Snowing in Bali (4 page)

The seven pimps cruised the streets with girls piled into their cars, on the lookout for customers to walk by or come out of clubs. They also relied on phone calls from taxi drivers, hotel concierges, bike transport guys, fake drug dealers or anyone who could snare tourists wanting sex. Whoever did got a share of the take.

Nyoman and the six other pimps had a monopoly, protected by the police, who also took their cut. The pimps owned the streets in the busiest tourist areas – Kuta, Legian and Seminyak – each paying a monthly sling of at least $400 to the chiefs at the three big police stations. The deal ensured they could work with impunity and that no other pimps could encroach on their turf without risking arrest.

But they had brisk competition from hundreds of brothels, some unsubtly disguised as massage parlours or karaoke bars, and some blatant in-your-face sex shops – dubbed aquariums – which were glass-fronted rooms crammed with girls sitting on tiered seats. These were in back lanes or nestled in the main streets of Kuta, Legian and Sanur, often alongside luxury hotels, but unless you knew they were there, you wouldn't have a clue. Taxi drivers often took tourists to the aquariums, escorting them down a laneway and taking them inside to ensure they got their cut. Dozens of girls, usually young and sometimes attractive, sat with numbers pinned onto their chests. This was fuck by number.

Aquariums, you know, they're like fish aquariums, but lady in the glass.

– Ricky, taxi driver

Like most taxi drivers, Ricky was constantly asking his male passengers, ‘You like a lady?', especially if he picked up a drunk tourist on the street or leaving a club. If Ricky got a nod, it was a great night, possibly tripling his usual daily take, depending on how well or badly the tourist negotiated. Some customers would go with Ricky to pick their own number; others would ask him to go to the aquarium alone and deliver the girl to their hotel.

Ricky happily obliged, but never wanting to get it wrong and miss out on his fee, he always asked for specifics on ‘style of body' preferences. ‘Fat body or sexy Coca-Cola body?' he'd ask, drawing the shape of a Coke bottle with his hands and whistling for impact. He never bothered asking about breasts, because in his experience, ‘All tourists like big boobs.'

It wasn't only at night that Ricky found sex tourists, it was any time. This was business and westerners were rich, often stupid, prey. With his chirpy sense of humour belying his cunning, he worked to win tourists over. If you wanted to go fast, he'd floor it, zigzagging in and out of traffic, or go as slowly as you liked. He was super-charming, always asking, ‘Tomorrow you need taxi?' Whenever he got the chance, he'd tell a guy, slyly if they were with their wife or girlfriend, that he could organise a lady. Often he'd conspire to drop a wife or girlfriend off to shop in the up-market Seminyak boutiques, then escort the guy to a brothel.

It's money, it's my work, it's good. I take the wife shopping, drop her off and then the man, husband, goes to massage. Happy ending. Massage just one hour. The girl shopping is normally two, three hours, so the husband already has massage, happy ending and go. After, she ask, ‘Where you been?' He says, ‘Bintang (supermarket), restaurant.'

– Ricky, taxi driver

One night, pimp Nyoman's girls were all busy with customers, except for pretty 21-year-old Linda. They were parked at the edge of the beach in front of the Padma Hotel. It was a full moon – a beautiful Bali night when all Balinese across the island went to full moon ceremonies to give thanks to their Gods. Nyoman had dressed in his traditional Balinese clothes, a sarong, shirt and head cloth, and prayed at the temple earlier. But tonight he was pimping and stood at the back of his four-wheel drive overlooking the beach. Shadows of palm trees were swaying on the sand, and the white caps of the waves glowing luminously under the specially cast light – a magical effect that many of the hotels and restaurants used along the beachfront. It was balmy and peaceful, with only the sounds of the ocean, the rustle of trees and the laid-back music of Green Day's ‘21 Guns' coming from inside the car.

Nyoman was chain-smoking and gazing out to sea, contemplating life. His wife had just had a baby girl. It highlighted the darkness of what he was doing and he only wanted to keep selling girls until he'd made enough cash to start a new business, probably a massage parlour, probably with happy endings. But for now the streets were it.

