Chapter Two
The case that finally caught up with me was out of Miami. I was transferred from Manhattan to Fort Lauderdale by bus, there being no Con-Air in those days. The bus picked up and dropped off prisoners at every holding facility between New York and Atlanta. Because I was not yet convicted of anything, I had to be held in county jails. It took over a month to get to Atlanta, where I was held in the Fulton County Jail. The cells were underground, and prisoners saw the sun only when they were brought up to the exercise yard. I was no longer able to have contact with Ellen. I knew that I would be in limbo until I finally got picked up and taken to Florida.
Fulton County Jail was worse than ‘C ‘ Class prison in Pakistan. I was in a cell designed for fifteen people, but held sixty. It was a very hostile environment. I could not get phone privileges because I was in transit. My cell was 80% black, as was the whole jail. We had a huge black man in our cell by the name of Big Walter. He intimidated a young black kid until he made him his love slave. It was sickening to watch this poor kid being taken by Big Walter. No one interfered as the kid screamed. Big Walter ran a poker game as well. If the other guy lost, Walter took his commissary. If the other guy won, Walter never paid.
After a few days of watching this sick shit, I challenged Big Walter to a game of cards. Now, this guy was huge, well over two hundred-fifty pounds, all six foot-six inches of him. He was being held on a murder charge, and I think it was his mother that he had murdered. The game was seven-card stud and we played on the lunch table. Everyone in the cell block crowded around the table to watch the game in total silence. I was in a very dangerous spot, but after a few hands I had Big Walter down over a hundred bucks.
Karma was in my favor. Eventually it came down to one hand. On the sixth card, he had three queens on board and I had two kings showing. He wagered the amount that he then owed me. I guessed that at best, he had a full house, but I had two kings in the hole. I told Big Walter that on the street I was good for at least a grand, so I bet it. That shook him up. I bet into his three queens, so he called me. He dealt the last card down-and-dirty, and his faced registered joy as he finally got his full house. He bet another thousand dollars. The suspense in that cell was unimaginable. I raised five thousand. Big Walter had to call. I had him in a sweat, as he turned over his full boat and beamed with confidence. The cell was totally quiet as I smiled and turned over my other two kings. I laughed in Big Walter’s face.
I told him that I smoked Marlboros and loved peanut butter cookies. I explained that I needed writing paper, envelopes and, of course, stamps, and that he owed me his commissary for life. Talk about ego-death! He was shaken, to say the least, and that night I was treated with respect. I was the king of the block and Big Walter, my coolie.
The next day when I woke up, everything I owned was gone. Some of my cell-mates came over to me and told me that Big Walter planned to kill me in the yard that day. When they came to take us to the yard, I told a guard what had happened and asked to be placed in solitary confinement. I was on a federal hold, and they were responsible for my health, so I was granted my request.
Solitary was as filthy as the cells in Hanuman Dhoka prison in Nepal, and that place had been built 250 years ago. In the cell next to mine was a Black Muslim by the name of Jesse. I told him that I had studied Islam in Pakistan, and he and I recited the Koran together. He was a federal prisoner as well. He was on his way to the prison at Marion, Illinois. Marion is where they house only the most dangerous prisoners. They are locked down and in isolation 24 hours a day. Jesse had taken revenge on a person who killed one of his crew in prison. His 20-year sentence for a bank robbery charge was now life in prison without possibility of parole. I liked Jesse, and we spent our time talking about religion.
About a month later, the Federal marshals finally showed up to drive me down to Florida. They drove me to Miami in a small van. I have a vivid memory of stopping at a Burger King, and it seemed like the finest meal I had ever eaten. I made bail shortly after being arraigned in Miami. Actually my bail was already set, and my boys were just waiting for me to get to Miami.
When I walked out of jail, it had been over six months since I was first arrested in Karachi. There was a huge limo waiting outside, and all of my old pals were waiting to greet me, Murray, Big Bob and Albert. Champagne flowed, and I smoked my first joint in over three months. They rented me a suite at the Galt Ocean Mile Hotel in Fort Lauderdale. Murray had arranged for lobster, more champagne and the finest hookers; what an orgy! I was in shock. I could hardly believe it. I was free at last!
The party lasted for two days. The boys fixed everything. They gave me money for living expenses, to get an apartment in Fort Lauderdale, and of course they kept me in stash. I got a job at an electronics company near where I lived, and played it cool for court. The fix was in. My lawyer told me that I was eligible for probation, since this was my first offense.
At the trial, none of my activities in Asia were brought up. In fact, the DEA agent who brought me back never showed up. I was given five years of probation and told to report to the probation department. I was asked by my probation officer why I had, out of all the states, picked Florida in which to do my probation. I got his message, and transferred my probation back to Brooklyn.
As I flew to New York, my mind wandered to Father’s temple in Nepal. Would I ever see the Grand Lama again? It was 1976. Jimmy Carter was soon to be president. There was talk of legalizing marijuana. Colombian marijuana ruled the market. That red and gold Colombian was some of the finest smoke ever to come to the States. Mexican marijuana could not be given away, due to the Nixon Administration’s policy of encouraging the Mexican government to spray its fields with paraquat. Thai sticks were selling for $20 each, and one stick would get a dozen or more people high.
Regarding the DEA’s claim that the weed of today is much stronger than that of thirty years ago, 90% of the marijuana that is sold today as “bud” (i.e., seedless, manicured clumps) is in fact not. It looks great and smells great, but it’s just not as strong as the good Thai ganja. These days, one never sees hashish. I can remember seeing more hash in New York than marijuana. In fact, during the 1960s in New York, it was easier to get hashish than marijuana. Colombian marijuana was coming over in mother ships carrying 50 to 100 tons per run. Smugglers would speed out to the ships in speedboats, buy the marijuana and head back to Florida. The mother ships would sail in international waters up and down the entire east coast, selling weed all along the way.
Good Colombian Red or Gold was selling for $350 to $500 per pound, and Thai sticks for $1000 to $1800 per pound. Prices were higher than ever before due to the demand. It seemed as if everyone smoked the sacred weed. My old crew in Brooklyn was heavily involved with Colombian marijuana. My old pal Murray had thirty-six cars with drivers that delivered 350 to 400 pound loads in each vehicle—that’s nearly 15,000 pounds of weed on the road at any one time. Some people were moving marijuana with 18-wheelers, and some even sent their loads up from Florida in railroad cars that were delivered to warehouses in New Jersey.
I reported to my new probation officer. He told me to find an apartment and get a job. My old friend Paul, who had picked up one of my dogs years ago, gave me a job selling stereo equipment at his store.
I found Peter Kelley living in the Chelsea area of New York. He was a mess. He was simultaneously addicted to several drugs. One hospital did a case study on his addictions. I managed to get a few things going, and became Peter’s connection. I checked him into a hospital, and that was the last time I saw him. Hopefully he recovered, but I doubt it.
Panama was a little better off, but smoked so much PCP that half the time he was totally nuts. Paul’s brother, Steve, was a big weed dealer. From the start, I realized that Steve was picking my brain for connections and smuggling methods. I told him how I felt and he promised to pay me $100,000 when I got off probation in five years. Steve’s father had a trucking business with a 48-state interstate trucking license. So I put Steve together with my boys in Florida. I got a piece of every pound delivered to Murray on Steve’s trucks.
I was surviving, but I really wanted to get back to Asia. I yearned to be back in Nepal. And that’s when I ran into Big Eddie at a health food restaurant in the city. Big Eddie had been Australian Rosie’s boyfriend back in India. Eddie told me that my old partner, Todd, was the big wheel in Bangkok, and that one of my best friends, Afghan Ted, worked for him. He suggested that I contact them and get something going. I spoke to Steve and he agreed to back me. I knew Murray wouldn’t be interested, as he told me that he wouldn’t deal with me until I was off probation.
I ran into Brooklyn Tony in the city. He had told me if I could get anything going to contact him, and so I did. Brooklyn Tony was Sicilian. His father was killed in a Mafia war in the 1950s. Tony was connected in a big way. I wrote to Ted and outlined my plan, and told him I would send Big Eddie over with the dough to put it together. Brooklyn Tony had the Brooklyn docks wired. He told me he could either steal or clear anything coming off the docks. All he needed was a picture of the cargo boxes, the number of the hold in which it was stored and the paperwork. Then he gave me a list of ships that sailed from Bangkok to the Brooklyn docks. Steve put up the dough, so he got to handle the load.
This was the plan: Tony’s driver would pick up the load from the docks and deliver the crates to a house we rented from a friend. This house had a service road in back, where we would have another truck parked and ready to move the load to a safe house. In other words, the load was delivered, and a few minutes after delivery it went out the back door. Tony would beep us when the load had been cleared and was on its way to us. The trial run would only involve 100 kilos. If it was successful, we would then ship a full container load. I was thrilled to again be involved in smuggling.
