Snowing in Bali (15 page)

‘Shit, I can't go and take it right now, it's night time,' Alberto replied. But the client had a hot deal that couldn't wait. He pushed.

‘It's got to be now, right now.'

‘I'll get it in the morning, it's not safe now.'

‘No, it has to be now.'

Alberto capitulated, ‘Okay, I'll go and get it,' aware it was a bad idea.

Alberto was no longer high, but his instinctive gut paranoia was kicking in. This time of night that beachfront area was notor­iously swarming with Balinese drug dealers, fake drug dealers and Intel police skulking in the shadows with their nets, literally arresting dozens of locals some nights, mostly fake drug dealers who they released the next day. For Alberto, it was a huge risk.

I knew that the place was very, very dodgy to go at night, because a lot of Indo cops hang around there because a lot of drug dealers hang around at night. In the daytime it was full of families, night-time full of cops, so the safest time was like 10 am, 11 am. I had to go there 9 pm, 10 pm and grab it.

After calling the same friend who'd come the day before, they drove back to the spot, almost directly in front of Double Six, a nightclub renowned for its security guards, Laskar gang members, selling drugs with impunity. Alberto braced himself and walked across to the spot.

My friend was watching to see if there was anyone walking. I had to dig for 20, 30 minutes to find it, and then I grabbed the stuff, put it in the waist of my shorts and walked out to my friend. He says to me, ‘Fuck, there's been two guys, real dodgy, look like coppers, Indonesian, they asked me what I was doing here. And I say, I was with a friend who is pissing in the plants. One of those guys there.'

They were walking towards us. I say, ‘Fuck, let's go to the beach,' and we walk into the ocean, and then they walk behind us, follow us, and stop. And they pretend they were talking, and I thought, Fuck man, these guys are coppers. I'm not walking out of the ocean, because in here it's safe. If I see the guys come running, ‘Hey police,' I can just rip the bags and it's gone in the water. No evidence. So I tell my friend, ‘I'm not walking back to the beach. If they grab me, they can grab the evidence.' I was in the water almost to my waist, and he was on the edge of the ocean, and I say, ‘Let's walk to Kuta.'

Alberto started wading in the surf, as his friend paddled along in the shallows. The stretch of beach was intermittently lit up by bars and hotels shining lights on the water for effect. But the swaying palm trees cast long dark shadows and between restaurants there were black spots. Alberto could see the two men walking along the sand, fading in and out with the lights. He noticed them suddenly stop, as another two came out of the shadows from the opposite direction. In the surf, clinging to his bags of blow, Alberto was getting more and more panicky, propelling his legs faster and faster through the water, and keeping a keen eye on the multiplying dark figures on the beach, certain they were Intel police.

They have the look, little moustache and angry face, they looked dodgy. And I could tell, just the way they walk, you know. Then suddenly I saw another two and another two. I was . . . fuck man, now they are talking on the radio, saying ‘Hey, two dodgy guys walking from Double Six, in the water, they look suspicious?' . . . That's what I imagined. I didn't see anybody talking on the radio but I thought like oh for sure they are already on the radio or calling on the phone, telling them come to the beach, ‘We've got two dodgy guys walking in the ocean, we're going to have another bust.'

He was sure they were being called to come out from their spy posts, at nearby restaurants or bars. Everywhere he looked, there were more dark figures moving furtively in and out of the shadows. They were closing in.

Every time I walked past another two, and then another two, or another three . . . I was like, ‘Fuck, now that's it. What can I do?' I even thought about tying a knot and putting the plastic bags in my shorts and just swim, swim, swim, swim far away, where they cannot see me anymore.

He'd walked almost 2 kilometres in the water from Legian to Kuta and the shadowy men were still lurking everywhere. He couldn't take it anymore. ‘Fuck, that's it, I'm gonna throw this shit away,' he said to his friend, still paddling in the shallows. ‘I want you to be my witness that I'm throwing it away because these guys are coppers.'

‘No, no, you're just paranoid.'

‘No, man, I'm not risking my life over 200 grams. They are Intel, so if you want, you go there and look at the guys.' That shut him up.

‘No, I'm not going there.'

‘Then fuck you, man, I'm throwing this, look look, I'm throwing all the shit in the ocean,' he said as he ripped the bags and tipped the blow into the surf.