The sound of his assistant's motorbike coming across the car park snapped him out of his musings. A good-looking guy climbed off the back. He was mid-thirties and Australian. He wanted a girl. All business now, Nyoman opened the front car door to give him a look at the merchandise. Linda sat poker-faced, staring out the windscreen. A second earlier she'd been laughing animatedly on her phone. The guy stood there, slightly edgy, staring, thinking, assessing her fuckability. Yep, he liked her. He slipped Nyoman 200,000 rupiah (about $20), and zoomed off on the back of the assistant's motorbike to a nearby hotel that charged Nyoman 50,000 rupiah ($5), the standard hourly rate. The assistant returned to pick up Linda. It was a quick job – within 20 minutes she was back again, sitting in the battered old Toyota, dabbing perfume. The customer had told her he needed to hurry . . . his wife was waiting for him back in their Padma Hotel room.

Nyoman was happy to oblige all requests, so long as his girls were not put in danger, like the group sex in a villa swimming pool, which a bunch of English guys requested. The girls had all strutted in their skimpy, sparkly nylon outfits and high heels down the walkway between the private villas at exclusive bvilla in Seminyak. The concierge had phoned ordering ten girls for his guests. But one by one, or sometimes in twos, the girls did the walk of shame back down the long passage as they were rejected. Only two girls made the final cut but were expected to have sex in the swimming pool. They were scared of a pool orgy getting out of hand, so Nyoman gave the cash back, keeping 100,000 rupiah ($10) as a kill fee.

Lewd requests were fine, though. When a middle-aged Australian husband and wife hired one of Nyoman's girls for a threesome and asked him to come and watch for an extra $100, he thought it was weird but jumped at the cash.

Australians were his favourite customers, usually easy­going and drunk. Another one of the seven official pimps was 27-year-old Ketut, a member of another gang, Baladika. He had a request from an Adelaide guy for a hooker all night. Inside his Bali Garden hotel room, he paid Ketut the 700,000 rupiah ($70) service fee upfront, then slurred a request for Ketut to stay an extra few minutes while he had a quick kip. The guy was blind drunk and quickly asleep on one of the twin beds.

The pimp and his girl sat on the edge of the other bed waiting and watching soft porn on the TV. It made the pimp horny and he turned to his hooker, started kissing her and then gave her a test run, right next to his oblivious, snoring Austra­lian customer.

I see on the TV a lot of the sexy sexy, and then I kiss my staff, because she is a beautiful lady – good body, tall, good smile, friendly, you know. And then I make sex, just one time. She was aggressive too, she liked it because she was new. If she were working for maybe one month, two months, she would not be interested in sex.

Did the Australian guy wake up before you left?

Yeah, I say, ‘Wake up, wake up, I want to go.' He says, ‘Thank you brother, thank you brother.' Was very funny.

– Ketut, pimp

Also on the streets were hundreds of fake drug dealers, loitering outside clubs or down lanes, stalking tourists, quickly attaching like clingfish as they hustled a potential sucker down the street, saying, ‘You want ephedrine, hashish,
ganja?',
displaying the fake drugs in their hands, or digging into their pockets and magically pulling out whatever drug the person wanted.

Shaking off these dealers was often difficult, as they were poor and desperate to find stupid, preferably drunk, tourists. Wayan, a long-term fake drug dealer, rode around on a metallic green scooter, bought from money he won in an illegal gambling racket, with a boutique of imitation drugs in his pockets. Every night he trawled the streets for hours, hunting for fools. On a good night, he'd also snare a tourist wanting sex and pass him along to his friend Nyoman – for a cut. He didn't like his job, but it was cash, needed to buy his kids an education and a chance for a better life than his.

Customers sometimes they beat me, kick me, say, ‘Fuck you.'

Well, you're ripping them off.

Yeah. I don't want to but I make this point to them: ‘Sorry, brother, but it's very hard to live here, to get some money, because my system of the government not so good.'

– Wayan, fake drug dealer

Wayan had been arrested many times when undercover cops did a sweep of the Kuta beachfront area, scooping up all the dealers, taking them to a police station, testing their drugs, then releasing them the next morning.