Sure enough, a month after Big Eddie went to Thailand I got the paperwork in the mail with the photo of the boxes and the cargo hold number. But before I went to see Brooklyn Tony, I went to see Murray. I showed the paperwork to Murray, with whom I felt safer doing business. That whole month Tony had been inviting me out to Queens to meet his people but I always declined, saying that I already knew too many people. Big Eddie had warned me against having a sit-down with these guys. Big Eddie wouldn’t even meet Tony, but Steve and I had dinner with him on a few occasions.
Eddie came back to New York to wait for the load with us. I wanted Steve to handle the pick-up on the docks, but Tony insisted that we use his people. The ship came in on a Wednesday, but Tony’s driver didn’t show up until Friday. The paperwork was signed and cleared by customs, but the boxes didn’t have the usual tape wrapped around them that indicated that they had been cleared by customs. The truck was stopped at the gate where the crates were re-inspected and busted, one-hundred kilos of the finest Gold Buddha sticks down the drain.
When we got the beep, Steve made the call and then reported to me what happened. I was furious. I flew into the city to see Tony, and told him that not using Steve to pick up the load was a mistake. Things got pretty hot. Tony finally agreed to cover half my loss, and we set a meeting for the next day.
I reported what had happened to Murray. He insisted that it wasn’t a problem, and had me come over with Big Eddie. We sent Big Eddie back to Bangkok with $50,000 to invest in a full container load, five tons of Thai sticks. I went to meet with Tony several times, but he was never around and after a few weeks I forgot about him. After all, I had a five-ton load coming in, and this time Steve would handle the pick up and deliver it to Murray.
About a month had passed when I received a distressed call from Murray, so I went to see him immediately. It turned out that Tony’s connection on the docks was the son of a big Mafia boss. Following the 100 kg bust, the heat had come down and had caused problems and unwanted attention for this Mafia boss. To teach his son a lesson he had everyone involved in the deal killed. Bodies were showing up in trunks of cars at JFK. Tony’s mother received a package with Tony’s pinky finger and ring and was told not to bother looking for him. Tony’s finger was buried Mafia style. Murray told me that if our five ton load were to come in, it would be cement shoes for him, and that if it were cement shoes for him it would be cement shoes for me. He instructed me to cancel the deal immediately.
The ship was due to leave any day, so I had to contact Eddie right away. I checked into the Americana Hotel and proceeded to call everyone I knew in Bangkok. I finally reached Eddie, who immediately reported that the container was loaded and ready to be shipped. I explained the situation, and told him that if it was cement shoes for me, it would be cement shoes for him as well. “Whatever you have to do, get that load off the ship,” I implored him. He replied that it was too late. I emphasized that he could not run far enough from these people, and that he needed to cancel the deal or else. He somehow managed to have the container removed from the ship. When I reported the news to Murray, a sigh of relief could be heard across New York City.
This one had come entirely too close to disaster. I was relieved to have never gone to any of those meetings to which Tony kept inviting me. Everybody involved in the deal just below my level was killed including the driver--- six people in all. I felt especially bad for Tony’s mother. She had lost a husband, and now a son. Those fucking Sicilians are nuts. Tony’s body was ground up and fed to pigs.
Amazingly, these incidents did nothing to dampen Steve’s spirits. Despite the bad turn of events, I proved that I had it together in Bangkok, although we clearly had to find another way to facilitate the entrance of the goods. So he set out to get a solid connection. Greed has a way of controlling people, and Steve turned out to be the greediest person I ever met. The fuck-ups were here, not in Thailand, but all that knowledge did was heighten his greed. What a way to teach a son a lesson he’ll never forget!
I was still doing a little business here and there, but I lacked the clients that I once had. I ran into Anton, another friend from India, who had a load of hash that I sold to Steve. I built suitcases for people who used them to move money around the country. I did whatever it took to pay my bills. Finally, a load from Thailand came in, but it was garbage. I guess the people in Thailand chose not to risk sending the good stuff, as we had lost a load of primo.
I took a long-needed vacation from New York in Crested Butte, Colorado, where some of my old friends had moved. I took some hash with me and sold it, and bought some land with the proceeds. By the time I returned to New York, I had made up my mind to move to Colorado. I loaded up my car and left New York for good. I transferred my probation to Colorado. The closest probation officer was in Montrose, about a hundred miles away, not far enough for me.
At the time, Crested Butte was a wild and wooly town. People would openly do lines of coke on the bar. All the cops got high. It was safe to gamble openly at any of the bars in town. I sold the land and bought a house in town. I started to sell a little ganja, and opened a franchise down the road in Gunnison as well.
Back in New York, as a result of the many connections I had given him, Steve was working his way up the ladder. I never failed to remind him of his $100,000 commitment to me.
I heard from Ellen in Denmark. She wanted to come to Crested Butte and have my baby. My feelings for Ellen were always largely platonic. My only thought was to get off probation and head back to Nepal to see the Chine Lama before he died.
I ran into Link, one of my old customers from Boston. I explained to him my situation: I had plenty of connections, but no real customer base, and he introduced me to Clive. Through Clive I start to develop a client base in Denver. Clive was an alcoholic who also used too much cocaine, but he was helpful in building my business in Denver. I did a couple of successful runs from New York with Gold and Red Colombian marijuana. Those bales were beautiful when they were unwrapped. They sparkled, and the smoke had a very spicy taste. It sold as fast as I could show it. Steve would send a load, and a week later I would be back in New York with the dough. We needed a new delivery vehicle and this is when I went to work designing Big Red.
Big Red was an enormous four-wheel-drive van with a huge built-in bed, a tufted interior, curtains, a refrigerator, captain’s chairs, a command console that looked like an aircraft cockpit, a built-in radar detector, a CB radio, and, of course the false wall I built under the bed, in which to store the ganja. Clive introduced me to Darryl in Denver, who paid cash for my loads. Jimmy Carter’s presidency was coming to a close, and with it any possibility of legalizing marijuana. That was fine with me. I liked my job. I never paid for loads, they were always fronted and delivered.
Fat Bobby was Steve’s driver and warehouse man, a nice guy who Steve treated more like a slave than a pal. Just another soul for Steve to step on as he climbed the ladder of success and fortune.
One day, Clive invited me to dinner, and there I meet his pal, Billy Bob from Texas. To make a long story short, Clive told Billy Bob that I built suitcases. Billy Bob told me he had some friends in jail in Peru, and that before they were busted they buried most of their stash, and he had a map with which to locate it. I agreed to make the bags for him and waived my usual fee for a cut of the profits.
I built the suitcases and showed him how to pack the product and seal the bags. Billy Bob took a lady named Deedee with him to do the actual run. Their route was Lima -Rio -Madrid, and then into Canada and overland into the States through Montana. Believe it or not, they made it all the way home. The only problem they had was in Brazil. Since they had no visas they had to wait in transit two days to catch a flight to Spain. Deedee told me later that she, not Bill, found the stash. He thought he was on a wild goose chase until Deedee figured out the map.
After nearly three years, I finally heard from my probation officer. I had to report to the Denver office. Since I had no visible means of support and had not reported in three years, she threw me into a halfway house for six months. This was just what I needed, more supervision during my last year on probation.
My new probation officer, Maggie, was the proverbial bitch from hell. She made my last year on probation a miserable experience. She was very proud that she had once been a junkie prostitute and was now a federal officer. She had turned her life around, and so was determined to either straighten me out or send me to prison. She showed no mercy. I had to provide urine samples every other day, but amazingly, in those days they only tested for hard drugs, so I was able to smoke ganja every day.
Darryl gave me a job at his fence company. Or, more accurately, I gave him the money with which to pay me so I would have a pay stub to show Maggie. I carried a beeper, and whenever she came around I would get beeped, and would then make a token appearance. It was business as usual, but having Maggie on my back kept me on my toes.
The halfway house was an old apartment building. Two people shared each apartment. I had to check in three times a day. It was the basic bullshit. I had to be in by midnight. I parked my truck outside and spent as little time there as possible. Maggie was out to get me.
Steve sent me a load of gold weed. It looked great, and I sold it for cash at $475 a pound. When I delivered the weed, Richard was all fucked up on quaaludes, but when he saw those gold bales, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He paid cash on the barrel-head. I took my cut, and sent the rest with Bobby back to New York. Two days later, Richard called, screaming that I had ripped him off. Steve had pulled a fast one, and had sent out Fool’s Gold made from Kansas dirt weed. I had to pay back Richard, and I lost a great customer. I waited for the right time to have it out with Steve. Just then, I had to watch out for Maggie, who was dogging my every move.
