Snowing in Bali (12 page)

I was joking with the guy. I'm always joking you know, that's my biggest problem. Always joking. The guy let me go inside the plane, the engine was already on . . . and then the door opens again, two officers come and look . . . then they say, ‘That's him,' then, ‘You follow us, let's go.' I follow them to a small room, I take in my backpack, the other US$28,000 I had inside my professional book [containing photos and his CV]. He asked me, ‘You have more money?' I say, ‘I have.'

– Marco

Marco had US$38,000, but no Australian dollars. On the advice of his Sydney buyer, he'd spent days traipsing around Kings Cross, carrying plastic shopping bags stuffed with Aussie dollars to change at banks and money changers. So legally, the cash didn't belong to Australia. It worked.

After 45 minutes, they ask many things, you know, and I start joking, joking, joking. I say to the officer, ‘You can say the money is from drugs, you can say whatever you want, but this money belongs to America and not to you, man.' I say, ‘Man, you have to kill me to take my money. You have to shoot me. If you want to take my money, I make a big problem here . . . I call my embassy. This money don't belong to you.' It's already 45 minutes, people waiting in the flight. I say, ‘What do you want?' And the officer says to me, ‘Next time I get you.' And then I say to him, ‘Okay, I see you next time, bye-bye.'

– Marco

Aside from traversing the globe with his glider worth its weight in cocaine, Marco spent time instructing students and also flying ultra-gliders above Rio's beaches with advertisements for companies like McDonald's, Coca-Cola and Pepsi. It wasn't until his late twenties that he first flew to Bali after a close friend urged him to come. He was quickly lured by the lifestyle the tropical isle offered. The azure sparkling oceans and sunny days let him swim, surf, jet-ski, and hang-glide endlessly.

My life was 24 hours – morning surfing, afternoon flying. I love sport, I do sport all the time.

– Marco

Soon he was travelling between three homes, in Bali, Rio and Amsterdam, quickly getting a profile in Bali as ‘the man', or the boss of top-grade dope, selling to rich expats, tourists and surfers. In Amsterdam he had an X-ray machine at home to check the drugs were invisible, before sending his horses to Bali and Brazil.

Marco was the best serving these kind of really rich people; the really high-class, rich people. These people like skunk, the good weed – it's like drinking French champagne. The right level of people, the people who have a big house, these are the customers. No one is smoking Sumatran weed. Bad smell, bad taste. They wanna get the best.

– Andre

He was the guy to get weed from. Anybody who was anybody who wanted to buy weed would buy it from him. He had a monopoly. He rode around on a motorbike with a fluorescent yellow windbreaker with big block letters saying Lemon Juice. Guys say to him, ‘What are you doing, man, why don't you just go to the cops and get the handcuffs on now?' Everyone knew Lemon Juice was weed. The cops I'm sure knew too. And he's like, it's just advertising it, you know.

– Gabriel, American surfer

Marco was the pioneer of the Lemon Juice dope runs, also introducing his inspired idea of using paragliders to carry dope. It had changed the game, by giving horses the ability to carry up to 12 kilos in one run. Many of the big dealers, like Rafael and Dimitrius, had started out in the business as Marco's horses, and most of his friends were doing runs, even if it was just a little bit in their shoes.

Marco's horses were often educated, middle-class, wealthy and even included one of Brazil's top male models, working for Armani and Gucci, flying between South America, Europe and Bali. With his hot looks and fame, he breezed with only scant checks through customs, easily trafficking kilos of dope. He was a playboy who'd had trysts with stars like Madonna and Princess Stephanie of Monaco, and had once worked with Cindy Crawford, impressing the guys when he sat chatting with her one night in a Bali bar.

He took big amounts, 3 kilos, 6 kilos. All my good friends bring Lemon Juice to Bali. No one touched him because he was famous.

– Marco

He was one of the most beautiful guys I've met in my life. The mother­fucker was beautiful. He's the best friend of Curumim. Curumim liked to hang out with him because he was one of the most famous faces in the world at that time. All the girls kill themselves to fuck him. I was jealous, because every girl wants him. He caught all the rich bitches; even the Princess of Monaco, he fuck Madonna, he was the man.

– Rafael

Marco paid his horses around $2000 a kilo to traffic, still making a good profit after deducting hotel and flight costs. He bought a kilo of dope in Amsterdam for $3000 and in Bali sold it for $500 per 25 grams, adding up to $20,000 per kilo.

