Cocaine Confidential (5 page)

Next I am introduced to Miguel, who is running the cocaine laboratory in the jungle with his brother Gerardo on behalf of Steve. Miguel is wearing knee-high white Wellington boots and he steps into the giant bath filled with soggy coca leaves and begins stamping on them, squeezing the juices out as the leaves turn into a mushy mass.

Miguel has a team of coca pickers who deliver sackloads of leaves to him every day before he begins the process on behalf of his financial backer Steve, who expects – and no doubt demands – a fast turnaround of produce. Many like Steve are not afraid to use a gun to make their point of view absolutely clear.

The juice from the leaves is the key ingredient in cocaine. It contains the chemical that provides the high that makes the drug such an attractive, glamorous stimulant to so many people, from kids snorting lines in expensive clubs, right up
to the rich and powerful men and women who like a hit before they make potentially earth-shatteringly crucial decisions. Yet it is here – in dirty, washed-out, mud-infested laboratories just like this – that the world's most potent recreational narcotic begins its existence.

Steve is full of carefully thought-out predictions when it comes to cocaine. One day, he reckons, cocaine – along with all other recreational drugs – will be legal. ‘But neither of us will live to see that day, thank God,' he says. ‘Then these sorts of labs will disappear and we'll see slick, concrete buildings with proper production lines turning leaves into paste and then the finished product in a matter of hours. Trouble is, it won't seem the same, will it? I like the fact this stuff comes from the jungle and that it gives the poor a chance to earn some real money for the first time in their lives.'

Steve suspects that Chinese chemists have supervised the construction of such factories, which now await the world's decision to legalise cocaine. ‘They look on coke as a business just like I do,' explained Steve. ‘Look, they've already started producing their own version of coke called
Meow Meow
. Trouble was, it wasn't as good as coke. When that got outlawed as a legal high, do you think they closed their factories down? No way. They only pushed that stuff out there to test the market. Now they know they have to produce the real thing, cocaine, and that time will come very soon.'

Back in the rundown, tin-roofed laboratory near Bocas del Toro, Steve has carefully calculated his profits. With generous allowances made for the local consumption of coca leaves
and losses during the conversion process, 250 hectares planted with coca would produce at least 2–3 tons of cocaine paste each year spread out over three harvests. ‘I haven't got to that production rate yet but I aim to make it within the next couple of years, hopefully,' added Steve.

Meanwhile, the Panamanian authorities, along with many others in South and Central America, continue to deny that there is any cocaine production on their territories. Steve explains: ‘It suits them all to deny it because the Americans would soon be swooping in here trying to destroy the harvests virtually overnight. Everyone knows that the Colombians squeezed billions out of the Americans in order to destroy their cocaine production, which in turn destroyed millions of people's livelihoods. Everyone just wants to humour the Americans so they leave us all alone.'

* * *

Back in the steaming jungle heat, lab worker Miguel talks about his family and how he needs cocaine gangsters like Steve in order to make a living. He tells of his dream of one day leaving the Panamanian jungle and seeking an honest life in America. As Miguel continues his backbreaking work in the hot, airless shed, thunder and lightning strikes overhead and another tropical storm erupts. Soon the atmosphere is dominated by rain drops the size of golf balls rattling on the tin roof of the tiny shack.

A heap of fresh green leaves sits atop a canvas bag on the rickety table under the tarpaulin used to protect the operation from these same tropical rainstorms, which dominate most
days at this time of year. The leaves are so fresh because the fields they were picked from are so close. Steve puts a razor-sharp machete in my hand and tells me to start chopping.

Over vigorous hacking, Steve further revealed farmer Miguel's story. He'd learned his trade during eight years of service in a cocaine kitchen deep in the jungle in the borderlands further south between Panama and Colombia. One day Miguel happened to mention his skills to Steve when they met in a Bocas del Toro bar and eventually they set up what Steve describes as a ‘low-key' cocaine conveyor belt together.

