Snowing in Bali (8 page)

As much as Chino tried to control the island, it was impossible. Bali was a frenetic drug hub, a transit point to Asia and the Pacific, with the world's biggest drug mafia coming to holiday, mingle, network, and organise deals in luxury hotels, in the sun, in paradise.

Italian drug trafficker Sergio Boeri was friendly with the cartel players, including Rafael, who'd been to parties at his villa. Sergio flew in and out of Bali on false passports often, until the day he flew in to celebrate his gorgeous girlfriend's 33rd birthday. Instead of spending the special day sipping French champagne in a luxurious villa, they both spent it on the concrete floor of Bali's police cells.

The alleged head of an Italian drug smuggling syndicate, Sergio Boeri, accused of trafficking at least 30 tons of cocaine and other narcotics from Brazil to Europe, was extradited from Bali to his homeland on Saturday night.

Under heavy police guard, Boeri, 32, was taken from Bali Police Headquarters to the Ngurah Rai International Airport, where he was transferred into the custody of two Rome-based Interpol officers . . .

Boeri, one of Interpol's most wanted men, was caught by Bali Police on 18 August when he arrived at Ngurah Rai Airport with his girlfriend.

–
Jakarta Post,
9 February 2002

CHAPTER SIX

DREAM LIFE

All the people in Bali started to know I was the guy who takes care of the coke business. I was the biggest show-off. Cars, motorbikes . . . I buy a Harley-Davidson, a 1-kilo gold necklace. I go out every night, spend money. I build my house and all the young people come here . . .

They say, ‘Fuck, whose house is this? What does he do?' ‘Dealing coke.' ‘Oh, I wanna do too.' And then they try, but they don't have any connection. In the end they come to me, ‘Please help me, I have 10 kilos, 5 kilos, 3 kilos.' And I become an agent for them.

I have a collection – five bikes, Honda, Harley-Davidson . . . Fuck, I was crazy. I have one Kawasaki Ninja. People looked at me and asked, ‘Who is this guy with this bike?' ‘He's the Brazilian guy who takes care of the coke in Bali.'

– Rafael

Rafael was living a decadent life, working hard and playing harder in a blaze of parties, orgies, surfing and drug dealing, often high from his own copious cocaine use. With horses now bringing up to 20 kilos some weeks, the cash was flying in fast.

He'd built his dream house right in front of a surf beach in Bali's Canggu area, paying a customary bribe for permission to erect it within the 100-metre no-build zone. He slung an official $15,000 to set it back just 93 metres from the water. The only catch with the island's endemic corruption was that, within a year, someone else had slung cash to build even closer, directly in front of Rafael's house. He could hardly complain.

Designed by a top architect and featured in magazines, the two-storey mansion was spectacular. It incorporated all Rafael's boyhood fantasies, like the diving board off his bedroom balcony. Most mornings he got up, coming down from a cocaine high, and stumbled bleary-eyed to the board, then dived into the 22-metre pool, racing straight back up his stylish spiral staircase to dive again and again, until he felt fresh.

Anyone entering the high-walled playground through the sliding wooden gate could see it was a labour of love, created by a person with a passion for the ocean. The Beverly Hills-style palm-lined driveway was built with coloured pebbles, shaped in waves. Wave-shaped indents, each with its own lighting, decorated the outside house walls. Beautifying the edge of the pool were four big-breasted mermaids that spouted water strong enough for Rafael to stand under for a hydro massage, usually after a surf. For his more indulgent massages, there was a poolside cabana with its own Bose sound system, and a limestone deck for sunbaking.

Inside the house, large twin feature doors were inlaid with mother-of-pearl flower designs and the floor was recycled teak. The jacuzzi on the deck – for champagne parties – had an expansive view of the surrounding paddy fields.

Next to the pool was a 12-metre high water tower, which Rafael climbed up daily to check the swell. It was also an ideal vantage point to spy on police spying on him.

I think I am the king of the world. I think nothing is going to happen, I always say this in my mind, ‘I am never going to get caught.' Sometimes my friends say, ‘Hey man, you have to put some money away in case one day you have problems.' I say, ‘Fuck off, man, I'm never gonna get caught. Never.'

– Rafael

Rafael refused to think negatively, but wasn't oblivious to the constant threats to his freedom. For protection, he put shards of glass along the top of the concrete walls, kept three large dogs roaming and installed state-of-the-art cameras, infrared laser sensors and intercoms bought in Singapore. His elaborate security wasn't to stop thieves, but to prevent Bali cops scrambling over the wall and planting drugs.

But most of the time he was lax anyway, keeping evidence inside his house.