Finally free of incriminating evidence, he staggered exhausted out of the water across the sand, past some of the men, now sitting on the beach, noticing a few more sitting at a restaurant behind them. Alberto was sure they'd all been watching his little water show.

I walked past them and they all had like military-look haircuts and one of the guys says to me, ‘You want to sell your cell phone? ' And they all started laughing. So I think they saw me throwing all the shit, throwing all the evidence away, and they realised I had a big loss, and they saw me talking on the phone and just joked with me. I don't think it was paranoia. Until today I really think they were cops, I fully do.

Soon, everyone would be paranoid.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TOO HOT

In the days when the boom of the drugs started, there were all these big massive parties, the full moon parties, the theme parties where people would dress up. We were pretty much controlling all the drugs here.

We had that much, and we had the best quality. The best DJs in the world were coming to Bali, so they started throwing these massive parties – the blue party, the white party, the red party, the tiger party – every single person fucked up on drugs. There was a lot of drugs in Bali; a lot of acid, a lot of ecstasy, a lot of cocaine, a lot of heroin. There were a lot of full moon parties. And there were a lot of people overdosing. That was just before they started the massive arrests. So I think it was warming up, warming up, until it gets to the point where it was boiling and they were like, ‘Okay, this is too much.' It was a slow process that got to a point that was over the limit. The dark side came.

Did you go to those parties?

Yep, all of them. All of them. You could buy ecstasy in any single nightclub, and cheap new pills all the time – the white dove, the blue McDonald's, the green Batman – they were so good. Bali was flooded with ecstasy. There was massive consumption of real strong drugs, like ecstasy and MDMA powder . . . and cocaine, but more for the end of the party. There were lots of parties on the beach, in hotels, lots of drugs.

No one worried about the cops busting them?

People had a bit of worry, but weren't super-paranoid. They weren't selling freely but it was a scene that if you want to score drugs, all you had to do is talk to someone who's been living in Bali or coming to Bali often enough. You would be able to buy drugs at any party back in those days.

– Alberto

Drug parties were rampant. The paradise isle was rocking to the techno beat of the world's best DJs, with strobe lasers frenetically crisscrossing in the skies, music blasting out of huge speakers on clifftops or the beach, face painters, fire dancers twirling flaming sticks. Many of the crowds of thousands at the full moon parties at Nusa Dua, Gnan Gnan, Canggu or Uluwatu were on psychedelic drugs, as were those at the other wild parties at Ku De Ta, Blue Ocean or Double Six, on the beaches, in the bars and hotels.

Alberto, Rafael, Marco, Ruggiero, Fabio, Andre, and Tota were often at the parties, joining in, selling a bit. Rafael would often slip into the girls' toilets and share a cubicle with some babe, to do a few lines together on the closed lid.

One night Rafael rode his Harley to a party on the clifftops at Nyang Nyang, near Uluwatu, with pills and coke stashed in his pocket, ready to rock. The sea air was pulsating with techno music, the skies lit up with lasers, and around 3000 people were dancing, but Rafael didn't go to the party that night.

I come a little bit late and then I see the cops coming sneaky. I think, ‘Fuck, I have stuff.' So I stay on the bike, make my way back a bit, then stop to see what happens. Bust. The cops go to the DJ, ‘Stop, police,' and I go. Then I hear more come, many cars, small trucks with many cops inside.

– Rafael

Suddenly Bali was red hot. With undercover police now circling like sharks, Rafael was soon feeling his mistake.

I was too famous. I did it the wrong way, too loud, like, ‘I'm the man, fuck off.' Was crazy at this time, too many people knew about me; a big quantity of horses were coming here, and talking to their friends; they get drunk sometimes in the club, ‘Oh, Rafael's become the big drug dealer in the island, he's rich now, he has a mansion in Canggu, many motorbikes, big car, he's a mafioso.'

His old horse Barbara was still perilously loquacious and loved basking in his glow at parties, pointing to him as he walked in like a celebrity with an entourage, saying, ‘You want drugs, he's the guy.'

She fucked me in that time. I was totally blind, I liked to be famous; coming in with my big necklace, black shirt open to waist, my long wavy hair. I was very easy to spot when I arrive at some place, always with group of friends, people calling, ‘Rafael, Rafael.' And if anyone says, ‘Oh, who's that guy?' Barbara tells them, ‘Oh, he's the big drug dealer on the island. I work for him. I picked up the wrong bag once.' Oh fuck, she talked to everybody. Crazy. Everybody was avoiding her because she talks too much.