My roommate at the halfway house was an alcoholic. They were treating him with Antabuse, but he still drank, and it made him crazy. He was there for over six months. He couldn’t get a job, and his wife left with their kids. He was a mess. One day he took me aside and told me that he was going to kill himself. Believing that he meant it, I reported it to the counselors downstairs. They told me to mind my own business, as this guy had threatened suicide before. The next day, they found my roommate in his truck with his head blown off. I told my lawyers about it and they put the heat on the halfway house for having been negligent. A couple of days later, the director of the halfway house called me into his office. He told me that if I would get my lawyers off his back, he would make my stay there very comfortable. So I agreed to keep my mouth shut.
I was always out on pass, and always late returning to the house, but it was never reported. It was smooth sailing for the rest of my stay there. To Maggie’s dismay, I made it through the six months at the halfway house. She now had only three months left in which to nail me. My plan was to go back to Nepal as soon as I was off probation.
Steve sent me a good load, which I sold for $115,000. I still owed Richard $15,000 from the Fool’s Gold deal, so I paid him and kept the remaining $100,000. Steve called and asked to be paid. I told him I paid the $15,000 to Richard, and that I was keeping the rest. Then I reminded him of the $100,000 he owed me, and that I was soon to be off probation. He called me a rip-off and said that he was coming to visit me, a bluff which I called.
I also called Murray in New York who reported that Steve had been making money hand over fist with my overseas connections. Murray called him to a sit-down to remind him of his commitment to me, and to remind him of the dough he was making via my connections. Visions of cement shoes danced in Steve’s head, and he backed off and accepted reality. I never heard from him on this matter again. I was now back in solid with Richard as a result of paying him back.
Maggie was trying to catch me off-guard but I made it, and in April of 1981, I was cut loose. I had a huge party in Denver and the next day I applied for my passport. A few weeks later, as I walked over to my apartment building, I noticed men who were obviously with the FBI waiting for me. They were parked in front of the building, and followed me inside. I made it up to my apartment and hid my stash.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and sure enough I was arrested for passport fraud based on the passport I had used to leave the States eleven years earlier. This had all been handled in Florida, and it was actually all a mistake. In fact, I had just gotten off probation from that charge. In Florida all of the charges against me were lumped together in a package deal. I guess no one had notified the State Department. I called my lawyer, and I was bonded out before I hit Denver county jail. It took about two months, but I got my passport back and the charges were dropped. For the first time in eleven years I felt free.
That summer I remodeled my cabin in Crested Butte. I took on a partner, Ace, who handled my warehouse as well as distribution. Murray put me back into business. I let Ace handle everything, and all I did was lay back and count the money. I was being careful that fall. I was making plans to return to Nepal, and nothing would stop me from once again seeing the Chine Lama and, of course, the Great Stupa of Boudhanath, Father’s temple.
That October I headed back to Nepal. As the plane flew into Nepal, it flew right over Father’s temple. What a sight to behold! I took a taxi straight to Father’s house. The first familiar face that I saw belonged to Sushil, one of the Chine’s grandsons, who recognized me immediately. He took me to see Father, who immediately jumped up from his bed and told me that he knew I would return. Everyone had tears in their eyes. It was wonderful. Father had prayed for my return all those years. They had heard I was dead.
Ganesh rented me a house, and on the way over to it, he told me that my old friend, Afghan Ted, lived in the next village. Before I even unpacked, I went to see Ted. He damn near fainted when he saw me. We hugged for a long time. I wanted to smoke some hash and Ted proceeded to roll a lot of joints. Things had been a little rough for Ted, so I immediately laid a couple of thousand on him and told him not to worry. Before I left the States, Murray came up with a new scam for shipments from Nepal.
AfghanTed
Ted married a beautiful Thai lady named Taznee, and they had a son named Odin. He told me that Irish Patrick was living by the Oberoi hotel. Then we started comparing notes on Steve. It turned out that when Steve told me he did a one-ton deal, it was really three. What a lying sack of shit.
In Nepal, having pulled off so many successful scams, I was famous. All my old friends came by. The Serchan brothers, my old hash connection, came by. I had my girlfriend make Father some American fried chicken and he was in Nirvana. Everyday I would have lunch with Father, and recount everything that happened over those eleven years.
L to R: Piaro (translator), Mr. Serchan (hash connection) and Ganesh Lama
I made a point of telling him how Steve had betrayed me. Father caught me up on all the news. Todd had been arrested in Bangkok and was now in a Thai prison. It seemed that old Todd been busted along with the cargo manager of Thai Airlines and the Thai captain with whom he was working. He actually had the Thai Navy delivering his loads to waiting ships out at sea while he sat in jail. That’s right, Todd was King Rat, and operated his smuggling empire from within the Thai prison.
I went to see Irish Patrick, who was doing very well in the antique business, although he was still strung out on heroin.
Nepal had changed a lot. It was no longer a quiet, peaceful backwater. Heroin was dirt-cheap and the price of hash and ganja had skyrocketed. Nepal was poorer than it was eleven years earlier.
I had been back about three weeks when I got a message from Father that my friend Steve was there to see me. Steve who? I remember thinking. I rushed to Father’s house and there was Steve from New York and his wife Leslie. I didn’t want to upset Father, so I took them to my house. There I berated Steve, and Ganesh threatened his very existence. If he would have come without Leslie, I would have had him thrown into a Nepali jail. He wanted to see Ted, and I dropped him off there. Ted told him that he was in immediate danger, and that he should leave Nepal while he still could. As it was, Steve nearly died of food poisoning after eating tainted seafood. Nepal is a long way from the ocean. I felt bad for his wife, Leslie. She was a real sweet lady. They left before I had them deported.
Darling, Father’s daughter, invited my gal pal and I for dinner. Darling’s husband had died a few years earlier, and I remembered playing with their kids years ago. Her daughter Jaya had grown up very nicely, thank you—she was a knock out. Her son Prabhakar and I would become best friends for life.
The Chine Lama had another daughter who died as a child. She had fallen down the stairs of Father’s house and broken her neck. One day, as I was having lunch with the Grand Lama, a Malaysian Muslim family came for a visit. There was a young woman with them who looked at Father and said, “Father, it is your daughter. I have returned home.” Father called her by the nickname he had given her in her other life. The Malaysian family was astonished. This was the same name by which the girl had demanded to be addressed from the moment she could speak.
One day she opened a book to a picture of the Boudhanath Stupa, and told her parents “That’s where I used to live. My father lives there now.” Eventually she demanded that her parents take her to Nepal to her father’s temple. I had seen proof of reincarnation before my very eyes. This Muslim family converted to Buddhism, and to this day are part of the Lama family. They now live in Nepal, even though Father is long gone. Everyone was crying. It was quite a scene. The Boudhanath Stupa Temple is over 2000 years old, and it is said that it was created from a tear of the Goddess of Mercy.
Over the years, I had seen plenty of Father’s magic. He studied with Tantric masters in Nepal, Tibet, China and Mongolia. He was a remarkable man. Lowell Thomas once interviewed him, and a copy of the film of their conversation is in the Museum of Television & Radio in New York. He was in a Jean Paul Belmondo movie. In the movie, Belmondo’s character is being chased around the world. At one point he is in Nepal, and sure enough there is Father with all his monks doing Puja. Once, years after Father had passed to Nirvana, I was watching the television show, In Search Of…, and there was the Chine Lama showing the cameras a Yeti skull. Father was a character.
Chine Lama appearing on In Search Of The Abominable Snowman, which aired originally on November, 22 1979
Phurpa, my servant, riding my old friend
One day, Ganesh came by with a surprise. A huge elephant came walking up my driveway. Ganesh told me that it was the elephant I purchased to send to the States so long ago. He was huge and I was glad I no longer had to feed him. I went for a ride on the elephant. He was trained to work. It’s funny, but when I went up to him he seemed to remember me and gave me a loving nudge. The trainer said he remembered me.
A few days later, Ganesh came to me quite worried. A huge load of hash oil had been busted on the bus from Sundrajal reservoir, and the coolies had given Ganesh’s name as well as THC Jack’s. Evidently, Jack had set up an oil lab in Melamche, Father’s village in the mountains. They were growing the weed there and processing it into oil. Why the coolies didn’t go around and walk it all the way down I’ll never understand. Ganesh was in deep shit, and the police were looking to arrest him. I went to Father’s as usual for lunch, and the phone rang. Father handed the phone to me. It was THC Jack, who knew me by reputation. He had not yet been arrested and was in hiding. I asked if he was calling from Bombay, and told him if not that he should be. I guess he took my advice and got out of Dodge.
Ganesh wasn’t sleeping in the same place twice. I talked to Father, but there was nothing he could do. Times had changed in Boudha, and there was even a police station there now. Before, the only law was the Chine Lama. Finally, the police came to Father’s house and arrested Ganesh. In the old days, no police were ever allowed in Boudha and certainly not inside Father’s house. It was a sad sight to see. Fortunately, Ganesh was not held very long. The whole incident was blamed on Jack, who was long gone by then. I remember Ganesh complaining about being slapped around by the police.
