SODOM & GOMORRAH

Dirty faces and slovenly hairs, torn shorts and some men without shoes. Most of them sitting on the ground full of dirt. Others having fun watching how dogs copulated. These were the scenes I encountered in Vietnam—the worst section of “La Victoria” Penitentiary in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. 

We walked through the basketball court, Jaime, Barahona and I. It was in terrible condition and there were guys drying wet clothes on hang-lines and on courtyard roof-tops after washing them in buckets full of water.

Some men, the ones that could afford the daily food rations, had the option of strolling the basketball court for half an hour, or more. They did it without a care for the stench, neither the swarm of flies nor the rats on piles of dump.

Jaime asked me if I was “in” for drugs and when I answered yes, his response didn’t alleviate me in the least. He said I could be facing at least 20 years in that “hell-pit” and that there was a judge by the name of Severino who was ruthless in his sentencing.  One “joint” of marijuana could earn you at least 5 years in the pen.

I looked around all those men without lives, without souls. Would I too become one of them if given an eternal doom? Then when Jaime told me that it would take at least 3 years for a judge to sentence me, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. I wanted to die.

The laws in Dominican Republic are very strict and the process too slow. The courts were filled with files waiting to be opened and mobilized. The “50-88” drug law imposed in 1988, made most of the prisons inflated with around 20,000 inmates all over the island, most of them thrown in jail without proof of their innocence. A large percentage were young men living in the most heinous and impoverished conditions imaginable. Who could tolerate such treatment? There was no support of any kind. Meals, medical attention, sanitary practices, all of this was non-existent in that place. Worst yet, the lack of morality, decency, and compassion, by the employees whose only purpose was to do their job with care, did the complete opposite. They conducted themselves like royalty while they treated us like animals.

We continued to walk through a gate that led to a pavilion and into the center of Vietnam. Jaime was right, most of the people knew him and this gave me a sense of security. We walked through a dark passage-way full of “goletas” on either side where more than 500 men resided in deplorable conditions. The human traffic was very impressive, like a crowed town. It took my eyes a few seconds to adapt to the darkness. For an instant I lost the notion of time, thinking that I was drowning in a medieval nightmare without refugee. The bodies were empty as if their souls had lifted into thin air and left them there to rot. Inside the “goleta” were prisoners cooking on rusted pots and the smell of food, marijuana, and cigarette smoke, confused my senses. I could hear different beats bounce off each other as music blasted from dozen radio systems, all clashing with each other at the same time.

We stood in front of a “goleta” where a man had a 5 gallon can on top of a brick stove. Jaime invited us to try homemade ginger tea. The man used to sell it in small plastic cups. It was good, hot and spicy, and I enjoyed it so much that later on I became his most loyal customer. There was noise inside the “goleta” next to the “tea store” and from the corner of my eye I could see men practicing sex with one of the many homosexuals that were there. These men had it rough because most of the time, they would get raped. I later found out that this was part of the daily prostitution business. For 5 dollars, the “trannies” would perform oral sex and for 10 they would go all the way. Most of the homosexuals used to work cutting hair and doing manicures. One of them was Luis, a young man who arrived from Peru with drugs in his stomach. Rumor had it that as soon as he entered prison, he was forced to perform sex with more than 10 guys.

The gang used to make money with them especially on visitation days. The gay population would dress as ladies and they would walk around Hall A looking for customers. At the end of the visits, the gang would collect the money that they had earned.

On this “tour,” the realization of my new existence sunk in. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was my life.

I had been transported to Sodom and Gomorra, a world of sadism, evil, and bestiality.

DIRTY RAT

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked Dario. 

“Oh shit, Tony! What a surprise to see you. Listen man, it’s a long story but bottom line is my “mules” got caught and that’s how I ended up in this shit-hole. But I spoke to Pacheco and he told me that he’d get me out soon.”