Most of the guys in Bali start this business working for Marco. Marco was the first one, and almost all the guys start carrying drugs for Marco.

– Andre

Marco was living the high life, doing a chef course in Lausanne, Switzerland – ‘I make good food, believe me' – snowboarding in the Austrian Alps, and ‘snowboarding' in Bali; another Marco-coined expression that caught on as a euphemism for using cocaine. He shouted friends trips on live-abroad surfboats, and once paid for Rafael to take a trip to Sydney with him. He was always fun, chatting to everyone in a plane or bar, sniffing coke in the plane toilets, shouting rounds of drinks, breaking into Gloria Gaynor's ‘Never Can Say Goodbye'. The air was always electric around Marco.

He was always pushing the boundaries, tempting fate. Hang-gliding in Sydney with Rafael, he'd insist on launching from forbidden spots, and end up being chased by police. He'd also always travel with drugs for personal use, once nearly getting busted. ‘Inside I had 100 grams of cocaine, 30 grams of Lemon Juice, but this time I make small eggs, I put in my ass.'

Arriving at Sydney Airport with Rafael, Marco was collecting his luggage from the carousel when a little dog started sniffing his backside. It became a running joke among the dealers that he'd passed wind as he picked up his bags. Again, he got away with it.

He was always sniffing inside the aeroplane. All the time he travel, he put something in the ass just for himself, it's crazy.

– Andre

His life was a blast – he was living his dream, until the day he crashed a glider in Bali and died. For years he'd been making disparaging jokes about paragliders using ‘plastic bags', believing it was a lesser sport than hang-gliding. But one afternoon, untypically flying a ‘plastic bag', he lost control and crashed hundreds of metres to earth.

Lying there unconscious, with blood pouring out of his nose and mouth, it looked hopeless. He'd broken his femur, hip and ankle and split his intestines. ‘When the doctor in Denpasar come to see me, he says I'm already dead.' But his long-time loyal friend Gui, the guy who'd called out to him on his first crash into the cliff all those years earlier, wasn't giving up without a fight.

Gui organised a plane to take him to Singapore, where he'd get better medical care – in Bali they were already talking about amputating his foot. While waiting for the plane, Marco, who'd lost 3 litres of blood, had a transfusion from a friend with a matching blood type. It took 24 hours to organise the flight, as the pilot insisted on cash upfront. Once he had it, they took off.

Flying over Jakarta, Marco had a heart attack and died, but was resuscitated. With the plane's oxygen then depleted, Gui told the pilot to go down. The plane made a pit stop in Jakarta to fill up on oxygen. Marco was critical, slipping in and out of consciousness. When he finally made it to Singapore General Hospital, he was in bad shape and looked unlikely to make it.

This is the most emotional story ever. When I have the accident, I die. Marco survives again. Oh, you don't believe, you don't believe . . . My heart stopped, back again, first time. Second time, inside a flight, third time in Jakarta. I have three heart attacks. You don't believe . . .

In Singapore I'd been in a coma for one month, the doctor says, ‘Marco is already dead', they bring the priest, my mother came, he say, ‘Marco is already dead.' And then he make like a prayer, ‘Maria, Marco bye-bye', and then the priest says to my mother, ‘You have to pay $100.' My mother gives money to the priest. The priest goes away . . . after five minutes I open my eyes, ‘Mamma mamma.' Then my mother tried to find the priest but he already escaped.

– Marco

After three months of drifting in and out of comas, Marco recovered well enough to do a runner, escaping Singapore without paying his hospital bill. It was more than $200,000 and even after insurance and friends chipping in, he owed more than $50,000. For the next two years, he was in a wheelchair, but used it to his advantage smuggling Lemon Juice to Bali.

His friends thought that the accident might make him less erratic, reckless and arrogant, but it seemed to exacerbate those traits. He'd fallen from the skies, defied death a second time; now, despite being left with a permanent limp, he truly believed he was invincible. Rafael had been working less and less with him since the accident, and after the ecstasy con, he boycotted any jobs with him, although he would later inadvertently be involved in the most deadly run of all.

After the accident, he talk bullshit about everybody, make gossip. If he knows about some deal, he talks with the wrong people to make shit. He was crazy. Man, I only help this motherfucker, I give coke, I give money, I give girls, I give him everything and then he wants to fuck with me. This guy is trouble walking – he talk too much. I start to keep a distance, because I think he get crazy.