Chine Lama presented the author with Mala (meditation beads)
Ted left for Thailand with his family, and I was going to meet him in Pattaya for a few weeks before I went back to the States. I fixed myself a nice place to live in Nepal again, and intended to come back to live in Boudha. Father had a big dinner for us, and afterwards he presented me with a huge ancient statue of Padma Sambava, the saint who introduced Buddhism to Tibet. The next day, I left for Bangkok, where Ted met us at the airport. We partied a few days in Bangkok, and then took the bus to Pattaya Beach. At the time, Pattaya was beautiful, unpolluted and not too crowded. Unlike today, the beaches were clean and it was cheap. Ted got us a room at the Palm Lodge. At the hotel, we met a group of guys from Kuwait. Ted spoke Farsi so we partied with them and we became their rafik (brothers).
One day upon returning from the beach, we saw someone standing and listening at our door. We all did an about face, and as we walked away I noticed a couple walking towards us. They were obviously junkies. I had a hunch that they were staying in the room next to ours, and that the person we saw was listening at their door. I followed them into the building and sure enough they were next door to us. I felt that I should warn them that it may have been the police listening at their door. I knocked on their door and told them that I might be a crazy American, but I thought I had seen the police listening at their door. With that they invited me in.
I told them to clean up their room, move to a different hotel and start being discreet. They related their tale to me. They had flown in from Hamburg to score. They had been picked up at the airport by a taxi driver, who took one look at them and said he knew what they wanted. He took them to Pattaya, and was either in the process of ripping them off or setting them up. They thanked me and moved on the next day. There is a saying among the Westerners living in Thailand—“Never trust a Thai.” In Thailand it is essential to know whom one is dealing with!
One evening, my Kuwaiti friends showed interest in seeing some of the antiques I brought from Nepal, so I invited them to my room for a drink. The lady from room service also became very interested when she saw the statue that Father had given to me.
We partied our last night in Thailand. The next day, everyone came to say goodbye. We hired a private car to drive us back to the Bangkok airport. I was anxious to leave Thailand and return home to Crested Butte
As we were leaving the lodge, the driver told us that he knew a short cut that could get us to the airport more quickly, and we readily agreed. He kept looking at us through his rear view mirror and it started to make me a little nervous. The road began getting narrower and then it dawned on me that this guy was heading into the jungle where he was going to rip us off for the art. I whispered my thoughts to my gal pal who felt the same vibe. I pulled my trusty buck knife, grabbed him by the back of his head and put my knife to his throat. I told him that if he thought he was going to rip us off, he could forget it. I said, “I’ll cut your head off and leave you here in the jungle for the tigers to eat. Now, turn this car around and get back to the highway.”
As soon as we were on the highway, I loosened my grip but kept my knife at the ready. When we arrived at the airport, he apologized profusely and said that he would blow his head off with his gun if any harm had come to us while we were in his car. It turned out that he had a gun in his glove box. At the time, Bangkok was the murder capital of the world and the stories about tourists being robbed were endless. We had several drinks to calm us down following our close call.
We settled into our seats and headed back to the States. When we arrived at LAX, our luggage was ripped apart by customs, and we were thoroughly searched. The only item left unchecked was Father’s statue. I told the agent to forget it, that the statue was clean and that if he in any way damaged the piece he would probably be reincarnated as a worm. They drilled into the bottom and found nothing, and we finally cleared customs after two hours. 1981 was coming to a close. Everything had gone well in my absence. Ace had taken care of business and I had come home to a pile of dough. My loads were being delivered regularly, and Ace handled everything. He kept Darryl and Richard well stocked with bales of Colombian Gold and Red. Murray wanted me back home to supervise Ace as the loads were getting bigger. However I wanted to return to Nepal. I opened a small shop in Crested Butte, selling handicrafts, antiques and Tibetan carpets.
One day I was sitting in my living room, admiring Father’s statue, when suddenly the staff held by the figurine broke and fell to the floor. I knew something was amiss and called Nepal. I had a premonition that something had happened to Father. Sushil answered the phone and told me that Father had died in Maha Samadi. Over 100,000 people escorted Father’s body to Pashupatinath, where he was cremated. The Royal Nepalese Air Force flew helicopters around the stupa, and all the ambassadors attended. Immediately prior to his death, Father sat up erect in a lotus position and released his soul. Three veins appeared in his forehead in the form of a Shiva Trident. I was devastated!
I would never see Father again and I would never have the same power again in Nepal. Father was a tantric master, and when he died a lot of knowledge went with him. The title Chine Lama passed to his eldest son, Puntajawala. Boudha would never be the same. Father’s room was left untouched, and remains so to this day. As I sat in my living room, I remembered a meeting long ago with Father, the Chief of Police and an army general. The police chief said to me, Joe, you’re rich and we are poor, we eat meat once a month, you must help us. I smiled. I was afforded privileges enjoyed by no other Westerner in Nepal, and lived the life of a hippie king. Father had a lot of power. Once he sent me to Melamche as his representative to handle all matters concerning the village. In other words, he appointed me as judge over all disputes. Everyone bowed down to me. My word was the Chine Lama’s word.
I received a letter from Irish Patrick. He wrote that he had two statues he wanted me to sell, and that he had a friend in New Jersey with some merchandise he could not get rid of. He begged me to help. I knew the merchandise was heroin, so I chose to ignore the whole situation. But the very next day I received a phone call from someone named Bijay Giri in New Jersey. I was fit to be tied that Irish Pat gave this stranger my phone number. He told me he was stuck there without funds and that he was due in Texas next month to attend flight school. I told him that I could not help him out.
Two days later he showed up in Gunnison, and called to say that he was on his way up to Crested Butte. I swore to take revenge on Irish Patrick the moment I returned to Nepal. I did not know anyone in the heroin trade and it was impossible to sell it in a small town like Crested Butte. But after a few days I found someone who knew a person in California who could handle it. I took Bijay out there and left him in San Francisco. I was very relieved to be rid of Bijay.
Nepal was then and is now flooded with heroin. I remember when there was no such thing as a Nepalese junkie. Now Nepal actually had methadone clinics. At the time, with the Afghan War raging in Southwest Asia, more heroin would be produced in Asia than ever before, all under the watchful eye of the CIA, which was supporting the Mujahideen’s fight against the Soviet war machine. The Mujahideen supported itself by growing opium and manufacturing heroin.
The Gulbuddin Hekmatyar and the CIA agreed that the CIA would turn a blind eye to the trade as long as none of the heroin reached the U.S. During the 1980s there was a heroin explosion in Europe, Canada, and Australia and for the first time kilo prices for heroin started to drop. The strategy was to make it cheap, sell it cheap and build up the client base.
The price for a kilo of pure Thai White was $10,000 to $15,000 at the time, while the price in Pakistan was one-third of that or less. More heroin was produced in the 1980s than ever before and that trend continued through the 1990s and into the 21st century. Now that Colombia produces heroin, it’s cheaper still, from $300,000 per kilo in the 1960s to less than $50,000 per kilo in the USA today. Before, it was unusual for a bag of dope to be even three-percent heroin. Today it is sold in pure form, as now more addicts snort heroin than inject it.
And what of the DEA? In the name of national security, they turned a blind eye to their brothers in the CIA. The DEA went after the good-old-boy marijuana networks, but to do so they had to change the rules. First, they changed the legal classification of marijuana to the same as heroin. Then, they completely revised the law to allow no-knock raids, and to make wider use of conspiracy laws. One no longer had to be busted with the dope red-handed. People were going to jail for things they did five years earlier. Seizure laws were enacted under which police were empowered to confiscate a suspect’s property and then leave it up to the suspect to prove his innocence. Ninety percent of those cases never resulted in criminal charges, let alone convictions. One’s property could be seized merely on the word of an informant.
I received a call from Murray. He informed me that a big load was coming my way. I checked into the Writers’ Manor Hotel, and waited for the drivers to show up. As soon as a driver arrived, I would hand his car keys to Ace, who would drive the car to my warehouse and then return the empty car to the driver. Over the course of that week we handled 36 cars full of Red and Gold Colombian, a total of nearly 15,000 pounds. At first I wondered how I was going to move all of this weed. In fact, it was gone in ten days.
I had been back in the States six months and I wanted to return to Nepal. Ace was working out well, so I did. On the way, I stopped in Hong Kong to pick up various supplies, including a television and video player which were worth about $5000 at the time.
I had the only video player in Boudha, and every night I would have people over to watch movies. I remember showing the Elephant Man. The Nepalese could not believe how badly he was treated. In Nepal, he would have been worshipped as the god Ganesh. Ganesh is the elephant-headed god who brings luck to people who worship him. The most beautiful girls would have offered themselves to him. A temple would have been built in his honor.
