drank a soda; the owner of the bar had the radio tuned to a Brazilian station, hearing news from Brazil and commercials for Brazilian products. I listened and thought there must not be a worse punishment in the world than to be born in Puerto Suárez.
Ten minutes later, Juan came into the bar wearing a hat and a red shirt. Letâs take your car, he said.
We got into the van. So far, I told myself, so good, over. Juan was a likable guy and enjoyed speaking Portuguese. Turn left, then straight ahead, he said. Actually, his Portuguese was as rotten as my Spanish, and if he thought he was speaking Portuguese, I also believed I was communicating in Spanish. Take another left, he said. And then he asked if I liked puerco . I answered yes, mucho. They make a magnificent roast puerco here, pointing to a bar that had nothing magnificent about it. To the right and then to the left, he said.
Then Juan began explaining how he had learned Portuguese, from watching telenovelas, he said, another left, and thatâs how I learned, to the left now, but I also take chances, like the case of puerco . I didnât know how to say puerco in Portuguese, he said, but I deduced it was like in Spanish: puerco .
Itâs not puerco , itâs porco , I said.
No? he said, laughing. Do I talk that bad? From then on, he started calling me Porco. Porco this, Porco that: what could I do?
Moacir didnât participate in the conversation, he just looked out the window, absorbed like a child being carried by his parents.
We were leaving the city when Juan told me to park, pointing to a house with unplastered walls. The district was even poorer and more desolate than downtown, and it afforded a clear view of the area. Two young men, shirtless and armed, were the security for the place.
We were taken inside the dwelling, crossed the living room, where a couple, seated ceremoniously on a dilapidated sofa, were taken aback by our presence. We went through the kitchen, toward the rear of the house, until we came to a spacious backyard, cemented and partially covered. Ramirez was there, beside a compressing machine, overseeing the job of compacting the pasty base. I was introduced as Porco, Moacirâs friend. Now it was official, I thought. Porco. Youâre gonna have to wait a little, Juan said. I just need the car keys.
I didnât like that, but Moacir stepped up, took the key from my hand, and handed it to a young guy who had just arrived and was beside Juan.
We watched as Ramirez skillfully packaged the drug. Strips of fine transparent backing paper were placed in the holes of the press. Using a spoon, he adjusted the drug on the plastic and then sealed the capsules with a nylon thread.
As we watched, the side gate opened and my van came through, driven by the youth who had taken the key minutes earlier.
Two more young men came from the house and began talking with the driver about the best place to hide the drugs. I felt uneasy. Whatâs going on? I asked Moacir. Take it easy, he said. Everythingâs cool.
At that moment the couple who were in the living room when we arrived joined us, each carrying a bottle of water. I finally understood what those poor devils, neophytes like us, were doing there. Ramirez gave the instructions, and in the next twenty minutes the couple swallowed a large number of capsules, close to 800 grams of the drug. The narcotic would be transported inside their bodies, that same day, to somewhere in southern Brazil.
The woman looked like a frightened rodent about to be hunted. I thought she would faint at any moment.
Juan left, taking the couple with him, and only then did Ramirez start talking to us.
By then, the exhaust pipe had already been removed from my van. I was panic-stricken when I realized what the scheme was: we would be taking ten kilos of coke, and not two as I had agreed with Moacir. Five would be picked up by another agent of Ramirezâs the next day, and the rest was ours. For
Ten minutes later, Juan came into the bar wearing a hat and a red shirt. Letâs take your car, he said.
We got into the van. So far, I told myself, so good, over. Juan was a likable guy and enjoyed speaking Portuguese. Turn left, then straight ahead, he said. Actually, his Portuguese was as rotten as my Spanish, and if he thought he was speaking Portuguese, I also believed I was communicating in Spanish. Take another left, he said. And then he asked if I liked puerco . I answered yes, mucho. They make a magnificent roast puerco here, pointing to a bar that had nothing magnificent about it. To the right and then to the left, he said.
Then Juan began explaining how he had learned Portuguese, from watching telenovelas, he said, another left, and thatâs how I learned, to the left now, but I also take chances, like the case of puerco . I didnât know how to say puerco in Portuguese, he said, but I deduced it was like in Spanish: puerco .
Itâs not puerco , itâs porco , I said.
No? he said, laughing. Do I talk that bad? From then on, he started calling me Porco. Porco this, Porco that: what could I do?
Moacir didnât participate in the conversation, he just looked out the window, absorbed like a child being carried by his parents.
We were leaving the city when Juan told me to park, pointing to a house with unplastered walls. The district was even poorer and more desolate than downtown, and it afforded a clear view of the area. Two young men, shirtless and armed, were the security for the place.
We were taken inside the dwelling, crossed the living room, where a couple, seated ceremoniously on a dilapidated sofa, were taken aback by our presence. We went through the kitchen, toward the rear of the house, until we came to a spacious backyard, cemented and partially covered. Ramirez was there, beside a compressing machine, overseeing the job of compacting the pasty base. I was introduced as Porco, Moacirâs friend. Now it was official, I thought. Porco. Youâre gonna have to wait a little, Juan said. I just need the car keys.
I didnât like that, but Moacir stepped up, took the key from my hand, and handed it to a young guy who had just arrived and was beside Juan.
We watched as Ramirez skillfully packaged the drug. Strips of fine transparent backing paper were placed in the holes of the press. Using a spoon, he adjusted the drug on the plastic and then sealed the capsules with a nylon thread.
As we watched, the side gate opened and my van came through, driven by the youth who had taken the key minutes earlier.
Two more young men came from the house and began talking with the driver about the best place to hide the drugs. I felt uneasy. Whatâs going on? I asked Moacir. Take it easy, he said. Everythingâs cool.
At that moment the couple who were in the living room when we arrived joined us, each carrying a bottle of water. I finally understood what those poor devils, neophytes like us, were doing there. Ramirez gave the instructions, and in the next twenty minutes the couple swallowed a large number of capsules, close to 800 grams of the drug. The narcotic would be transported inside their bodies, that same day, to somewhere in southern Brazil.
The woman looked like a frightened rodent about to be hunted. I thought she would faint at any moment.
Juan left, taking the couple with him, and only then did Ramirez start talking to us.
By then, the exhaust pipe had already been removed from my van. I was panic-stricken when I realized what the scheme was: we would be taking ten kilos of coke, and not two as I had agreed with Moacir. Five would be picked up by another agent of Ramirezâs the next day, and the rest was ours. For
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