– Rafael

CHAPTER NINE

THE HORSE WHISPERER

As much as the guys sometimes fell out, they were usually out playing again soon. One night, Rafael invited a bunch to dinner at one of Bali's best restaurants, Warisan. After a 4-kilo win, it was his shout. They sat at a table in an al fresco corner, overlooking rice paddies. A few of them were with pretty young hookers or girlfriends, and it quickly got lively, with champagne flowing at the table and cocaine snowing in the bathroom. But the relaxed ambience was about to turn.

We celebrate, the horse just arrive with 4 kilos. Cash coming. I was very happy.

– Rafael

A Brazilian man ambled up to one of the dealers, Black Julio, who vaguely knew him, asking if he could take his photo. But it was a ruse. Instead, he spun around and snapped a shot of Marco. Marco saw it and sensed danger, dashing over to Rafael, asking, ‘Who's that?' Rafael didn't know, but was blasé until Marco said, ‘I think he's a cop.'

‘What? Why?' Rafael was suddenly listening. For all Marco's japery, his instincts were red hot. ‘We're the only drug dealers here, and the guy has a camera, come on it's a crazy coincidence.' Rafael scrutinised the guy as he was talking to Black Julio, but he noticed Rafael looking.

He moseyed over, said ‘Hi', then quick as a flash took a shot of Rafael. Instinctively, Rafael grabbed the camera: ‘Hey, why did you take a photo of me?' The guy tussled, yanking his camera back, but he was either naïve or stupid as he didn't stand a chance against these guys.

Bras flew around behind him and, in a Jiu-Jitsu choke move, squeezed his neck, cut the blood to his brain and blacked him out, then lowered him to the ground. Rafael quickly checked his pockets, but found nothing.

The restaurant was large, with tables spread out, so other diners didn't seem to notice the fracas. But a waiter raced straight over, asking, ‘What's happened?' A prerequisite for being a good drug dealer was staying cool in a hot spot, and making up stories, so Rafael easily slipped into casual banter. ‘Oh, this guy is very drunk, sorry. We'll take him out before he throws up.' Rafael and Bras hauled him off the floor, slung his limp arms around their shoulders and dragged him out.

After dumping him on the concrete, Bras slapped his face to get the blood circulating, and as he came to, gripped him by the throat. Rafael asked, ‘Why did you take a photo of me, mother­fucker? Who are you?'

He gave a glassy-eyed stare, but didn't speak. Bras tightened his grip. Rafael grabbed the camera, ripped out the film and threw it back onto his chest. ‘Mother­fucker, we don't want to see you again. If we do, we will kill you. This time we're giving you a chance, but you better run for your life.'

They watched him get up and bolt. The dealers didn't let the incident ruin the rest of the night, but it was unnerving. They suspected he'd been working for bad Brazilian cops, who notoriously kidnapped the children of rich drug bosses for ransom. Whoever he was, they knew he was up to no good.

The playboys needed to be as careful of the Brazilian cops as the Bali cops, with many of them spending several months a year in Brazil and the cops now aware of the runs between Amsterdam, Bali and Brazil. Marco was sharing his apartment in Amsterdam with another trafficker, Andre, to split the cost. Like Marco, Andre lived between Bali, Holland and Brazil. Unlike him, he was scrupulously careful with the cash he made, building an empire, but was already being watched by the cops.

Although Andre spent a lot of time in Bali partying with the others, he was an entrepreneur, with two top restaurants, one nightclub, and a beachfront mansion with a swimming pool and private gym in an exclusive beach resort area, Garopaba, South Brazil. He also had two apartments in São Paulo, and a share in a surf camp in Sumatra, Indonesia. He drove a $100,000 car and flew to Hawaii and Europe at least once a month. He lived in Bali several months a year, during the surf season, which coincided with the winter months in Brazil, when his seaside city virtually closed down and his restaurants shut. He was splurging a fortune on air tickets.

For him, this was why he dealt drugs – to get filthy rich. And it was working.

Every month, I send cocaine to Europe and get €50,000 profit or I send every month 2 kilos, 3 kilos and every month come €50,000, €100,000 profit. In Brazil my life was fucking beautiful.

– Andre

To Andre, life was about the ability to wake up in Brazil, whimsically fly to Paris for a David Guetta concert and then on to Hawaii or Bali to surf a few days later. Living moment to moment made him feel alive. But such an indulgent lifestyle costs big bucks, and it was a freak incident one dark night, when he was just 19 years old, that gave him the key to living his impulsive dreams.