There were also plenty of dealers with the real stuff, in clubs and on the streets; often in cahoots with the police so they'd all get a slice of the payoff from a busted tourist – who'd almost always be willing to pay big bucks to eliminate the problem before it went further.

Although the western drug dealers usually had no direct contact with locals working the streets, there was a crossover in the criminal underworlds. Lemon Juice boss Marco would sometimes buy a hooker as a gift for his good horses. ‘You want to fuck a girl today?' he'd ask, then relish searching for a hot freelance girl in a club.

Marco was good to find beautiful prostitutes . . . everybody was surprised, ‘Where did you find this girl?' ‘Kuta.' Marco was very good, not shy. If he sits in the plane next to you, he makes friends with you, very social.

– Rafael

But the Lemon Juice boss always warned his horses of the cardinal rule: never ever use drugs in front of a local hooker, as snitching to police would give her the best payday of her career.

Just fuck and kick out, because they can fuck you.

Was it common for bosses to give their horses a hooker?

I hear a lot do that, but I never do because there's a big chance the horse is going to talk to the prostitute and it's going to come back to me. I don't like to mix prostitutes with drug dealer stuff. I was very careful with this.

– Rafael

One of Rafael's Peruvian partners, Jose Henrici, nicknamed Borrador, Portuguese for ‘smudge', because he was always creating a mess, broke the rule and paid for his mistake.

Borrador gave a line to the prostitute and the day after she came back with her cop friend, but they didn't take him to the police station, they just wanted his money. The policeman says, ‘I know you give coke to her.' Borrador says, ‘Okay, how much do you want?' ‘I want $20,000.' ‘No, I don't have.' ‘Then let's go to the office.' ‘No, I can pay you here but I have $1,000 only,' and then in the end he pays.

– Rafael

The western dealers also sometimes paid Laskar gangsters to resolve problems. For the right money, there was nothing these guys wouldn't do, including killing. One afternoon Andre hired a couple of thugs to frighten a Brazilian guy, who was living in Bali with his wife and kids and neglecting to pay his drug bill.

The heavily built Laskars burst into his house, threw the guy onto a chair and stuck a gun in his mouth. His terrified wife stood helplessly watching. One of the gangsters then phoned their client Andre. ‘Okay, you can talk to the guy,' he said, then held the phone to the guy's ear. Andre told him to pay up or die. With a mouth full of metal, he sat wide-eyed, terrified and unable to reply. But as soon as the thugs extracted the gun, he bolted upstairs and dug out as much cash as he could find. He delivered the rest to Andre the next day.

He was a little bit angry with me. He says, ‘You send Indonesian people to my house, my wife is there, they put the gun inside my mouth,' and I say, ‘Yes, and good luck, hey? If you didn't have the money, he would have shot you. You rob my drugs, rob my money, you are asking to be shot. Next time think of your wife if you don't want her to see your bleeding body on the floor.'

– Andre

In every line of crime, cash and power were the driving forces and there were large numbers of westerners willing to step into the Bali underworld and make their inaugural drug run. Some moved up to be dealers, others invested in legitimate Bali businesses like restaurants, villas, clubs, clothes shops or furniture exporting, and others went straight to Kerobokan Prison.

Was so easy to find the people to do the job. I was surprised how easy. Many people, sometimes people I never expect, come and say, ‘You have a job for me? ' Fuck, you know, everybody wants to carry this shit . . . easy money. Well, they think it's easy, but the consequences can be dead.

– Rafael

CHAPTER FOUR

SNOWING IN BALI

We call them horse, mule, runners, monkeys.

Monkeys?

Yeah. Some people say, ‘That's my monkey.' These are guys who do many runs and always come through, and everybody knew, ‘Oh, this guy is well trained, never caught, cold-blooded.'

– Alberto, Bali drug dealer

Rafael, if I fly with cocaine in one of those backpacks, what chance do you think I have of success?

Eighty per cent I think you're going to make it.

Eighty per cent?

Actually, I think 95 per cent.

I think I'd be bad, too nervous, I've seen the consequences . . .