After the leaves were sufficiently minced, Steve translated as Miguel told me it was time to add the binding agent. Miguel pulled out a bag of cement, sprinkled it all over the chopped leaves, and began to knead the dough by hand. Coca leaves are bulky, which is why the first stage of processing usually occurs after the leaves are dried and takes place near the growing area.

Next came the pungent ammonia. Miguel shoved the bowl in my face and within seconds it felt like someone had poured a giant bottle of smelling salts into my brain. Miguel explained that recently there had been an attempt to do this whole process with water. But the organic cocaine market never took off because the leaves needed to soak in water for fifteen days, which was far too long. That's why petrol was used, which cut down the waiting time substantially. With a flourish, Miguel dumped a whole bottle of super unleaded into the mix.

Then he poured in the hydrochloric acid and sodium bicarbonate. The acid, served as an extractor, turning the cocaine hydrochloride solid. The sodium bicarbonate increased the pH. After a short break, we peeled back the frilly pillowcase Miguel had used to cover the mixing bowl to find little white rocks magically formed in the pungent liquid.

Chemicals used in that final stage, usually ether and acetone, are expensive, scarce and, as a result of controls imposed during recent years, extremely difficult to obtain and transport without detection. But it is virtually impossible to restrict supplies of petrol, which are transported around areas like this to fuel outboard motors, generators and other equipment. In many areas where the cocaine trade has spilled over from Colombia, petrol sells at four times its official price.

‘It's enough to put you off snorting a line, eh?' says Steve. ‘This is back to basics, son. This is the reality of cocaine production. D'you know, I've dreamed of running my own coke factory since the first gram I sold back as a student in London in the early seventies. Yet here I am now and it's all a bit of an anticlimax, if you know what I mean.'

Meanwhile Miguel plucked the cocaine out, rinsed it carefully and then dropped it into some foil before holding it next to a 60-watt bulb to ensure the final toxic juices evaporated. Then he calmly produced a lethal-looking army knife and started expertly smoothing and chopping the coke into its final, pearly white, 100 per cent pure state. The drug glows with an ethereal opalescence after being pressed into a rock-like form for travelling.

‘Go on. Have a bash at it,' said Steve, almost proudly. I knew I had no choice when he handed me a crisp, brand new, rolled-up hundred-dollar bill. I leaned down and snorted.

Within moments, I was floating in a cocaine haze without a care in the world. It was easy to see how so many of the world's citizens were now hooked on this narcotic. Unlike alcohol, it was possible to sound and act sober. My mind was suddenly filled with clarity and opinions which had remained dormant until this moment.

‘Makes you feel like a master of the fuckin' universe, eh?' said Steve.

I agreed and we began a long-winded and intense discussion about what happened to the coke once it left this rundown shack deep in the Panamanian jungle.

For seeing the primitive first stage of cocaine's creation revealed little about the real underworld that delivers the drug to people across the globe.

The first significant stage in that process was to set up its transportation out of the rain forest and into mainstream society.

Colón, Panama's second largest city, lies at the Caribbean end of the Panama Canal. Back in 1953, it was made into a free trade zone and is now one of the world's biggest duty-free ports, which makes it the perfect transit point for much of the cocaine travelling up from South America.

In the centre of this bustling city port I meet cocaine handler Donny. He and his team are responsible for making sure the ‘product' is sold on to the traffickers, who've bid the top price for the cocaine produced in that tin shack in the jungle, near Bocas del Toro.

Today, Donny's ‘assignment' is to ensure the mom and pop-produced coke is hidden in an oil tanker heading to Holland. ‘No one will ever find it,' says Donny. ‘It will be like looking for an ant on a beach. Impossible.' It's at this point that cocaine starts to make really big money for those prepared to take the risk.

Donny reckons his ‘job' is a lot safer than being the street dealer he once was. ‘Listen, man, I got stabbed, beaten up and even shot at when I worked the streets here in Colón. I hated every minute. I never knew what was going to happen to me. I went crazy inside my head. I started taking more and more
coca
just to try and kill the fear.'