He was smart, educated and polite, from a wealthy upper middle-class family. His sisters were doctors; he was the black sheep. As a teenager, he'd sacrificed his family, choosing a fast life of fast bucks over humdrum routine. He was studying tourism at university and working casually at his father's fishing company, selling shrimp to São Paulo's top restaurants, when overnight it rained money.

I was in the house and the captain from one of my father's boats comes and says, ‘Hey, Andre, you smoke marijuana, don't you?' I was surprised. I say, ‘Yeah, Master Antonio, you know I like marijuana. Why?' He says, ‘The beach is full of marijuana.' And he shows me one pineapple can full of really, really good quality stuff. This was a point in my life when it changed.

Andre raced down to the beach and saw hundreds of washed up pineapple tins scattered on the sand. In the moonlight, he ran around collecting 108 tins, which he stashed in his father's beach house. The next day he saw a newsflash. Police had intercepted and raided a ship passing the Brazilian coastline and two container loads of pineapple tins, stuffed with 20 tonnes of marijuana, had been thrown overboard to evade arrest. For Andre, it was like Christmas and the catalyst to a new, decadent life. Alone.

One day I have an old car, I put shrimps inside it and go to São Paulo to sell them to make money. The next day I have $108,000 in marijuana, I buy a new car and I park it in my house in São Paulo. My dad just looks at me, he looks at the car, he doesn't say anything. We have dinner with the family; afterwards he calls me to his office and says, ‘Andre, I know you are a drug dealer. I know you have a lot of cans in the beach house. You have two days to clear them out.'

My father is a harbour man, a hard man. He has three really nice daughters; he doesn't need a crazy guy around. He tells me, ‘If you want to live in this house, you can live here. Stop doing this and you can keep your family. But if you want to be a drug dealer, please, get out.' So I'm 19 years old, $100,000 in my pocket, he gives me the option. I go straight to California.

He was soon a busy LA drug dealer, selling cocaine, LSD and marijuana, often roller-skating along the Venice Beach esplanade with a bag of gear. He'd hooked up with a bunch of surfers, mostly Mexicans and Brazilians, who were sharing a condominium. The Mexicans were smuggling drugs across the border from Tijuana, so drugs were on tap. Andre spent his days selling and surfing, with regular trips down to Hawaii to ride the big waves. Before long, he joined the fast flow of surfers to Bali.

At 22, with a backpack slung over his shoulder, packed full of clothes and LSD, he walked into the surfers' haunt, the Aquarius Hotel, situated on the main street in Kuta. This was Andre's first time in Bali and it was the early 1990s, so things were very basic, with few hotels, and stinking open drains flanking the sides of roads. Andre checked into a room, grabbed his board and hit the beach.

Within days he was connected to the island's Peruvian players, who were pioneering the coke scene, easily paying for a life of surfing and partying by bringing blow from their backyard. Andre's LSD didn't sell, but he quickly learnt coke was the drug to play.

I saw these Peruvian guys in Bali, really rich: Poca, Mario, Borrador and Jerome. Big hotels, the best cars, big, big boats, they live like kings. This opened my eyes, this got me interested in smuggling to Bali. These guys introduced me to the buyers of cocaine, to boats, the best waves, many girls, cars, everything. I came here for one month, stayed three months, and went back with my mind really, really running: ‘Wow, that place was amazing.' Perfect for me, first because I met the Peruvian guys, and because it felt like paradise. The most friendly people, always smiling. If you have money in Bali, you live like a king. And I started bringing here.

Andre did three coke runs to Bali, stashing one or two kilos into the speakers of a sound system. The first time he sold to Chino and made $40,000, he was hooked. But he was savvy, with the opinion that, if you're smart, you become an investor or boss, avoiding the risk of carrying. He was quickly using a stable of horses to move coke from Brazil to Bali and Amsterdam. And, with his tactic of turning horses around in Amsterdam, repacked with ecstasy and marijuana, his business exploded. Suddenly, the world was his playground . . . just the way he'd pictured it.

You get one lifestyle, really high, you know. Going to the airport and taking a flight is as normal as taking a bus.

Andre also sometimes got his horses to bring cash back – up to €300,000, in €500 notes, hidden in secret compartments in their suitcases. ‘If the police in Brazil catch you with €200,000, they either kill you or steal your money. The big risk is in Brazil.'