“Listen brother…that’s all bullshit.” I alerted him with firmness. “He’s the one behind all this fucken mess. He’s the reason you’re locked up.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Every-time I asked about you, he’d tell me you were tied up in Colombia transporting “mules” when in reality you were already here.”

“So how do you explain the food and money he sent me? That’s how I managed to put this juice stand.”

“Look brother…you don’t understand. Pacheco was the snitch. He’s the one working with the police.”

Dario’s face turned pale white. He was in dismay. The shocking news sent chills down his spine and he couldn’t seem to get a word out his mouth.

At that moment, we were interrupted by Barahona who invited me to a papaya juice with a slice of cake.

Dario seemed to be doing alright given the popularity of his goods. His stand was the most money making business in the court. It sold 100 juices a day since its launch.

I told him about the roach incident and how the infestation quickly asserted my new environment, giving me a dose of reality that penetrated without lament.

In the middle of the ruckus, Dario managed to get me a pair of shorts and a t-shirt while Barahona supplied me with toiletries and flip-flop sandals—our “uniform” and “survival kit” in the institution.

Together, Barahona and I walked to a wall divider where we could see the breakfast line. I asked him somewhat ignorantly, kind of knowing the answer to my question, why was there no real dining room and he explained that it was because the “powers that be” were only interested in filling up the prison to “fatten” their pockets.

“Just imagine Cubano…this place was built for 800 prisoners and there are over 5,000.”

I looked around, observing every square inch of the place and he was right, there was not a single space to sit, move, spit, much less, breath. We were all squeezed in like cattle waiting to be slaughtered.

The presence of trees was also non-existent, a ludicrous thing given the necessity to shield ourselves from the burning sun. All one could see was filth and trash scattered everywhere.

Just as we got ready to leave, a guy approached us and introduced himself as Jaime from Colombia. I immediately inquired about “living arrangements,” meaning other alternatives as opposed to the piece of cardboard I was sleeping on.

He offered to talk to Caliber .45 for a “Goleta.” It was a tent-like hut made of sheets that hung from the ceiling of the cell that provided privacy. He also warned that the cost for one of these “habitats” ranged from $1,500 to $2,000 dollars, depending on the size of the floor it would occupy.

“You guys know your way around?” Jaime asked.

“Follow me…I’ll give you a tour.”

“How safe is it?” I inquired.

“Don’t worry, everyone knows me here.”

We walked across the court yard passed two armed police-men that monitored everyone’s move from the roof top above us. We were led through a gate that connected to what was considered the worst place in the penitentiary.

NORMALCY IN “LA VICTORIA”

Armando came to my rescue. He was the man that you went to if you needed your clothes washed in Hall A, and for little cash, he would do it for me.

Although he was always high on crack cocaine or whatever he could get his hands on, he treated me well and showed me decency from the first moment I arrived.

Armando came from a good and well educated family in Santo Domingo. His father owned a shopping mall that afforded his son access to everything. Unfortunately, with this privilege, came substance abuse. Since he could buy expensive lethal drugs in great proportions, that’s exactly what he did. Before he knew it, the perils of cocaine abuse soon consumed his life, and it is what led to his imprisonment. Because he failed to complete the court ordered drug program in the city, he was sentenced to three years in the “pen.”

That morning he offered to wash my sheets and help me tie my folded cardboard with a rope and hang it from a nail on the concrete wall. No one could use my spot on the floor at night neither my nail on the wall, meaning that at least I had gained some property.

The electricity was back on. It was imperative to use as much of it during the day because by night-time, it would go off again. We would be left without power for a good 12 hours on a daily basis.

The prisoners sleeping against the walls, including Barahona, were immobile. Or at least I thought they slept with the sheets covering every inch of their bodies. Perhaps to shield themselves from the infestation of flies that made their sheets look dirty instead of the color white. Even in the jungles of Colombia I never saw such a pool of insects.