Then he met Steve. ‘Steve had just arrived here from Spain and I sold him some big rocks, which he took back to Bocas to sell. I liked dealing with him because he was a professional, not the street vermin that I usually sold to. Anyway, Steve and I became friends. We talked a lot, especially when we were both snorting
coca
!

‘But seriously, he told me about his plans to produce his own cocaine and asked me if I would work as the handler for it. I jumped at the chance because it sounded a lot safer than dealing on the streets buying my
coca
from the
loco
Panamanian dudes, with death in their eyes.

‘Anyway, I had some relatives who worked at the port and I put the word around that they and their friends could make good money if they introduced me to some of the captains of the ships that come through here. Eventually, I got to know some of those captains and they agreed to let me stash the coke on their ships in exchange for a payment. We agreed that if the cops ever found the coke we would say they did not know about it.'

Donny says that in two years working as a handler in Colón there hasn't been one bust by the police or customs involving any of the home-produced cocaine. ‘Sure, I have
to pay the customs guys money not to look on certain ships. But so what? That's part of the cost of dealing in coke. A shipment of coke the size of a small shopping bag is worth millions in Europe and the US. We make sure it is all wrapped tightly in plastic and smothered in hair conditioner to stop the dogs finding it.

‘Everyone here in Colón is poorly paid. Any chance to earn extra cash and they're happy. The guys who hide the
coca
on the actual boats don't care what it is. They just want to earn their money.'

But what about renegade cocaine barons trying to steal Donny and Steve's produce? Donny says: ‘Maybe that would be a problem in Colombia or Mexico but here in Panama, so few people are aware that cocaine is actually produced here. As far as I know, we are the only ones here in Colón using the ships to transport new raw home-produced product.

‘Sure, there are shipments of
coca
that come through here from Colombia but that's another side of the business, which I don't wanna get involved in. Those Colombians are
loco
, man. They're killers. It's best not to go into business with them. Anyone who's stupid enough to steal
coca
from the Colombians would pay for that with their life. Those guys are dangerous. You never cross them because they will kill you without hesitation.'

Donny rents a room in the centre of Colón to use as a ‘safe house' for the cocaine when it arrives from Steve's jungle coke factory. He explains: ‘You can't just take the
coca
straight to a ship. You have to store it somewhere while you
double-check all the arrangements. Then it is imperative you move it onto the ship very quickly just before departure, which is usually
after
the ship has cleared customs.

‘The other reason for dropping it on the ship at the last minute is that way you make sure that as few people as possible on the shore know what is going on. The captain and crew are no problem. It's the guys working in the port, who could decide to inform the cops and then we're in trouble.'

Donny makes it all sound like a highly sophisticated, carefully synchronised operation. ‘I pride myself on being a professional. Steve knows that and I am sure that's why he pays me very well and I will always be loyal to him.'

But, I ask, what would happen if someone else came along and offered to double his money. ‘Hmmm. That is a difficult question to answer. Sure, I need to earn as much money as possible. I owe that to my family but …' He hesitated. ‘I am not sure Steve would be very happy.'

Would he do something to stop you?
I asked.

‘This is the underworld, my friend, and all the rules are different to the outside world. I guess Steve might decide to do something about me if I endangered his operation. That's the way it goes. There was a guy doing what I do here a few years ago and he tried to push a rival out by informing on him to the police. This guy ended up shot in the head. You gotta be careful here,
amigo
.'

Donny believes that just as long as he stays working as a handler for Steve, he will enjoy a long and safe life. ‘It's just Steve and me at this stage and that suits me fine. Steve is a
gentleman who keeps to his word. He pays me well and I make sure that as few people as possible hear about our little business.'

Back at his home on the edge of Colón, Donny has a wife and two children. ‘They don't know what I do. My wife thinks I work at the port, nothing more. That is important because I don't want to put them in a position where they have to lie for me because that is unfair on them. I am the one doing this job and I take full and sole responsibility for what I do. End of story.'