The risk in Europe was having the cash confiscated, as Andre found out one day. Flying out of Holland with €100,000, he was searched. Customs found two packets of €500 bills stashed in a pouch in his underpants. They took the cash, made him sign a document in Dutch, and then let him fly back to Brazil. He immediately called a lawyer, who knew a
sponk
lawyer in Amsterdam, who worked exclusively for drug traffickers.

This guy ask me, ‘How much money?' ‘€100,000.' ‘You sign something?' ‘Yes.' ‘It was Dutch?' ‘Yes.' ‘You understand Dutch?' ‘No.' ‘Okay, you can get your money back.' This
sponk
gets the money and sends it to my lawyer in Brazil. I pay 20 per cent for the two lawyers; I lost €20,000, but better than losing it all.

And only because they made you sign something you couldn't understand?

Yeah. In Holland they are really, really precise with the law.

Andre had invested his megabucks into the businesses only after his father died, using the excuse of an inheritance for suddenly being flush with cash.

When my father passed away, for me it was the big launder for the society. My father was not a rich man, but he had something. I tell my sisters, ‘I don't want anything. You can share between you and mamma, I don't need the money.' But I tell everybody else, ‘Oh, now is my time because my father passed away and leave for me good, good money.' Now I can realise my dreams, build restaurant, build my house.

He relished the prestige of being the young, sharply dressed, successful man, invariably with a beautiful girl on his arm, but feared one day his cover would be blown.

I really care about my position in the city, in the society. Nobody had any suspicion about me. Everybody was looking at me like a successful business guy. Good lifestyle, come to Bali for six months, live in Brazil for three months, three months in Hawaii. Always working restaurants, people look, ‘Oh, this is a successful guy.'

And you liked that image?

Yeah. But I am always afraid of the truth.

His Thai restaurant won Best Oriental Restaurant several times, and his Japanese restaurant, with a Bali corner, was also booming. But he was uncomfortable with accolades, aware that, with the cash he was laundering on everything from imported Bali furniture to Balinese-created uniforms for his staff, even a fool could create a beautiful ambience.

I never like to talk too much like, ‘Oh, I'm fucking good, my restaurant is the best.' I never like these titles for me. It's really, really beautiful, but why is my restaurant beautiful, the best restaurant? Because I had support of $1 million a year. If I don't do the best restaurant, I'm stupid. Also, I don't want to call attention on myself. ‘Wow . . . how does this guy have so much money when his restaurant's only open three months a year?'

Seeing his success, and hearing whispers, sometimes young guys or girls approached him, asking to do a run. One day a 22-year-old Frenchman, nicknamed Fox, whose father was working in the French consulate, asked him for a job. Fox's approach was lucky timing, as Andre was about to fly to Bali and always liked to send a few kilos ahead so he'd have cash to play with.

Fox would later meet up with Rafael, work with him, and then double-cross him. But on this first run, like most of his new horses, Andre put him through his paces for three days. Andre's system aimed to reduce the busts by ensuring the horses were fit to run.

Two days, three days before flying are always nervous days for the horse. They're thinking, ‘Oh, I can go to jail', their mind never stops. So when I'm in Brazil, I bring the horse to the beach. ‘You fly Friday, come here Wednesday.' When they come, they are scared, new horses are always scared. So I put him in the style the guy dreams to be in: the best hotel in front of the beach, I hire a nice car for them for two days. ‘Oh you want to do the parties, I know the best place, you will have a VIP pass tonight.' So the guy feels good, feels confident. You need to incorporate this personage – ‘Now I'm the man, I'm going to Bali to spend my vacation there. I was in a beautiful place in Brazil, now I'm going to Bali. I'm going to my paradise to have my vacation.' Forget you have cocaine.

Also, normally I ask, ‘What are you going to do with the money?' Everyone has a dream; the horse always has one thing they want to buy. I ask them, ‘Why you doing this?' ‘Ah, I want to buy a car, I want to change my house.' I just ask the horse once, ‘Are you sure you want to do this? You know about the risks, the death penalty?' ‘Yes.' After they say yes, I don't ask again, just talk about the success. You put the money like 100 per cent in their pocket. ‘What sort of car you want to buy?' ‘Oh, the black one because it's beautiful,' they start to mentalise, see success. I read
The Secret
, it's like that. Mentalisation, this is the big truth of the world; you are what you think; you attract for yourself what you think.