It was sad for me to be back in Boudha with Father gone. I sometimes would go into his room to meditate. Ganesh built a stupa in which to put Father’s ashes, and I went there to meditate. All around Father’s stupa, ganja began to flourish. I asked Ganesh who it was that planted the weed, and he told me that it just began growing naturally.
I received some additional bad news. Ted and his son, Odin, had gone off a cliff in Bali while riding a motorcycle, and both had been killed. Everyone was trying to cheer me up, but the loss of Ted was heavy. He was a true brother, and they were hard to find in Southeast Asia.
Prabhakar, Darling’s son, came over and I told him that Irish Patrick had tried to involve me in a heroin deal. The next day, Prabhakar showed up with 100 Nepalese soldiers on motorcycles and in trucks. We drove over to Irish Pat’s house, and the soldiers surrounded it. Every soldier there was a Tae Kwan Do black belt. They stormed in and tied up old Pat. We did not hurt him, but he was read the riot act. From that point forward, the only business between Pat and me would be antiques and carpets, and he was never again to involve me in his heroin scams. I threw the army boys a huge party and they pledged their assistance if we ever needed it again. Prabhakar was a great friend, and I was crazy about his sister, Jaya.
Prabhakar Raj Pandey
The author, Jaya and a friend.
Ganesh came by with an invitation for lunch at a very important Minister’s home who was in charge of the Nepalese Olympic Committee. The very next day an official car was sent to Boudha to collect us. I remember being very impressed with the Minister’s Mercedes Benz and the Police escort. As we entered the compound we were halted as a royal entourage of vehicles left the minister’s home.
When we arrived I waited in the reception area while Ganesh spoke privately with the minister. I was then shown into the minister’s office and was offered a bottle of Johnny Walker Black whiskey and a carton of 555 cigarettes. I had a drink with them and proceeded to roll a joint, which after lighting I offered to the minister, who politely declined. Over lunch the conversation turned to more substantive matters. Nepal for the first time was sending the Royal Nepalese Soccer team to the Olympics in Los Angeles the following year, 1984. They proposed my handling the merchandise that was being sent along with the team. My mind turned to $$$ signs as I thought how much I could get for 150 kilos of Nepalese Cream hashish, made Afghani style (bat-pressed)! I told the minister that I could supply the hashish and then would buy it back upon delivery in Los Angeles at an agreed-upon price.
Author in Kathmandu
Ganesh spoke with the minister in Nepalese, and then told me, “Not the black thing the white thing.” They intended to send 150 kilos of China White Heroin along with the team to LA. I tried my best to change their minds as 150 kilos of the finest Nepalese hash was worth quite a bit, but they were willing to pay me 10%, which would have been more than the 150 kilos of hash was worth! I put my hands in a prayer position over my head and apologized to the Minister, as there was nothing I could do to help them. It was out of the question. I did not know anyone to sell it to, nor did I want to. I again told him to forget it and just do the hashish, but to no avail, so I left. On the way home Ganesh explained that this was a Royal Family deal, that Prince Gyanendra was behind it, and that I could have anything I wanted in Nepal. I would be in the highest position with the Royal family. I told him to forget it.
At the 1984 Olympic Games the entire Royal Nepalese soccer team was stopped by U.S. Customs at LAX carrying the 150 kilos of heroin, and deported back to Nepal. It was all very hush-hush and only appeared in the news the day it happened, never to be heard about again until this book. The Nepalese never found about this incident either, and a reporter who tried to expose the scandal was shot by the police. Who would have thought that this heroin dealing Black Prince would one day be the King of Nepal!
Back in the States, the heat was on in the Caribbean, so the mother ships that once plied the waters off the Atlantic Ocean now headed into the Pacific to do business in Southeast Asia. Shipments of Thai weed were arriving in the U.S. in standard ocean containers. Huge loads were transported most of the way by those same mother ships, which would in turn parcel out the loads to smaller boats for final delivery to American shores.
The weed began its journey in Laos, from where it was transported overland by Lao Police trucks to Danang. There, it would be loaded aboard the mother ships. The weed came vacuum-sealed in nitrogen, so when the package was opened, it was as fresh as the day it was packed. It was fabulous ganja, better than any other bud I have ever smoked here in the States, and the taste was wonderful. My old buddy Todd was running a huge scene from inside a Thai prison. It’s funny that a poor country like Laos managed to pay off most of its foreign debt in the 1980s. The marijuana and heroin business was a government-controlled monopoly in Laos.
Huge loads of hashish began arriving from Afghanistan via Karachi, Pakistan courtesy of a CIA-approved Mujahideen network—slabs of black hash stamped with AK-47s or the word “Kabul.” Most of this hash was commercial, but some of it was the black on the outside, gold on the inside variety that Abdul used to make for me.
My favorite smoke in those days was the marijuana grown in Hawaii. Richard had a connection who would send him half-pounds concealed in Macadamia nut tins. The packages came with a beautiful dragon seal. They were vacuum-sealed and nitrogen packed. I have yet to smoke anything quite like that. Still, nothing beats that hand rubbed Nepalese hash.
My friend Rod had actually gone up to the villages where the hashish plants grow, and taught the Thakalis how to make hash using the Afghan method. Afterwards, the hash actually improved. Historically, the Thakalis have been the makers and suppliers of hashish in Nepal. The Thakalis migrated to Nepal from India hundreds of years ago during the Muslim invasions.
It was monsoon season in Nepal, so I headed back to the States. When I arrived, I saw that Ace had handled everything well, and I had plenty of dough waiting for me. I was called to a meeting in Boulder with Murray. He told me that while I was gone, Ace had proposed cutting me out of my deal with my crew, since he was doing all the work. To my dismay, I had to let Ace go. I would now have to handle everything myself.
Murray took me to dinner with one of his pals, Tom, aka Tommy Ton. Tom sold high grade Mexican marijuana. Little did I know that the days of Colombian marijuana would shortly be over, and that I would never sell it or see it again. The heat was on, and the Colombians switched to smuggling cocaine, which was more profitable and less bulky. I still miss that Santa Marta Gold and Red. It sold itself, and always kept me smiling. I was selling a lot more exotics now that the Colombian had dried up. I had hash, Thai weed, Kona Gold, Maui Wowie and, of course, homegrown. I now began receiving 500-pound loads of Mexican sensimilla through this new connection. I could obtain delivery in any major U.S. city I specified. It was beautiful. The Mexicans had gotten wise to paraquat. They outlawed it, and Mexican marijuana flourished once again.
I missed having Ace as my front man. It was worth the 50% of the profit I paid to him. I was no longer insulated. Tommy Ton was a wanted man, he was running from a huge Colombian marijuana bust in Louisiana in the 1970s. He always had a half-dozen IDs on him. The loads were going to Darryl, and he paid cash, so things went along smoothly. Nonetheless, I was again on the front lines of the War on Drugs. Tommy would roll into Denver, and I would meet him at a shopping mall, where he would hand me the keys to the van. I would then hand the keys to Darryl’s driver, who would drive the van to their warehouse. I never saw the weed. The next day I would be paid in full, and would then meet Tommy and pay him his dough. It was that simple and that quick.
I moved to Bodega Bay, California, and commuted to and from Denver for business. Murray came up with a new plan. The fix was in, and I could now start to send containers back from Asia. He agreed to handle the business in Colorado, which freed me to go back to Nepal. Thus began a period in my life in which I traveled back and forth from Asia, sometimes twice a month. I lived on airplanes, or so it seemed.
Back in Boudha, I met with Ganesh and the Serchan family. I decided to go with my Nepalese crew and ship out of Bombay.
Nepal has historically grown ganja for the Indian market and legally sold it to India under government contract, which it does to this day. The Hindus not only smoke it, but eat it as well. In all the most sacred Hindu shrines devoted to Shiva, legal ganja shops still thrive today. They sell the weed to the devotees of Lord Shiva, the Ganja god.
After my meeting in Nepal, I headed back to California to finalize the deal. The weed was going to cost me $5 per kilo, so five tons cost me $25,000. The payoff to customs amounted to $100,000. In the West, the load would have been worth $10 million wholesale, based upon a per kilo price of $2000, and that was a low estimate. The same shipment would have cost me ten times or more in Thailand. I headed back to Nepal with the capital for the deal plus $100,000 of my own, a cool $250,000 in cash.
The author in his office in Boudha
I had a lot going on in Nepal. I was now invested in a carpet factory. I also had my antique business as well as a money-changing business. I flew first class to Hong Kong, and from there I flew Marco Polo class to Bangkok. The Dom Perignon flowed like water, and the finest foods were served by the most beautiful stewardesses. By the time I reached Bangkok, I was feeling no pain. When passengers arrive at Bangkok, they are given a custom’s declaration and are required to declare anything valued in excess of $10,000 U.S. Because I was only staying overnight, I didn’t pay much attention to the form. The fact that I was so drunk didn’t help matters. I cleared customs, and took a taxi to the Montein Hotel in Patpong.