The cell door was opened by members of the gang and two police men entered. One of them started to call us by names and the other alerted us to the 5 o’clock curfew. It was 8 in the morning and we had 9 hours to come and go as we pleased.

I walked out the cell. I wanted to explore my new surroundings, my new home, and my new neighbor.

The corridor walls of Hall A were marked with dirt and mildew, looking repulsive, nasty, and giving the illusion of eternal darkness.

As soon as we walked out of Hall A, many prisoners from other areas of the penitentiary congregated in the open court to sell their goods. Cigarettes, newspapers, coffee, fruits, anything with value, was for sale.

Hall A was the one that brought in the most money among more than 5,000 prisoners in the penitentiary.

Some prisoners worked as clothes-washers, cooks, secretaries, while others walked weak and hungry trying to find a piece of bread to eat. Others simply paced around, their minds full of hatred trying to see what they could steal. These were also the ones who served as informants for the gang. They kept their ears to the ground listening for any kind of rebellion or overthrow. If this occurred, Caliber .45 was told and he’d make sure to confront the accused, making his life—perhaps a short one after that—a painful one to endure.

The smell of rot mixed with the aroma of food cooking on top of the make-shift stoves, was more than anyone could bear. Still, the “retailers” made sure to cook their stuff before the power went off. Even though it was said that there’d be electricity up until 6, there was never any guarantee that it would be kept running.

The stoves were made of red bricks and a heating element on top of it that had two cables connected to it. A “live” wire was married to the two cables to activate them. This wire went around the brick and was placed right next to the toilet. Meaning, while someone cooked, another person defecated.

Music was on a lot. The pounding rhythms of Salsa, Bachata, Mambo, and Rock, penetrated from the sound systems across the court, all meshing into one big “boom.”

For all the prisoners, this was normal. To me, it was torture.

Even more so when I saw a bunch of men running towards the “chow-hole.” Literally, a hole in the wall where a man scooped oat meal from a 55 gallon drum.

There were more than 3,000 men holding on to each other so that no one would skip the line. They had to carry a container for their ration. Sometimes, it was contaminated with worms and flies while others had big plastic Coca-Cola bottles that they cut in half. I saw some with simpler improvisations such as newspaper or a piece of cardboard.

After receiving the oatmeal, they’d sit wherever they could find a place.

While this was unfolding, I decided to gravitate towards the sound of blenders running. I noticed a guy behind a table full of fruits as he cut into a pound cake. I guess he could sense my approach because he instinctively lifted his head as I got closer. The look of amazement showed in each of our faces. The man behind the business was Dario, my Colombian friend who had introduced me to Pacheco.

CONDEMNATION

My heart raced every time the police opened the door. I wanted to go to court and get it over with.

But, while I painfully waited, I used my time to read books with the help of the sunlight that crept through the iron barred window next to my bunk. I’d also admire the panoramic view of the city, making me a little melancholic about the elusive freedom that stood far away.

Early one morning, I was called by a guard. I practically jumped out of my bed and rushed towards him, already offering my wrists so that he could hand-cuff me. This was a routine that became second-nature to all of us.

He told me we were going to see the judge. We walked through the dark corridor and when we got to the first floor, Ana was there holding a bag with sandwiches and orange juice. I thought it clever to offer him some food with a $20 dollar bill to get him to seat us at one of the benches that stretched throughout the garden and across to the judge’s chamber. It worked.

His mood changed as so did his strict attitude. So much so that he removed my hand-cuffs and told me to relax and enjoy my time with Ana.

I immediately hugged and kissed her, feeling a rush come over me as if I was being touched for the first time.

She quietly explained the conversation she had with a prominent lawyer in town who “schooled” her on the proceedings of “court in first instance.” I didn’t know what this meant but according to the advisement of the lawyer, I was to keep my mouth shut and not worry about it.

Before I could ask her give me thorough details, I was “cuffed” and escorted to the judge’s chamber.