When you do this shit for a long time, you think it's normal. Sometimes I sit with 5 kilos of coke in my house. I know I am doing something wrong, breaking all the rules.

– Rafael

He was also keeping up to half a million dollars at home, which could be used as evidence against him in a drugs case. After a run or two, the whole house would be billowing with cash – bursting from his Bose speakers, the wardrobes and his capacious safety deposit box, which was sometimes so overstuffed with money he had to bang it shut with his feet.

To help solve the problem, he hired a Frenchman who specialised in designing magician-like hiding places, and whose ingenuity was a godsend to Bali's drug dealers. He built Rafael a TV cabinet with invisible drawers, towel racks with large hollow tubes and a vacuous Buddha head that opened with an undetectable screw.

I have so many secret spots but I still have too much money. I have half a million dollars in my hand, in my safe. Money was not a problem at all. I have plenty of problems, but money was not one. The only problem was this: where am I gonna put these fucking bags of money because I don't have any more space? It was totally crazy.

– Rafael

Early on, Rafael had accepted payments in rupiah, creating impossibly bulky stashes, given that $100 converted to about 1 million rupiah. Some nights he drove around delivering deals of 5, 10, 20, even 100 grams, to friends; he started out filling his pockets with the cash, then moved to the glove box, then shoved it under the seats and in the door pockets. By the end of the drive, cash would be spilling out everywhere. At home he'd gather it all up, shoving fistfuls into plastic bags, then toss the bags up onto a shelf in his wardrobe, throwing clothes on top. Soon, he started accepting payment only in dollars or euros.

Although his fortune did go up and down, most of the time he was so flush that he lost count of his bags of cash. One afternoon he grabbed a plastic bag stuffed with $50,000 out of his safe to take some to buy a motorbike. Not wanting to expose the cash in his fishbowl upstairs bedroom, in case police were spying with binoculars, he nipped into his en-suite. When there was a knock on the door, high on coke and paranoid, he flung the bag under the sink, but left a stray US$10,000 out. He saw it and stashed it into a toilet bag. At the door, it was only a friend. But it wasn't until six months later, on the first night of a live-aboard surf trip, that he went to brush his teeth and found, mixed among his condoms, toothpaste and cologne, the US$10,000.

I totally forgot about it. I was like, ‘What?' And then I didn't have a place to hide it in the boat. I was, ‘Shit, why did I bring this sort of money?' But I made a hole in the surfboard cover and kept it there.

– Rafael

Rafael was flinging cash around like it would snow forever. With a young family, he now employed a staff of four maids, a driver and a gardener, who were paid double the average US$80 monthly wage and given bonuses, like their kids' school fees or new motorbikes. In return they were loyal, and Rafael got them to do little tasks, like changing bags of rupiah to dollars at the money changer, or unwittingly delivering drugs to customers, usually rolled up in a magazine or somehow hidden. If friends needed cash, he often gave them a bundle. He also sponsored Balinese kids to surf at the beach in front of his house, buying them new boards, clothes and equipment.

Before, they looked after cows in the paddock. Now they are professional surfers, sponsored by Volcom. Now they are champions. That money was not so clean, but I used some for good things.

– Rafael

He was known for his largesse, tipping like a titan at restaurants and hosting sumptuous weekend barbecues open to all his friends, mostly the island's drug dealers. They all turned up for the endless free beer, wine and French champagne – which his wife got cheap from a Garuda employee who stole it from the airline's stock. Fresh fish and lobster was delivered to his door in the morning still flapping in a bucket – only the best and freshest would do. It would always be a lively feast of food and nose candy around the pool.

Fuck, I don't have peace, I have so many friends. My fridge was always full of Heineken; I have a fridge only for beer, only for wine, barbecue every weekend. I buy 5 kilos of meat, tenderloin, three boxes of beer . . . Door open, I don't care who comes. I refused to accept anything from anybody. My house was a club every weekend. It was like a king's life. The money looked like it's never going to finish.

– Rafael

He easily spent US$20,000 a month on extravagant living expenses, splurging US$500 a day on groceries at the western food supermarket, Bali Deli, or out at restaurants. He relished the power kick of slipping off and fixing the entire table's bill, usually exorbitant given his group's penchant for top restaurants and French champagne. He also used at least US$3000 worth of cocaine a month. ‘I really fucking love this shit.'

After a successful run and surge of cash, sometimes he'd lighten the load by paying his three young kids' school fees or his Canggu Club membership two years early or he and his Swedish wife, Anna, would fly to shopping mecca Singapore with $30,000 to blow on anything their hearts desired – usually designer clothes, sunglasses, face creams, shoes, toys, computers and cameras.