That night, Richard, Todd’s agent in Bangkok, and his Eurasian girlfriend came over to party at my suite. I was tempted to purchase the weed from Todd’s crew, but the expense scared me. His asking price for five tons was a cool $1.5 million, half a million for the dope and a million for customs. That’s a lot of dough. I asked Richard about going through customs with all the cash I was carrying. He said that it would be no problem. There was a last minute checkpoint before passengers entered the transit lounge, he told me, but only occasionally was the agent on duty. If he was on duty, Richard advised, just ignore him and walk into the lounge.
The next day was a Saturday. I headed to the airport to catch my flight to Kathmandu. As luck would have it, the customs agent was at his desk. I did just as Richard told me, but the agent called me back to the desk and asked me to open my briefcase. When I did so and he gazed at all my cash, his eyes almost popped out of his head. Under Thai law he would be rewarded handsomely for confiscating dollars attempted to be taken out of Thailand illegally.
I showed him my bank withdrawal slips, and told him that I had declared it and that it was legally my money, which I intended to invest in my carpet factory in Nepal. But it all came down to one thing: how much money I had declared when I entered Thailand. So there I was—held by Thai customs, and all because I was so drunk when I came off the plane I couldn’t remember the amount that I had declared on the form. I started sweating as they began searching through thousands of custom declarations, looking for mine. They finally found my form. It turned out that instead of declaring a specific amount, I had merely checked the ‘yes’ box, indicating that I had more than $10,000. The director of the airport’s customs operations was called, and he ordered the overzealous agent to cut me and my money loose. I was finally allowed to proceed into the transit lounge, just in time to catch my flight to Kathmandu.
Upon my arrival in Boudha, I called a meeting for that evening at my house with four of the Serchan Clan. They doubled the cost of my deal to $300,000. They explained that the weed would be trucked from the border of Nepal to Bombay, a long distance, and that officials at every checkpoint would need to be paid off. The cost was still one-fifth of the price in Thailand. I put up a stink, but agreed to the deal. Bow Tie, one of the Serchan Clan, was to go to Bombay and take charge of making all the arrangements to have our container shipped. He was also in charge of moving the weed from Nepal to Bombay. It was the start of the monsoon season, so I would have to wait until the monsoon ended, and the marijuana was harvested.
In the meantime, I kept busy at my carpet factory, my antique business and, of course, my money-changing business. I was earning 20 to 50 percent profit. Those were great days in Boudha—partying with Tom and Madge, Jaya and Pat. My house was always full of people, and in the evenings I would show films on my video player. I had brought to Boudha the area’s second video player and television for my old friend Piaro, and he opened a video hall in which to show Hindi movies.
I flew down to Bombay with Bow Tie to meet with his connections. There, I was introduced to Iqbal, Bombay’s preeminent smuggler and gangster. He did his best to impress me. He wined and dined me, and I spent my nights with some of Bombay’s top starlets. Bombay is the Hollywood of India, and Iqbal was also a film producer. I liked Iqbal. He had a lot of style.
From Bombay, we flew to New Delhi to meet the Indian crew who would transport the weed to Bombay. There, I met Banwari Lai and his crew. From Delhi, I flew to Calcutta for old time’s sake, and looked up some old friends. Mr. Fong was long dead. My friends at the Oberoi hotel had moved to Bombay, so I didn’t stay long. Two days later I flew back to Kathmandu.
In the transit lounge in Calcutta, as I waited for my flight, I noticed about 50 college students who were also traveling to Nepal. One of them noticed my Crested Butte t-shirt, and came over to talk. They were all from Colorado, and were on an Outward Bound trip. They surrounded me and began asking about Nepal and Kathmandu. I immediately marched them over to the duty-free store and had each person purchase his allotment of cigarettes, liquor and perfume. We stripped the shelves clean. I explained to them that I would buy all these goods from them at a profit in Nepal. I was now their antique and rug connection, tourist guide, money changer, and of course I gave them my best hash for free.
When I arrived in Kathmandu leading this troop, the head of customs sent one of his agents over to talk to me. “Mr. Joe,” he said, “can you offer us a bottle of Scotch? You have so much.” I explained that the only bottles I had were the two I carried, and with that, I marched my troupe out to 15 taxis. Our caravan proceeded to Boudha, where I bought all the duty-free items they had, and paid them in rupees (at a higher rate than they would have received at the bank), so they would have money to spend. They were happy, and I smiled all the way to the bank.
With the onslaught of the monsoon and very little action in Kathmandu, I headed back to California. Business back home had come to a halt. No loads were reaching Darryl, and he was sitting on a nearly a million dollars in cash for us. I collected the cash, paid it to Tommy and the loads once again began regularly arriving. Tommy was supplying crews in New York, Colorado and California.
At the end of the summer I headed back to Nepal. Back in Boudha, I called a meeting. This is how the deal would take place: once the weed was delivered to Iqbal in Bombay, he would pack it into an ocean container and ship it to the Philippines. There, the container would be rerouted to the States with new documents that read it was coming from the Philippines, and not India. I was being overly cautious. After all, the container would be ripped off at the Brooklyn docks. All of the information regarding this shipment would be erased from the computer system. So it was like a ghost container—now you see it, now you don’t. Then I would have Iqbal destroy all record of the shipment in India as well. A ghost container; it was beautiful!
My crop was still in the ground. It would be ready in November. In the meantime, I settled into my life in Boudha. I was seeing more of Jaya, my Nepalese princess.
One day, I was shopping in Kathmandu when I came across some really beautiful cards. Each consisted of a heart-shaped Bodhi leaf, hand-painted with scenes from the life of Buddha. I bought a stack to send home as Christmas cards from Nepal. When I arrived back home, the Serchan had come over with a gift for me—a kilo tongue of the finest Afghan-style Nepalese hashish. Here it was, the legendary chewing gum hash, so sticky that if it was thrown against a wall, it would stick. One hit of that hashish was enough for ten people. That’s when I came up with a new idea.
I made a 25-kilo iron rolling pin that would be suitable for pressing hashish. Then, I weighed out ten grams of the fabled Cream Hashish, and used the rolling pin to roll out the identical size of the cards. I then heat-sealed the square with Saran Wrap, and cut an identically sized square from a piece of paper-thin cardboard. Next, I glued the hash to the back of the Bodhi leaf card, and then glued the cardboard square behind the hash. Afterwards, I stacked some heavy books on top of the card to further compress it while the glue dried. As a final step, I wrapped the assembled card in Saran Wrap, and sealed it in an envelope. Each finished card weighed less than 15 grams.
I had Rita, my driver’s wife, who worked at US AID in Kathmandu, send my cards out with the U.S. Embassy’s mail. I sent hundreds of cards, including 50 to my own U.S. address. Everyone who received a Christmas card from me that year will never forget that hash. Not one card was lost.
I called my old pal Mark to wish him a Merry Christmas, and to ask him whether he enjoyed my Christmas cards. He wondered who had sent them, as I never signed the cards or wrote a return address on them. He thought they were beautiful nonetheless, so he hung them on his wall. Now Mark and I had worked together on the dogs and the Lesser Panda deals, so he was no novice at smuggling hash. However, even he didn’t realize that there was hash in those cards. I told him to get the cards and to rip them in half, and he finally discovered the stash. They had been hanging on his wall for over a month.
Some of my pals in New York were offered $500 a piece for one card, that’s $50 per gram! That hash was some of the best ever made in Nepal, and that year those cards went all over the world.
It was time for me to check my crop. The harvest and curing took longer than planned. Tez and I drove down to Birgunj on the border of India and Nepal. We met up with the farmer who showed us the way to his village. After a four hour ride through the jungles of the Terai and past a dozen checkpoints manned by local farmers, we arrived at the village. There was no electricity and no cold beer, nothing but mud huts and one large warehouse. I asked the farmer if any Westerner had been there, and he said that I was the first. As I walked into the warehouse I could smell my crop. It was wonderful.
L to R: Prabhkar, the author and driver Tez
Marijuana is cultivated in Nepal just like any other crop. It is cut and collected by hand. At harvest time, huge elephants drag a large canvas sheet onto which the weed is stacked as it is cut. The whole village worked on my crop, cutting and trimming my buds. They called the weed Milchi, little sticky buds that were stored in fifty-gallon plastic-lined barrels.