She appeared to be in her 40’s, sitting behind a monstrous desk smoking a cigarette in a nonchalant demeanor.

As soon as our eyes met, she ordered me to sit in one of the two black leather chairs that faced her.

The thought of bribing her seemed like a good idea and rather enticing, but I already was in a lot of heat. I didn’t want to take any further chances. I brushed it off and decided to trust the council of the lawyer. Since I was going to hire a good one anyway, it’d be better to leave it up to him to handle it. I felt that putting up a fight with the judge would inevitably prolong my stay there.

Her office was a mess. Folders and papers were spread every-where, and her ashtray had a thick mountain of ashes that stunk up the room.

Behind her, a massive bookshelf held an assortment of law books and a 5 foot pole steadily balanced the Dominican flag on its base.

Her secretary who looked more like a center-piece than an individual, wasted no time in introducing a sheet of paper in between the rolls of her old vintage typewriting machine.

“Mr. Roca, do you know why you’re here?”

“Not really.” I responded.

“Well, I’m going to remind you. You are here for cocaine importation into this country.”

“I won’t say a word until I talk to my lawyer.”

“Don’t matter to me…by the way…” she said, opening one of the drawers of her desk, “Do you know this man?” She held up a photograph.

Oh God, I thought. Silently freaking out. It was the image of Dario. The friend who introduced me to his connections in the Dominican Republic.

“No, I don’t know who he is.”

“Once again, I’m going to remind you. His name is Dario Duncellor, and he’s the one who brought you here to meet Pacheco, a real drug-dealing son-of-a-bitch.” The judge stared me down while stamping out her filtered cigarette in the ashtray.

I swallowed and of course, she knew I was lying.

In an effort to presume I was collaborating, and not being deceitful, hoping that she’d go easy on me if it seemed I was ignorant to the truth, I came clean about knowing them.

“Well, yeah, I know the man, but I have nothing to do with drugs.”

At that moment I remembered Pacheco telling me about his travels to Colombia to arrange the smuggling of “kilos” into the island.

I figured he was the snitch and the judge was slyly trying to protect him by making him look like the drug trafficker.

She asked one of the guards to take me outside while she sorted through her papers and studied

the evidence.

It didn’t even take her 5 minutes before she ordered me back in along with 3 additional guards.

“I’ve decided that there is enough evidence against you so I’m ordering your immediate transfer to La Victoria Penitentiary while you wait to be sentenced by a judge.”

One of the guards grabbed me by my arm and pulled me up from the chair. He signaled for me to extend my wrists so that he could place the cold steel apparatus on them. Not only was he and the judge chastising a part of my body, but they were chastising and crippling my spirit as well.

 

FALLEN ANGELS

“Welcome buddy…I’m Barahona.” The 6’2” foot man who weighed 300 lbs. introduced himself, the same person who fed me while I was at the D.N.C.D.

“Nice to meet you, brother. And thank you for getting me out of that crazy place.” I said.

“I heard it’s really bad in there.”

Barahona took me to one of the cement bunks next to the wall. At least it had a mattress. It was thin but it was better than no mattress at all.

The cell was hardly roomy. There were only 15 inmates. The one that had more time there was Tono, a political prisoner who apparently killed a journalist. He was the one who controlled what everyone received and offered a clean bed with clean sheets and a shower with a curtain. This also went for the toilets. He was privileged for having hot coffee and cellular phone service round’ the clock.

At that moment, I felt somewhat reborn. It was also one of my first lessons in understanding and recognizing the worth of things. When you lose everything, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, toilet paper, all of the essentials that we take for granted in the free world and that are necessary for our survival, you immediately become sensitized to their value.

Barahona gave me two sets of shorts, slippers, two t-shirts, underwear, and a towel.

“There is shampoo and soap in the shower,” he said, gesturing toward the area.

For the first time in 3 weeks I saw a cellular phone, something that represented civilization.