Other horses were also talking too much, bragging in nightclubs or the surf about carrying drugs for the island's mafiosi. Some of the small-time dealers, who bought from Rafael in hundreds of grams to cut and sell, were also foolishly indiscreet about their source.

People often came up to him in clubs or restaurants, telling him, ‘Be careful, man, you're hot', but in the next breath asking to buy some coke. Rafael ignored these remarks; they pissed him off. Until the night at Deja Vu bar when the warning came from Chino's man.

Suddenly someone comes to me in the middle of the rock 'n' roll and says, ‘Rafael, be careful, man, some people are looking for you, some Australian police.' ‘Really?' ‘Yeah, Chino's heard something.' Then I think, ‘Oh-oh, serious.'

With police on Chino's payroll, ignoring this tip-off would be foolishly suicidal. He jumped on his bike and sped home, telling his maid to swamp the wooden floors with water. Upstairs in his bedroom, Rafael got down on hands and knees, using a torch to pick out little rocks of coke wedged in the cracks between the floorboards where he sometimes packed. ‘Between the wood, I find some small rocks, enough to put me inside for a long time.' He took all plastic and other evidence to the beach and burnt it, took bags of cash to storage, then went all the way to Uluwatu and, standing on a clifftop, hurled his phone into the ocean. ‘I go far away on the cliff, it was kind of a good luck ceremony.'

The morning after the frenzied clean-up, he went to see Chino. ‘What's happened, Chino?'

‘Be careful, man, a cop came here about something else and your name came up. They're looking at you. Be careful, you need to try to be low profile, don't buy so many things, stop going out, lay low.'

Rafael was now ready, waiting for the cops to show. It took just two days. He glimpsed a black Toyota Kijang with tinted windows tailing him, so did a quick test, making two sharp turns down unmade back roads. The Kijang mirrored his moves, but Rafael stayed cool; he expected they'd now search his house, but the evidence was gone. When he drove home, the car stopped 100 metres from his front gate. Rafael raced upstairs, shut the curtains to his aquarium-like bedroom, then looked out with his state-of-the-art binoculars. They couldn't see him, but he could see them spying on his house with their own binoculars.

I have the nice lens, and I was watching to see all their moves. They had this small shit, very small binoculars. I have huge $400 ones from Singapore. Very nice, I can see all the moves they make through them; three guys, most of the time in the car, sometimes they go out to piss, smoke a cigarette, get inside again. But so obvious, easy to see they're Indonesian cops.

And then I was, ‘Shit, they're gonna come, they're gonna come,' and actually I call my friend Chino. ‘Chino the guys are here, what do I do?' ‘Don't do anything. Be quiet. Watch the TV. They're not going to do anything. Relax. But clean your place, don't let there be any evidence'. ‘Okay, it's already clean.'

That night the car left around midnight, but another car was back, in a slightly different position, a few hours later. Next day, Rafael was ready to play with them. He went surfing.

I think, ‘Okay, my friends, let's rock,' and then I make these guys do a tour of Bali. I check the website, where are good waves today? . . . Nusa Dua. ‘Let's go to Nusa Dua, my friends,' and then I drive fast to Nusa Dua. They follow me. I just surf for two hours, they wait for me, they play like not interested, whistling, looking around, but I know they're undercover cops. Not very undercover . . . so stupid – the moustache, Ray-Bans, the kind of haircut you know, with jeans and boots, like a uniform.

Each day Rafael spent hours in the water, and walked past the police as he came out, amused as they feigned lack of interest, then cruised the roads again, laughing as they tailed him on a wild goose chase. But after several days of a relentless tailing, he was feeling agitated. Spying on them through his fancy binoculars he'd see them lighting up and smoking cigarettes in the car. One night, he walked out with an unlit cigarette, and cheekily asked for a light.

Sometimes I was pissed, you know, fuck these guys sitting at my door. I can see the light from the burning cigarettes in the dark. I went out wearing only a sarong, just to show off, naked, with an unlit cigarette, and I come to their car, knock on the window, ‘Ah, can I have a light?' They give me a light. ‘Thank you.' And then I walk to the beach. Walk back, ‘Hi, bye. Good night.' And I walk home again, and they drive off half an hour later.

For the next week they followed him, and he acted like a surfing monk, giving them nothing more than a good look around their island and some beach time.

