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.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 