Yeah, you know the consequences; you've been to the jail. Most of the horses, they don't know what they are doing. They don't know the consequences, they're stupid. That's why we call horse mule,
burro –
donkey, idiot. Anybody who is not very clever is
burro, donkey, in English.

– Rafael

BALI ‘THE LAST PARADISE' NOW A HEAVEN FOR DRUGGIES?

The evidence that Bali has become a hub of drug activity is found in Kerobokan prison, where an increasing number of locals and foreigners are serving time for drug offences. As of September, there were 80 foreigners in Kerobokan, most of them there because of narcotics.

–
Jakarta Post,
16 September 1999

There was an endless stream of people flying in to Bali carrying drugs; horses organised by the cartel players, as well as people independently lobbing with a bag of drugs, sometimes with Rafael or Alberto's details. Those without any contacts were taking a bigger gamble, but most would ask around in the surf, at the beach, or at nightclubs for a name. People would often say, ‘Call Rafael, he's the man,' and pass on his number, taking a cut for the effort. Few runners were getting busted, even those with unbelievably bad packing. People got through with kilos in their backpack, simply cutting the lining and super-gluing it back, or in their suitcase loosely packed among their clothes, rolled up in sleeping bags, or smaller amounts in their undies, pockets, shoes and up their backsides.

People wanting to carry stuff constantly approached Rafael. ‘Fuck off, what are you talking about?' was often his retort, worried about his name becoming too hot. But sometimes, if they were a friend of a friend, he'd get back to them, offering a run. An older Brazilian woman, who'd been living in Bali for 20 years, sidled up to him at parties hustling for a chance to run. ‘I need a job. I can do it – nobody is going to stop me because I'm old. Let's do it.'

Rafael regularly used runners who didn't fit any stereotype, such as families with kids, or young couples, but Barbara really blew apart any cliché image. She was in her mid-fifties, with bleached blonde, artificially straightened hair to her shoulders, and a cosmetically tightened face, frozen from habitual Botox shots so that even if she got scared, at least it wouldn't show on her face.

One day Rafael and one of his Peruvian partners decided to give the old mare a run.

She flew out, truly excited to be finally doing a run, carrying the specially designed backpack, so that in Peru, all Rafael's packers had to do was stitch the coke into the back of the bag. A week passed and Barbara flew home to Bali with 2.5 kilos of coke in the bag and a smile on her lips. She loved this gig; an exciting trip, all expenses paid and cash to boot. Rafael was waiting for her in his red Jimny at the airport, very pleased to see his old horse walk out with the bag. It was a goal for him, another nice big bag of cash.

In the airport we were so excited. We put the bag in the car, ‘Let's go. Woo hooo. Let's celebrate.'

– Rafael

Rafael drove to the five-star Nikko Bali Resort in the swanky beach area of Nusa Dua on Bali's southern tip. In the car, Barbara, always loquacious, was high from adrenalin and prattling excitedly about her trip – how she picked up guys for hot sex, how easily she slipped through the airports. Like so many horses straight after a win, she was flying, already keen to run again. Rafael was buzzing too, but careful as always to keep a sharp eye on his rear-vision mirror for any sign of a tail. Today, they were clear. His instincts were razor sharp, giving him a sixth sense that so far had kept him out of jail.

As usual, he valet-parked the Jimny and then the incongruous-looking pair walked into the majestic foyer of the Nikko, across its polished stone floor, underneath its high arched ceiling and black chandeliers. The Nikko was a stunning hotel built high on a cliff, with sweeping ocean views, the sound of indoor waterfalls, the smell of the ocean and feel of the wind. Couples pushing prams, honeymooners holding hands and rich tourists dressed in cool flowing dresses filled the foyer. But Rafael barely noticed anything as he strode through, past the huge limestone artwork on the walls, with his bag of cocaine. He led the way down one of the corridors, and across a bridge that traversed a gaping chasm. The hotel was designed around the dramatic cliff landscape and they were heading to one of the most expensive suites, built against a cliff.