I took a long hot shower, letting the crisp water pour over me, before calling Ana and Colombia to see how my family was holding up.

Ana didn’t know I was at the Palacio de Justicia. She brought me food, money, and some clothes once we made contact.

She told me that it was a big ordeal to get the guard to deliver goods to me unless I paid him a hefty sum.

Night was peaceful. At least the guys in there were normal. They read books and listened to music that generated from Tono’s sound system.

Early in the morning, he had breakfast ready. Most of us took showers after we ate.

We remained alert every time the guards opened the steel door to call out the names of those who’d go in front of the judge.

This time, it was Barahona’s name that was called.

He was hopeful that the judge would drop the charges and let him go home that very day, but his faith diminished upon learning that he’d have to endure a lengthy trial. The verdict was in. It smelled of defeat and of bitter emptiness.

She also recommended that while in custody, he be transferred to “La Victoria Penitentiary,” one of the worse prisons in the world.

THE AMERICANS

Ana had been released four days after my last interrogation and Barahona left the day before that. I was hopeful that I too would be given the same fate, but, that seemed very unlikely since there was no news, no rescue, nothing to indicate a pardon or a path to freedom.

Time continued to slip away and my world had caved in on me.

I hadn’t heard from Ana but how and why would I?

After this ordeal, I was certain she was threw with me. The humiliating and torturous experience in that hell they call prison, was enough to keep anyone away if they didn’t go mad first.

I didn’t blame her. She was hard working and I was a fucked-up criminal trapped, confined, crucified, to a cell that lent no apologetic end to my miserable state of being.

Early one morning, after my cold shower, a guard quietly handcuffed me and told me that I had visitors waiting for me.

He escorted me to the coronel’s office and ordered me to sit down. The coronel was already waiting for me with the usual pen and paper in tow. I assumed he would interrogate me again, just to see if this time, I would spill my guts.

“You know that you’re going to be doing a long time,” the coronel said.

“How long?” I asked, figuring 10 years or worse.

“Well, I can’t say, but…” he nodded. “A long time…”

“How much do you want?” I asked.

The man smiled, “I can’t accept money.”

“Come on coronel, you know that every man has a price.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. The Americans are after your ass.”

Suddenly, another guard entered the room and told the coronel that the “Americans” were sitting in the lobby.

“Invite our friends in,” the coronel said, looking at me.

Both of them came in. They were the same guys that made up the gang of police who arrested me.

“You say Mr. Bautista that you are from Venezuela…first name German, right?” I kept quiet. “Well…” he continued.

“I just want you to know that your game is over,” he looked at me with a devilish smirk across his face.

“Your game is over, Mr. Roca.”

DIRTY LAUNDRY

“This is unbelievable,” I thought to myself. There were more than 2 dozen SWAT teams jumping out of a military truck and bamboozling their way into the neighbor’s house, all armed with rifles and dressed in fatigues.

I hurried back to the boat, deciding to keep my mouth shut about what I just witnessed, and made the call to my connection in Colombia who was waiting for my signal.

“How’s everything over there?” He asked.

“Everything’s perfect, perfect, perfect,” I answered.

“O.K…I’ll be calling you in about an hour to confirm the plane’s departure.”

Pacheco, Elvis, and myself, ultimately decided to start moving towards our waypoint. We were cruising at low speed, killing time while watching the sun slip out of view when precisely an hour later, the phone rang.

“Tony…this is bad, we’re gonna’ have to cancel everything.”

“Why? What happened? I asked.

“There’s a lot of security here…it’s too risky to make a move. Sorry, but we just can’t do it.”

I explained to the guys what was unraveling in Colombia and why the job had to be cancelled, and they both had a fit, they were really pissed off. But, there was nothing left to do. It was out of our hands.

We turned around and retreated back to the beach house, mounting into Pacheco’s SUV, and drove back to our hotel in Santo Domingo.