The first problem I encountered was that without electricity I could not use my packing equipment. My name for this weed would be Elephant Brand. The packaging would feature a drawing of a herd of stampeding elephants. Another problem was that the crop was still curing. It would take another four to six weeks before it was ready to move across the border. We left and went home to Boudha. I sent Tez back down to the village with a gasoline-powered generator and the rest of our packing equipment.
I had to get back to the west and meet with my partners. Timing is everything in a container scam. I had been given a small window of time to ship the container, and I was running late. Back in California, I met with Murray, explained the situation and then left for Denver to meet Tommy Ton.
Darryl threw a big party, as he was going to jail for a year. Two burglars had broken into Darryl’s house, intending to rip off his huge safe. The police caught these two idiots rolling the safe down the service road behind Darryl’s house. While being questioned, they admitted to the police that they were ripping off a drug dealer. They brought a drug-sniffing dog in, and he smelled the safe.
When Darryl’s wife came home from work, she found a note from the police saying that they had caught the thieves who had broken into her house and stole her safe, and asking her to come to the station to identify it. She went to the police station, identified the safe and, with that, she was arrested. When Darryl showed up, he too was arrested. They found Darryl’s books, a half-pound of cocaine and a pound of home-grown. The big find was Darryl’s books, listing all of his drug business’ transactions. Darryl was fucked.
All of this made me happy. I had been having my headaches with him. First, he went behind my back to Tommy Ton, and then used my money to buy loads from Tommy. Darryl told me that his wife would handle his business while he was in jail. I laughed in his face. There was no way I was going to deal with that broad. I would deal with Darryl’s main guy, Mark. Mark could give Darryl a cut if he wanted to, otherwise, tough shit. That was my attitude.
Darryl’s buddies ran an escort service, and Darryl had a half-dozen girls in his hotel suite. Tommy got friendly with one of them, a blonde by the name of Heather from Minnesota, Tommy’s home state. It wasn’t long before Tommy retired this girl from the escort business and made her his personal secretary. After the party, I headed back to California
Rod, an old friend from my days in India, ran an opium den in Marin County. He was an old pal, and there at his den I could finally relax. I practically lived on airplanes, and I needed to slow down. But less than a month later I was again heading back to Nepal. By then, my load should have been packed and on the road to Bombay. I got back to Nepal in time for the Tibetan New Year, only to learn that my load was still sitting at the border.
Prabhkar and author in Nepali cave
I called a meeting, and everyone showed up. Their excuse was that they were waiting for me to return before proceeding. I again explained the deal, how I had people standing by, that this delay would cost me a lot more money and that the window I had for shipping the container was going to close. Ganesh kept me cool, but I had told my crew that I would be shipping in the next thirty days. I called them and explained the situation. We decided that I should stay put, wait till the load was in Bombay and then go down and personally supervise its shipment.
Ganesh came over with his pal, Mr. Sharma. Mr. Sharma was in the King’s secret police, and had a favor to ask of me. He wanted me to do some shopping for him the next time I came through Hong Kong. I asked about customs at the airport, and he told me he would meet the plane and there would be no interaction with immigration or customs. I would walk directly off the plane to his waiting black Mercedes. They would collect the luggage and then take me to Boudha. I would be saluted and treated as a foreign dignitary at the airport by the King’s own secret police. They gave me a huge list, and I agreed to help them out.
It was June before my load finally reached Bombay. I flew down shortly afterwards to meet with Iqbal. Iqbal explained to me that he had only received half the load and, furthermore, he had not received the funds for shipping the goods and for paying off Bombay customs. I flew back up to Nepal and met with the crew, who told me it was all a misunderstanding. They sent Bow Tie back to Bombay with me. Again Iqbal stated that the Nepalese hillbillies had not given him a dime. There was no way I would put up any more cash for half a load.
We flew back to Nepal, where I had a meeting with Serchan. He was in serious fear for his life, after I tied up his skinny ass in my house. I had my stun gun out and was about to give him a jolt when Ganesh came in and stopped me from killing the guy. Ganesh promised to work something out, but I think he was in on the rip-off as well. I told Ganesh that opportunities like this come only once, and that they had just blown the biggest money-making scheme of their lives.
I didn’t look forward to going back to the States and explaining to the crew what had transpired. I was responsible. I owed the mob $300,000. When I got back to California, I met with Rod, who told me that Devi and Kabita were in New York. Devi’s uncle was the skinny little prick Serchan. I flew to New York City to explain what happened. I was read the riot act and told that I had to compensate them for the $300,000. I revealed to them that Devi and Kabita were in the city, and the next day Murray and his huge bodyguard went to see Devi.
Kabita and Devi
In Devi’s room, I explained to him what had happened, and he related to me that the deal was a rip-off from the beginning. This pissed off Murray enough to have his bodyguard growl at Devi and his wife. They were scared, and promised to make things right if only we wouldn’t harm them. I didn’t blame them for being scared; they were a long way from home. I made it seem as if I was saving them, that I was the good guy and Murray and his bodyguard the bad guys. I begged Murray not to hurt them. All this had been planned in advance by us. We wanted to scare them, not hurt them. I managed to get Devi and his wife out of a tight spot, or so they thought. They promised to meet with me back in Nepal in a few weeks.
From New York, I flew back through Denver and met with Tommy. He related that Murray lost a load in California and had to pay for it, so Murray was out $600,000. However, back in Denver, everything was still running smoothly. I flew back to California, and, a week or so later, on to Nepal via Hong Kong. I had that wish list from the King’s secret police. It took me a week to get all that stuff together. Dozens of watches, radios, cameras, videos; ten suitcases full. As I was doing all this shopping I had a brilliant idea. Why not use this plan to my own advantage? I bought five kilos of gold and had it concealed inside a video player that was packed in my suitcase.
The next day I flew into Nepal, and it was beautiful. I was saluted like a diplomat, and escorted through immigration and customs to the waiting Mercedes Benz. I sat in the Mercedes and had a Scotch with Mr. Sharma, while his boys picked up my fifteen suitcases and had my passport stamped. Afterwards, off we went to Boudha. Back at my house, I gave Mr. Sharma his ten suitcases and he paid me the Hong Kong price for all the gear, which was now worth at least triple what he paid.
I played it cool, and later that evening, Patrick came over. I gave him my gold to sell in Kathmandu, so that it would not lead back to me. My profit was a kilo of gold, but the idea that I had pulled a fast one was worth a lot more. Patrick and I had a great laugh over this.
Devi and his wife, Kabita, came by to see me. Bow Tie also came by, and invited Devi and me to New Delhi for a meeting with Ban Wari Lai. Devi stated that he would supply the hashish if I could get it out of India. At least the Serchan’s were trying to make it right.
We left for the meeting in New Delhi. From Delhi we were taken north to the village of Ban Wari Lal, and his pal The Brain, where a feast was waiting for us. The Brain was a walking computer. He suggested that we build safes, and conceal the hashish in the walls of the safe. I asked what would happen if inspectors were to drill into it. Brain replied that the inspectors would drill only where the holes would not be noticeable, so as not to damage the safe. He would place the hashish only in those places into which the inspectors were known not to drill. So right then and there we started the Banjoe Safe Company. Ban for Ban Wari Lal, and Joe—Banjoe. I loved it!
I would have to go to Hong Kong and open a letter of credit to the State Bank of India. Meanwhile, Ban Wari Lal registered the Banjoe Safe Company using an alias. They would build three safes, one with a door that opened from the left, one with a door that opened from the right, and a huge one with double doors. In all, 300 kilos would fit easily. Ban Wari Lal would also pick up the hash from Devi and deliver it to the safe factory. The three of us agreed to meet again, and off we went, back to Nepal. A week or so later, I went down to Butwal to select my hashish from Devi’s store, and to press and pack it. Butwal is the major collection center for hashish in Nepal. It is all shipped there from the villages in which it is produced.
We drove down to Butwal, where we stayed at the home of Devi’s uncle, who happened to be a high ranking police inspector. I was told not to leave the house, and to stay indoors at all times. A westerner in Butwal means only one thing, a hashish businessman. So as not to arouse suspicion, I obliged. I was virtually a prisoner for a week. My living conditions consisted of terrible Nepali food, a rope bed and mosquitoes by the millions. I kept myself entertained by drinking cold beer and listening to Bob Dylan. That week, Devi, his uncle and I pressed and packed the hashish.
A mountain of Nepalese hashish pressed to resemble 125 gram bars of soap.
I was very glad to be heading back to Boudha. From there, I flew back to California, and from the airport I went directly to Rod’s opium den. I thanked Rod for his help with Devi, and offered him a job as my warehouse deliveryman in Denver. He agreed.
I flew to New York to see Murray and explain my new plan. The amount being shipped was not enough to use our dock connections, so new arrangements would be made. But this was a test run. If all went smoothly we would send a container full of safes. We were back on track.
