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COMING TO PARADISE

of the surf and walking past with his board tucked under his arm before being welcomed to join the club's cool crew. Soon afterwards, he was offered a drug run.

They were a very close gang. It's hard to go in, to even say hello, because I think they are so cool, these guys. I want to be friends, you know. They didn't open the door. They were always rude. And then I met them on the beach one time and we smoke together.

– Rafael

Marco, the charismatic wisecracking Lemon Juice dealer, sold Rafael a small bag of grass for $100, and knew he'd be a perfect mule, or horse as they started calling runners when the word 'mule' got too hot. Rafael possessed all the traits to slip invisibly through customs. He was smart, well-travelled, white, western, good looking and a surfer – meaning no cover story needed for frequent trips in and out of Bali with surfboards. Marco, always on the lookout for a new horse, made his pitch on the beach one afternoon.

‘Hey man, what you doing here in Bali to make money?’
‘Not much, selling sarongs,’ Rafael replied.
‘You want to make some real money?’
‘How?’
‘Easy, you fly to Amsterdam, bring marijuana back, and I'll pay you $5000.’

Growing up in the cocaine gateway of South America, where drug busts were daily news, meant Rafael knew what the job was, and felt insulted. ‘Come on, man, you think I'm a mule? I just want to buy a bit, and that's it,’ Rafael snapped.

Marco persisted: ‘Man, you look like a movie star, the cops are never gonna stop you. It's easy; you can hide the grass inside the surfboard bag. Easy money, little risk – come on, brother.’

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