In this wing, they stepped into a glass-panelled lift with ocean views that shot down the cliff. It was a uniquely beautiful hotel, with large pools, spas and marble bathrooms that smelled divine. Rafael was starting to use it for his trysts as well as his drug deals.

After winding their way along the corridors, bridges and lifts, they reached their room. Rafael did the code knock – three fast, two slow. His partner on this job was one of a pair of Peruvian siblings, the Diaz brothers; both fat, both in the coke business and using fake passports to come and go from Bali.

Mario was like a kid, big and fat and like a retard.

– Rafael

The other brother, Juan, was Rafael's regular business partner. He was fat and short, so nicknamed Poca, Spanish for ‘little', though in Bali the dealers joked it was short for Pocahontas – the Disney Indian princess. Poca was bright, regularly organising horses to bring kilos of coke from Peru, but excessively nervy and paranoid, exacerbated by his copious cocaine use, always expecting the worst. According to Rafael, ‘Poca was a pussy.' He was also sporadically ripping Rafael off, pocketing petty cash meant for horses' expenses. Rafael was aware of it, but Poca and Mario had good sources in Peru, and you didn't steal someone's connections. So, for now, Rafael was stuck with using him as a partner despite distrusting him.

A moment after Rafael's knocking, Poca anxiously opened the door, jerking his head from side to side, manically scanning the corridor for cops. ‘You sure you weren't followed?'

‘Sure,' Rafael sighed, thrusting the backpack at him, then slumping into an armchair.

Poca dashed over to the couch and opened it. A split second later his screams tore across the room. Rafael sprang back to his feet, anxious that Poca might alert hotel security. ‘Shut up, man. What's wrong? Are you crazy?' Poca was crazy-mad, and paranoid.

‘It's the wrong bag,' he yelled.

Rafael raced across the room to look. ‘Fuck! Barbara, what have you done?' he gasped. It was full of men's clothes.

Poca was raging at Rafael. ‘Oh
estúpido,
you don't check the bag.'

Rafael was freaked too. ‘Fuck, it was the same colour.' Poca was suddenly sure this was a police trap; any second now they would kick in the door. He was hysterical. He ran to the window. Rafael pulled him back, telling him to cool it, as he was 100 per cent sure he hadn't been followed.

Barbara stood smiling, amused by the dramatic outburst. She knew she'd simply grabbed the wrong, similar-looking, bag. She nonchalantly suggested driving back to the airport and switching it. Rafael and Poca turned and looked at her, incredulous. The old mare was nuts. Poca started screaming at Rafael again, ‘You are fucking
estúpido,
you didn't check the bag, stupid motherfucker.'

Rafael didn't want to risk going back to the airport, but felt he had no choice. Any second now, Poca's shouting was going to bring hotel security running. ‘Calm down, my friend, I'm going to fix this,' he said, grabbing his keys and the backpack. ‘Let's go quick, Barbara, let's pick up the fucking bag.' On his way out he turned, snarling at Poca, ‘And you shut up, pussy, stay here and shit your pants.'

They sped to the airport, parked the car, and raced to look through the windows into the baggage claim area. It was empty between flights, and the conveyor belts stood still. They briskly walked inside, anxious to find the valuable bag. It was eerily quiet, with only sounds echoing from afar. In the distance they could see one or two people, but the baggage area seemed devoid of life.

‘Eh, you're not allowed in here, what are you doing?' a voice snapped out of the blue.

They turned and saw a customs official had materialised behind them. Rafael quickly explained that his friend had picked up the wrong bag.

‘Follow me,' he said, leading them to a luggage storeroom where they saw the bag sitting on the floor, under a table. Only at that moment did Rafael realise the stress he'd been suppressing. It turned to exultant relief. Foolishly, neither he nor Barbara masked their sheer delight; their emotional reactions so far over the top for a bag of clothes, that the officer suddenly got suspicious. Now, he wanted to search both bags.

Before, he was smiling and nice, and then this guy gets really angry. His evil eyes look at me and look at her, asking, ‘Why did you take this bag?' He wants to search everything. I was like, shit . . . I was thinking I'm gonna run, leave Barbara, leave the bag and run. But I looked for the door, then I think, fuck, where am I gonna run?