I stop using, I stop everything, I just surf and they follow me everywhere. I play a lot; sometimes I bring them out to Tanah Lot, or Uluwatu for a tour and then come back home. I laugh in the car . . . so stupid. And then in the end they say this is the wrong guy. He doesn't even go out to dinner. I think I was lucky too, because they are not so professional. They never come to my house . . . not this time.

Rafael knew now he needed to deal more discreetly – not accepting any new small clients, only dealing with the people he knew, and avoiding parties and dinners.

In my glamour time, I show-off, like, ‘I am the man.' And then I pay for this because it was hard to hide myself; people always phone to ask, ‘Oh I have a new buyer.'

Using less coke himself also gave him a clearer focus and stripped him of his sense of invincibility, casting a more realistic light on his precarious dream life.

I can think more to protect myself. Because when I was high . . . ‘No, fuck off, I don't care.' But I get more conscious of the situation, and I keep quiet.

He became tactical; strictly keeping drugs out of the house, except a tiny bit in the end of his electric toothbrush for personal use. He used hotels to store kilos of coke, or under the seat of a motorbike that he'd pay in coke to park at friends' houses, and he regularly switched storage rooms. He lay low, using a regular Honda, a black helmet and black jacket, vanishing among the thousands of Balinese motorcyclists. Rainy days became cherished, as he could cover himself entirely with a Balinese plastic poncho and become indistinguishable.

Riding around Bali now, he often glimpsed a tail in his rear-vision mirror. Sometimes he'd see the car or bike turn off and realise it was nothing but paranoia; other times, it was cops – they were still watching him. Everything he did now was with caution, including going to his storage place. He'd try to go only once a week, always circling the block a couple of times before ducking down the lane, incognito in his black jacket and helmet and riding his nondescript Honda.

To continue the façade of a simple surfer and family man, he would hit the water at 6 am every day, whether he'd had a big night or not. He'd started partying again after a few weeks of acute paranoia and monkish life. But it was a different person who emerged, his exhibitionist nature eclipsed by survival instincts.

That's the start of the careful time. Before I was like, I don't give a shit. And then I start feeling my mistake to be too much of a show-off. I start thinking, ‘Oh, I'm going to sell the bikes, the bikes make me an easy target. I'm not going to go to some places anymore, because the undercover cops, they know fancy restaurants, some dealing happened there.' I still keep partying, but carefully.

He was using tricks, like parking his Honda bike outside one of the clubs in the afternoon, then that night driving there in his recognisable big car and zooming off to a party on the other side of the island on the bike.

Then people see my car; ‘Oh, he's here.' Many friends say, ‘I saw your car last night in Ku De Ta; I was there; how come we don't see you, man?' . . . ‘Ah, because I met two girls, I went to their house to smoke some ganja' . . . always bullshit. But that shit works, it was very helpful to me.

If friends or regular customers rang asking for drugs, he'd tell them he'd bring them that night, but to be quiet: ‘Be careful, don't tell anyone . . . I'm hot.' Other nights he'd ride one of his ostentatious bikes, because it could outrun anyone if he had to. ‘Nobody can catch me. I am a very good driver too, nobody can follow me, impossible.' If there was no off-street parking where he could stash his bike under a piece of fabric, he didn't go. Or he'd park his car a kilometre from the party and walk from there.

As the months passed, the paranoia subsided, but he often sensed lurking shadows and kept playing strictly by the rules. Fabio one day came to him, shaken. The day before he'd been standing on Legian beach in front of his restaurant, watching the waves, when undercover police snatched him off the beach, piling him into a car – essentially kidnapping him. They drove him past Rafael's house with a gun to his knee, demanding information. He kept repeating, ‘Rafael's a family man, a surfer.' After a few hours of interrogation, they let him go, but Fabio was freaked out, now anxiously talking about selling up and ditching paradise.

Rafael wasn't sure whether to believe Fabio's story – he didn't want to believe it.

There was more bad news when a horse carrying for Rafael and Poca was busted after arriving in Bali with 2 kilos of coke. Poca dealt with it, quickly and quietly paying $30,000 to police to have the horse released and sent home after two weeks in the police cells, with the arrest kept low-key and out of the media. But Rafael was still edgy, because he didn't know whether the horse had spilled his name. He reverted to a quiet lifestyle, doing a clean sweep of his house, again soaking the floors in water, and tightening up his habits.