GLIMPSE OF A “NARCO’S” LIFE

Back in Cali I met with several associates who wanted to “jump-on-the-ban-wagon”—in this case, cargo ships—with the condition that they give me 30% of the merchandise they’d merge with mine. Since it would be a new route, I also demanded that we smuggle only a small quantity first.

We decided to go with only 150 kilos, which 45 of that was my cut. I also told them that they would have to sell their own “stuff.” I didn’t want to take any further chances or be accountable for anyone else’s product in case anything happened afterwards. I had my Italian friends and also a motorcycle gang that would take care of my “bricks” once it arrived and were ready to be distributed.

In a matter of days I headed back to Panama to find several hundred kilos waiting for me. It had just arrived from Buenaventura, a port on the Pacific Coast of Colombia. Since it is harder to take the cocaine direct from this country to other parts of the world, “traffickers” prefer to send it to neighboring countries where legal transportation would then haul it internationally.

In fact, it became customary for many boats loaded with an abundance amount of drugs, to travel through the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean into Panama and all the way to Mexico. From there, the merchandise would make its way south to Ecuador, Argentina, Venezuela and even Brazil disguised as legal goods from legit companies to evade American and European Customs. Reputable companies that through the years worked arduously to gain notoriety and to monopolize their markets, fell prey to this criminal activity. Employees, without their owners knowing it, would act as “smugglers” using company connections at airports and ports to “push” the drugs across.

I remember the times when I used to do the same thing. I would hide my cargo, usually 25 kilos at a time, in boxes of flowers that would be exported from Colombia to nations across the globe.

If we were caught—obviously, my name never exposed or in vain—an investigation would ensue but this wouldn’t stop the mission from getting accomplished. We would simply use other routes or acquire the facilitation of other sources. Relying on personnel from airports and even officials who worked closely with the D.E.A., making them think that they were loyal when in truth they weren’t, was all part of the “game.”

We would never though, in the face of adversity, forfeit or compromise our bottom dollar. That was never to be jeopardized.

Ricky finally concealed the containers ensuring that the seals were exactly the way they needed to be, and in a day, we transported them onto the boat that would take them into Canada.

My job was done for the time being.

I decided it would be good to take advantage of the lapse in time, and see my kids in Mexico. I boarded a plane and thought about the joys of fatherhood, of how wonderful it would be if only for a moment, to forget my double life as a “narco-trafficker.”

Colombian Gold

24 hours later, I was back at John’s house. He wanted a whole kilo and he paid me $52,000 dollars for it. This was the beginning of a great relationship between us. He introduced me to all his friends, big-time dope smugglers who had tons of money to buy cocaine in loads. They lived in Colorado, Beverly Hills, Palm Beach, Vegas, Chicago, among other cities across the country. They’d have me send them “keys” as soon as the deal was made. I was “banking,” making so much “loot” that I decided to open an import-export business of appliances—to Colombia—that would cover up my real enterprise. This way I could traffic the contraband in disguise in and out of U.S. borders without any detection. I would also get “Uncle Sam” off my back. If I paid taxes like a regular citizen, they wouldn’t have reason to suspect, much less trace me.

By this time my relationship with the Colombians incremented to the point that some of them wanted me to take care of their product as soon as it arrived in Miami. John introduced me to Michael, a Jewish fellow who was a heavy “pot” smuggler from N.Y. He had this beautiful 158′ schooner that would sail across the Atlantic to Colombia to collect 35,000 pounds of Pure Gold: a psychedelic mostly sativa cannabis variety from the Santa Marta region of Colombia. John had set it up so that we’d help each other out. He would provide the necessary space for my loads aboard his ship and I would in turn serve as a guide once he landed. I had a “family” in Barranquilla willing to front me all the merchandise without having me pay one dime in return what-so-ever—a sort of credit agreement if you will. So I embarked to Barranquilla and met up with my friends Jose and Erick and remained there for 3 days before travelling to the Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta. To get there, we relied on mules as a means of transportation—riding on them for more than 12 hours without relent. My body, not being used to the physical strain, felt like a train wreck afterwards.

Finally, after a few weeks of intense labor and smoking cannabis to the bones with the natives, dozens of mules like I’ve never seen before were assembled to transport the dry leaves from the mountains down to the pick-up trucks that would take it to Rio Hacha, a town of dirt roads in the Guajira. There, I met a Wayoo native who’d serve as a guide and guard against the violence that ran rampant. I mean it had become customary for the slayings to escalate out of control—the people had become desensitized to human life. It wasn’t that they were barbaric by nature. It was a direct result of the chaotic life they lived. The production and movement of these raw plants began to incite a corrupt drug war that spread from the interior to the outskirts of the country, invading it like a venomous plague.

The big black wooden sailboat that furnished huge sails with a British flag on one of the posts, arrived at the coast of Rio Hacha days before the transport made it into town. This was a huge mistake given that many locals, mostly natives, created havoc on the beach just to get a glimpse of the mesmerizing Moby Dick. An English captain and first mate along with crew members picked up along the way from different islands, made up the ensemble aboard.

Once I made it through, I met the captain and warned him about the riskiness of arriving so early. The spectacle—practically everyone in town had rushed to admire her—was receiving a lot of attention and putting in jeopardy our mission. I remember an airplane circulating above us and because it flew so low, I was able to notice the absence of a registration number. I found this odd and my first instinct prompted me to hide inside the cabin to avoid prying eyes, possibly police photographers who could incriminate me later on.

That night, we were invited by the natives to attend a spiritual session with a “lady medium” who would call upon the soul of a boat captain that died many years ago. According to the legend, this ghost was going to lead the way for the English captain and keep away any negative forces. All who would make the voyage back to North America—excluding myself—formed a circle around her and held hands and to tell you the truth, we were all freaking out. The lady’s face turned a devilish “exorcist-like” appearance and her voice deepened in the tone of a man. It would be the last dramatic and supernatural event before departing.

But, before we did, I decided to take advantage of the vessel and brought on board a few animals that would travel back with the cargo disguised in packed Marlboro cigarette boxes, for my new home in Miami. I bought 2 small monkeys, one “tigrillo” (small tiger), a toucan and a colorful parrot. I told the captain to take good care of my animals as I wouldn’t be traveling with them, and he promised he would.

Finally, at 3:30 in the morning, the captain raised anchor and set sail for N.Y.