– Rafael

He searched the bag of men's clothes first, then took the other from underneath the table. Barbara had lost the key to the padlock. Rifling in her pockets and purse, she couldn't find it, so it had to be X-rayed. Rafael was panicking, but kept telling himself that Barbara had made it all the way to Bali because it was X-ray-proof. But nothing was guaranteed and this customs guy was being overly pedantic, clearly sensing they were up to something shifty. Rafael was trembling. This wasn't part of his deal as boss.

My heart tum tum tum, my leg started shake a little bit, and then I take a breath, breathing exercises, try to calm down. We go together to the X-ray machine. I run quick to the screen and look, it was perfect. Nothing. ‘Okay, thank you very much. Bye-bye.' And then we go, so happy.

– Rafael

As usual after a big goal they celebrated, ordering French champagne on room service and giving Barbara, on top of her $10,000 fee, two nights at the stunning cliff-top hotel.

But the danger for Rafael had only really just begun. His old mare started dining out on the bag-swap story, and Rafael's name got bandied around in Bali. He quickly realised this was the problem of using horses who lived on the island. Others he could send home fast. Now his fame was growing, many more people, often strangers, were approaching him in clubs, restaurants, even in the surf, about doing runs; it was great for business, but extremely dangerous.

Everybody knew about this because Barbara talked too much. Marco joked, ‘Look, your mule doesn't work.
Viejo,
old mule and this is the result.' She thought this was cool, she tells everybody, ‘I was working for Rafael, and I take the wrong bag, I go back and change it because I'm Barbara.' But here is a small place, everyone knows everything. She was my big mistake.

My partner Poca used to take care of mules – but I start to get a little bit famous. And then many people come to me: ‘Hi, you Rafael?' ‘Yep.' ‘I'm a friend of Barbara's. Sorry to disturb you, but Barbara tells me you need somebody to work.' I was like, ‘Fuck, what's Barbara doing?' Then I was like, ‘Okay, just wait. You don't need to contact me, we'll talk through Barbara and when I have something, she will call you. Does she know your number?' ‘Yeah she knows my number.'

And then I start to have people on standby in Bali. Barbara found a way to find horses for me, take commission, and make money without risk. But this was a very bad move, because she talked to many people who didn't need to know . . . because, fuck . . . you know . . . She was one of the big mistakes I made in my career.

– Rafael

Rafael wasn't unused to dramas with his horses. Another who was tricky and loose-lipped was a long-time friend from Rio, Sparrow. He was a tall, skinny, goofy guy, who'd been asking Rafael for a run since holidaying in Bali several months earlier. Potentially, he was a great horse, with an English passport and a lot of travel experience, but being worldly wise meant he was acutely aware he was playing Russian roulette.

After months of hassling, Rafael gave him a run. He sent him cash to buy a flight from Rio to Bali, via Peru to pick up the cocaine. But after nervously biting his nails in Lima for a week, and no sign of the bag of drugs, Sparrow bolted empty-handed back to Rio. Rafael was annoyed but practical and organised a runner, Carlos, to deliver the surfboard bag with 2.4 kilos of cocaine directly to Sparrow's doorstep in Brazil, two days later.

Sparrow was finally off and racing across the skies. He flew via Johannesburg to Bangkok, where he changed airlines. Singapore was the next transit stop and he started to spook again. Now only hours from Bali customs, he kept imagining being busted and executed. To soothe his panic, he went to the smokers' lounge and puffed non-stop for 90 minutes. Then he forced his heavy legs to walk back down the corridors to board his flight to Bali. It was 2 am. He was having dark thoughts; these could be his last steps as a free man for a long time, maybe forever. Suddenly, he was at the departure gate. It knocked him out of his fog of fear. The seats were empty; reality hit – he'd missed the flight. It had left 25 minutes earlier, with his surfboard bag on board. Sparrow knew he was now in deep trouble. He raced to a public phone to call Rafael, waking him up. ‘I missed my aeroplane,' he confessed like a naughty kid. The line went blue as Rafael blew expletives down it, but he quickly became practical.