As we past the neighbor’s house I saw the military truck situated in the drive-way and all the lights were off.

I figured they were waiting to catch me with the load, arrest me, or maybe worse, kill me.

The next morning Pacheco came for me at the hotel. We decided to have breakfast and I made a point to drill him about what went down the night before.

“How well do you trust Elvis?” I asked.

The look he gave me was of concern. He screened the crowded restaurant before turning his attention to me. “Why do you ask me this?” His voice was nervous and edgy.

“Well, I’m gonna’ tell you the truth. Last night the house next door was full of SWAT cops when I went to the S.U.V. to get the chart so I canceled the operation.”

“What do you mean you decided to cancel? I heard when you said that everything was perfect.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I slightly smirked. Perfect is the code word for killing the job. It means not to send the shit.”

“Wow…very clever…I’ve gotta’ admit, Tony, I’m not liking this one bit. Maybe he’s dirty and he’s got us all fooled.”

“Maybe,” I retorted with skepticism in my tone.

“I think we should just forget the whole thing…at least for now.”

“No, no, no…not at all. What we need to do is just try something different without letting him know.” Pacheco insisted.

“Like what?”

“Can you send merchandise by commercial plane?” He asked me with a renewed confidence in his voice.

“Of course. As a matter of fact, I’m testing something right now…from Holland to Aruba.”

“Why don’t you send me suitcases through the airport?”

“Sounds good…How many kilos?”

“About 100…25 in each suitcase.”

“Let’s talk about 2 suitcases first…”

“Perfect…I’ll start working on it.”

SNEAKY PLAYS IN SANTO DOMINGO

Dario and I arrived at Las Americas Airport in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, around 11:00 a.m.

The island’s sun was at its peak and it welcomed us with cruel and unapologetic heat. His friend Pacheco, an ex- military major of the country’s armed forces, greeted us on the tarmac once the plane landed.

I was introduced and he led us through Customs without any problem, something that impressed me since being led by an official of that caliber meant that I was important and free of any warrants. I wasn’t to be questioned or touched.

It had been a long time since I stepped foot on the island.

Years before, a stunning beauty from Puerto Plata had invited me to spend two weeks at her family’s hacienda (a country estate) and enjoy the pleasures of their wealth. They were owners of several large sugar-cane plantations in the northern segment of the island that extended well beyond the horizon.

We rode in Pacheco’s S.U.V. to the Melia Hotel, one of the most sophisticated in the city. As he drove, I soaked in the panoramic view of old colonial structures and the natural landscapes that surrounded them. The palm trees looked lovely as they adorned the coastline with their fronds dancing in the wind, and the smell of earth mixed with spices that traveled out of kitchen windows was intoxicating. For a split second, this reminded me of my childhood back in Cuba.

Pacheco was very cordial and even invited us to one of the nicest massage parlors in the city called Casa Theresa. Here, we could get all sorts of discreet massages performed by the most exquisite looking women around.

Both men worked on a minor scale. Dario used to send “carriers” called “mules”—kids as young as 16 or 17 that would swallow more than 100 cocaine-filled balls inside their stomachs—to wherever they needed to go. Unfortunately, complicated surgery or even death would result from these highly dangerous smuggling tactics. Although the balls were covered in serine to prevent it from exploding in their stomach, it would almost never be the case. The risky move was like playing Russian-Roulette for both the carrier and the dealer.

I hooked up with Pacheco because according to Dario, he had the connections to smuggle cocaine into the country and then export it to the U.S. and Italy camouflaged in banana crates.

The next morning we went to see a banana plantation on the northern part of the island. We met the owner, a guy who went by the nickname “El Negrito” which translates into the black man.

There were more than 200 workers, all from Haiti, working like slaves under the burning sun for pennies. “El Negrito” explained the entire process of production and how they moved the cargo to certain companies in Miami and Italy that were already set-up to receive them under the radar.