He also regularly shopped on his way back from jobs when his pockets, wallets, shoes and bags and were stuffed with cash. He'd gather up armfuls of Armani T-shirts, a clutch of Gucci sunglasses or five or six pairs of Diesel jeans and take the lot, rarely asking prices. These were the essentials. In Amsterdam, he stocked up on his favourite Prada shoes at €600 a pair.

I love those shoes. I love to shop in Amsterdam. Prada T-shirts, Armani T-shirts. I wore them tight, so they stretch a little bit and can show my body. Normally white or bright colours, because I have dark skin.

– Rafael

Although, like most men, he wasn't a natural-born shopper, he was lured into shops by something catching his eye in a magazine or a shop window. In Singapore one day, on the way home from a trip to pick up cash with his friend Jando, they went hunting for a Rolex he'd spotted in a magazine and had to have – the huge price tag only increasing its allure.

I got crazy when I saw it in a magazine. I wanna have this shit, I'm gonna buy one. A big, beautiful piece; this model is hard to find but I see the price. What? . . .€25,000.

– Rafael

The moment he found it in a Singapore shop he unclasped his US$3000 brushed-gold limited edition TAG Heuer and sold it to Jando, who'd shamelessly coveted it, for US$1000. Rafael paid cash for the Rolex, avoiding credit cards and traceable records, and strapped it straight onto his wrist.

Back in Bali he relished flaunting his Rolex, even risking wearing it in the surf.

My friends say, ‘You crazy if you use it to surf, what if you lose it?' ‘I don't care, I'll buy another one.' I like to show off.

– Rafael

Despite his pockets bulging with more cash than most of the more distinguished-looking customers could ever afford to spend, the tattooed Brazilian didn't always cut it with snooty shop assistants in high-end stores. They gave him plenty of
Pretty Woman
moments, looking down their noses, assuming he couldn't pay and treating him rudely.

Once, passing through Amsterdam loaded with tens of thousands of euros, he went to look for a leather jacket. Casually dressed in jeans and a pair of flip-flops, with stubble on his chin and the tattoos on his arms exposed, he picked up a jacket and asked the price. It should have been a simple conversation – he didn't really even care. But the sales girl insulted him, insisting she could only give the price to buyers and she felt he was just browsing.

Rafael saw red. She'd pricked his ego. He lashed out in a tirade: ‘Fuck you, bitch, who do you think you're talking to?' Rifling in his pockets, he pulled out a wad of €500 notes, waving them under her nose and shouting, ‘Do you know what these are? These are each worth US$600. See how many I have. You are really stupid. I come here to buy; your job is to sell. Now, I wanna talk to your manager.'

She was losing her poise, close to tears now. ‘Please don't say anything, I'll get fired.'

‘Yes, you're gonna get fired. You fuck with me, now I'm gonna fuck with you.'

When the manager came and tried to cool the situation, Rafael ranted, ‘This fucking bitch doesn't want to serve me. I don't want to deal with her anymore.'

Soon after, he walked out with his new €750 Diesel leather jacket.

Another time, in Stockholm, dressed in a Bob Marley collection adidas tracksuit and new running shoes, he was looking for several pairs of sunglasses. Typically, he knew exactly what he wanted: the latest special edition Ray-Bans with a unique lens and shape that he felt suited his face perfectly; the latest US$600 Dior Biker glasses, for stylishly wearing on his bike; and new Oakleys.

But the sales assistant clearly felt this customer couldn't afford all the glasses. ‘Which pair are you going to take?' he huffed.

‘All three' Rafael replied. The guy raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘Ah, this is going to cost more than US$2000,' he said condescendingly.

Rafael's hackles shot up. ‘Fuck you, my friend. What's the problem? I can't buy three pairs of glasses? Should I buy one pair now, come back tomorrow?' Rafael pulled the cash from his pocket. ‘This is more cash than you will ever have,' he said, waving it in his face. ‘Now I'm gonna buy three, I'm gonna pay cash. Do you have a problem with that or should I go to another shop?'

The sales assistant changed his tune.

I think my face looks like a Brazilian bankrupt. They discriminate a lot against me. Maybe because of the tattoos, they think I'm a criminal or something, or they think I come here just to bullshit, just ask the price and go. And then when I start saying, ‘This, this, this, and this', they say, ‘How you gonna pay?' and I say, ‘Cash'. ‘Which ones you gonna take?' and I say ‘All'. Fuck, they get crazy.

– Rafael

In Bali, the discrimination was reversed. He was the man, hugely popular and, as a VIP guest at all the most exclusive parties, was given bracelets for free drinks. People would invite him to dinners at the best restaurants, telling him to bring some friends, refusing to let him pay. In return, he'd always bring blow and give friends free lines in the bathrooms.