told that 20 packets of cocaine weighing more than 2.6 kilos were brought into Australia from South America compressed inside the struts of the dismantled hang-glider . . . In his defence Sonino, a Brazilian hang-gliding champion, said he had come to Australia for a world hang-gliding championship in January.

–
Sydney Morning Herald,
13 November 1987

Marco was undeterred by his friends' bad luck. Trafficking was his game; he was brazen, confident and loved it. But he had a penchant for tempting fate. On his way out of Sydney loaded up with drug money, he risked a kamikaze-style joke, crazily baiting an immigration officer. He pulled out a $10,000 wad, waving the notes in the official's face, taunting, ‘You are crazy, man, I want to stay here for two, three months, I have $10,000 to spend, all this money here, but you only give me a month visa.'