Suddenly a pick-up truck arrived and a man named Elvis jumped out of it.

Pacheco introduced me but when I shook his hand, I got that old suspicious feeling that always sent chills down my spine.

“Tu eres policia (you’re a cop)?” I blurted out.

 

TROUBLE IN MONTREAL

My people in Canada had informed me that my good friend was performing well until a stripper he knew in Miami stepped foot in Montreal. His dependable work ethic was replaced by boozing, coking, and partying, and my once flourishing connection was now dwindling and immature. He had become sloppy.

One evening, after finishing a “run,” he decided to cross the border from Niagara Falls into Buffalo N.Y. with his companion. They rented a room at a semi-lux hotel and began their night of fun in the “Big Apple.”

The city was young, inviting; full of provocative adventure, but the thrill it promised still wasn’t enough. They needed to seek pleasure on the other side, too.

He left his car full of money at the hotels parking lot and re-entered Niagara Falls through a van that conducts trips across the border every day.

On the way back to the hotel, Customs found more than $10,000 undeclared bills in the stripper’s purse as well as the car keys from the rental car in Buffalo.

Thankfully, a few days earlier, he had given my share to a partner of mine in Montreal and so there wasn’t anything that could link me to the guy, much less the fiasco.

Custom Agents confiscated the car and found more than a million dollars in its trunk. My friend was arrested but the girl was let go.

Meanwhile, in Bogota, his family pleaded with me to “front” the bill—a whopping $100,000—to get him out. I provided the money but I never used him again. In fact, days later, on his return to Colombia, I ended our friendship and decided to take matters into my own hands.

I flew into the city of MONTREAL CANADIENS, but this time, things got really nasty for me.

Mary, Flaco, and Me

After I spoke to my friends in Cali, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. The thing was; I now needed to get new credit cards, a passport, and a not-so-size-able bank account so as not to draw attention to myself. 

My old friend, the coronel, would make it happen. He informed that the same contacts I used a few years back where still in the business of providing fake identities for hustlers like me.

Mrs. Mary and her husband, “Flaco” (skinny), were still available in the city of Cucuta, right on the border between Colombia and Venezuela.

I took a flight the very next day and they welcomed me with open arms, although I think the real motive behind their generosity was because they knew they could make a quick buck off of me. We discussed the price and the sum came to around $4,000 dollars. If I wanted a U.S. visa, it would have cost me an extra $5,000 but why would I do that since stepping foot on American soil would have meant the risk of getting caught.

I checked into the Bolivar Hotel, a nice place on the outskirts of the city. I needed to wait a couple of days before crossing the border to pick-up my fake papers at the government’s office.

That night I called up a friend of mine by the name of Ruth, a stunning 22 yr. old Colombian woman with the body of a mermaid. She always kept me company whenever I’d fly into the city to smuggle cocaine into Venezuela, in past years.

As usual, she escorted me to a club across the hotel and afterwards, we spent the night in my room. At sunrise, she neatly combed her tresses into a ponytail and tucked her outfit so she’d appear presentable before heading to work at a bank in the middle of downtown, adjacent to the central park and right beside the cathedral where parishioners congregated to go to mass.

The day had arrived and Mary along with “Flaco” picked me up to make the transit across a bridge to the other country where you could see all kinds of contraband passing through.

Youngsters in bicycles between the ages of 8 to 15, carrying 5 gallon tubs of gasoline and cartons of cigarettes, risked their lives in the dangerous river to make a dollar for their families.

Venezuela served as a customs point because it was easier to transport cocaine to America and Europe from there. Any other neighboring country was better than “it” coming directly from Colombia.

We made it through the two lane tunnel without a hitch. Searches were strict but for Mary, the inspection was easy. They knew her well enough that they never bothered to ask her for an I.D.

In a matter of hours, in the safety net of Mary and Flaco, I was an official citizen of Venezuela named German Bautista.