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SNOWING IN BALI

beach. The place was always bristling with his horses, and the resort was dubbed Marco’s stable.

He also invited horses to the club, repeatedly using them for a gag, telling the horse to ‘talk’. Obligingly, they would neigh on cue for their boss. Marco found it more hilarious every single time.

He was so crazy. Sometimes at the club I say, ‘Who is this?’ and he says, ‘This is my new horse. Look how good he is, Cavalo relincha – like, “Talk horse, make some song”’ – and the guy does: ‘Neigh neigh neigh’. Marco says, ‘See, my horse is very good.’ I was thinking, ‘Fuck, what are you doing, man? Why do you do this to yourselves?’ Marco loved to fuck with the horse, put them in position; he says horse, they are shit. But he was so crazy, so funny. He made a joke with everything. Whenever I came to Bali Village, I see so many people around. It was his stable, full of horses, sometimes he sent two guys together the same flight with Lemon Juice.

– Rafael

At this time, in the late 1990s, the island was the perfect place to start being a drug dealer, or work in other criminal lines that cashed in on cashed-up Bali. Tourism was booming and the underworld was growing as fast as the number of infinity pools. Bali was far from its sanguine, peaceful postcard image. It had turned into a hedonistic haven for drugs and debauchery, becoming a lucrative business island for pimps, hookers, drug dealers, gangs and corrupt cops, prosecutors and judges – who were all running rampant.

There are a lot of fucking bad people, otherwise their jail wouldn’t be full of Balinese. If they are all so good, there wouldn’t be one Balinese

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