I flew out to Denver, where I was then living again, and waited for Rod to show up. I found a small ranch for him on the outskirts of Denver. Rod now became our warehouse man, so Tommy and Murray came out to meet him and inspect our new facility. It was perfect, and right off the highway. As soon as I set Rod up, I would head back to Nepal. When my crew had finalized the new shipping arrangements, Rod was to fly to Hong Kong and open up the letter of credit to the State Bank of India, and then fly on to Nepal to meet me.
I left for Nepal and met with Devi. He told me that the delivery to Ban Wari Lal had gone well. Devi and I flew to New Delhi and drove to Ban Wari Lal’s village, where the safes were being produced. The Brain estimated it would take another month to finish the safes. We partied for a few days with my Indian crew, and then left for Nepal. Back in Boudha, I settled in and waited for everything to unfold.
My girlfriend Robin pictured with Kabita and Devi, who supplied the hash and connections for Banjoe Safe Co. smuggling operation.
I had a falling out with Ganesh, and decided to move out of his house. Devi arranged a truck and I moved lock, stock and barrel out of Boudha. Ganesh was very upset. We had been friends and brothers for 15 years, and had enjoyed success as well as failure together. The house I rented from him was supposed to be for life, but I felt that he was a part of the deal that had gone bad. So under the cover of darkness, I moved my furniture to a warehouse, and two days later it was delivered to my new house in Jawalakel.
I rented a great house from the Director of Bir Hospital. It was nice, but I missed Boudha. I kept the location of my new place secret, and I now did business out of an office in Thamel. Bow Tie came by and we briefed him on our program.
A few days later, Rod showed up with the details of the shipping arrangements. The letter of credit had been opened in Hong Kong. Everything was ready to go. The shipment would leave Madras for Singapore. From there, it would be reshipped to Honolulu, where we had our in. Rod could only stay a few days, as he had business to take care of in Denver.
Rod and I decided to have lunch at the Annapurna Hotel, but as we walked through the arch I changed my mind and decided to instead eat at the Kushi Fuji, a nearby Japanese restaurant. As we were sitting down at our table, we heard a series of explosions. The entire lobby of the Annapurna Hotel had been destroyed by a bomb. My whim had saved us from certain death. Bombs had also gone off at the gates of the Royal Palace and at the Rashtriya Panchayat building. Rod was very happy that I had decided that day to have Japanese food.
In the middle of all this turmoil, Henry Kissinger had come to Nepal with a large group of DEA agents to attend a narcotics conference hosted by His Majesty’s government. Their goal was to curb the heroin traffic in Nepal. So Kissinger and the boys went out into the market in Kathmandu and, at Asan Tole, they purchased two kilos of Double U O Global Brand heroin, the purest heroin produced in the Golden Triangle. They bought those two kilos in Kathmandu as easily as one would purchase a pack of cigarettes in the U.S. Some dumb Nepali sold Henry Kissinger two kilos of pure heroin and Kissinger used his own travelers checks to pay for it.
Kissinger and the boys marched up to Hanuman Dhoka and into the office of D. B. Lama, the Inspector General of Police, and threw the two kilos of heroin onto his desk. In fact, D. B. Lama ran the heroin trade in Nepal. Kissinger threatened to cut off foreign aid to Nepal, so for show, D. B. Lama had every Westerner living in Nepal searched by the Nepalese SWAT team. They even used drug sniffing dogs. The police rounded up all the money changers and hash dealers. Within a week, the jails were overflowing. Nepal has a strange legal system. If the police come to a home to arrest someone, but he is not there, they will arrest his wife and hold her until he turns himself in.
Things got crazy. The first place they hit in Boudha was my old house. Ganesh told them I was back in the West. Kissinger’s boys made sure the police returned twice more for me. Devi came out of hiding and advised me to hide in Chitwan, on the border of India. I took a domestic flight down to the Terai. Chitwan is in the jungles of Nepal.
When I arrived at the Royal Chitwan Hotel the entire parking lot was lined with Toyota Corollas, and there was only one room available. The hotel was full of Manangi money changers, as well as other folks who were hiding out. Everyone joked and drank Johnny Walker Black.
Back in Kathmandu, 200 Westerners and Nepalese were rounded up and jailed. The word coming out of Hanuman Dhoka was that the police had started to torture people in order to get them to sign phony confessions. The whole Serchan clan was thrown into jail. Devi escaped to India, but not before coming to see me on the border and telling me that my load was on its way to Madras, where it would be loaded onto a vessel. With that information, I headed back to Kathmandu, and two days later I left for Bangkok. After resting there, I headed back to the States.
There was absolutely nothing happening in Colorado, and there had been no word at all from Tom. Every time I came home, I would have a stack of cards waiting for me. So I had plenty of cream to smoke, and of course I now had my own private opium den at Rod’s house.
I received word that the shipment had cleared Madras, so I sent Rod back to Nepal to meet with Devi, and then on to India to pick up the cargo papers. Devi was now hiding in his village, high in the Himalayas, but he came down to meet with me on the border before Rod went to India to see Ban Wari Lal. About a week later, Rod showed up with the cargo papers. I was officially off the hook for that $300,000. Even if the load was busted, I did my part. I flew to Miami for a meeting with Murray, where I handed him the cargo papers.
All of the pressure was now off my shoulders. It was now up to the ganja god, Lord Shiva, and Lady Luck. Being a light container load, the shipment was hung up in Singapore, waiting for other cargo going to Honolulu. About three weeks later, it showed up in Honolulu, but it was red-flagged by U.S. customs. Murray called me and gave me the news that his people refused to pick it up because it had come in hot, but he thanked me for coming through. No matter what, I was off the hook for that $300,000.
It seemed that nothing was going right for the boys, when about two days later I received a call from Murray. He told me that the safes had made it and were delivered to the warehouse. The shipment had passed a red flag. Evidently, Murray had thrown the shipping documents into a trash dumpster. He related how, in order to retrieve the documents, he had jumped into the dumpster in his Armani suit and Gucci shoes. Yeah, right! Murray probably paid someone to jump into that dumpster and find those papers. The safes were reshipped to Oakland, were I had them picked up and delivered to Murray in New York.
However, there was a problem. The fireproof clay packed around the hashish had completely dried it out, but thanks to my old pal Anton and ten hippies that he hired up in Woodstock, it was brought back to life. They crumbled all the hash and, along with a little vegetable oil, pressed it back into temple balls and fingers, and it eventually sold. Needless to say, after I paid Murray off and the customs broker took his bite, there was nothing left for me. I didn’t make a fucking dime, but I was off the hook, and had a viable scam in my pocket.
Rod went back to India to explain to Devi and Ban Wari Lal what had happened. He explained that I had been ripped off by the Nepalese, and that the load yielded only enough to pay everyone back their investment principal. But, he explained, we would all make money when we did a full container load of safes with three tons of Nepali cream hashish.
Rod was involved in a little side venture, and I laid out a plan for him step by step. The boys needed some smoking opium, and he was to carry it to Hong Kong and mail it back to the States via surface mail packed inside a book. I had done this numerous times to get a small stash of hash back for myself, and it worked every time. I would pack the hash inside a book cover, and then carry the book into Hong Kong. In Hong Kong, I would go to a book-store, buy more books, and have the store ship them directly to the States. I would add my book to the ones I bought in Hong Kong, and wrap each book in Saran Wrap. The book-store would then wrap the entire stack in plastic, and then in butcher’s paper. This was an easy way for me to get a half-pound of hash into the States, and it worked every time.
However, instead of following my advice, Rod left it up to Ban Wari Lal to ship it from India, a source country. Not too surprisingly, the heat was waiting for Rod when he went to pick it up at Mail Boxes Etc. That burned Rod’s usefulness. The DEA subsequently paid a visit to the ranch. I managed to get him off the hook, but I ended up sending him back to California.
Tommy had yet to make another delivery. He started to come around again, promising me loads and then failing to deliver them. Darryl was now out of jail, and dealing directly with Tommy. Then, Tommy had a falling out with Murray, and he refused to deal with us. I couldn’t do anything about it. I was cut out of the picture.
The Kiki Camarena situation exploded in the news. Camarena was a DEA agent who had been kidnapped and executed on the orders of Mexican drug lords. Tommy’s connection in Mexico was Caro Quintaro, who was involved in the Camarena case. The Mexican police were also involved in that murder and cover-up.
Kiki Camarena
A lot of money had been invested in the biggest marijuana plantation ever discovered. It was right in the middle of the desert. That’s where Tommy’s marijuana came from. Tommy told me that his Mexican crew was on the run, and that he had to reorganize his whole operation. That wasn’t all that was happening.
The man who was Tommy’s connection to the Mexicans owned an RV lot in Tucson. All of the lot’s motor homes were equipped with custom-built hidden compartments to facilitate smuggling. This man was the proverbial Mr. Big, and Tommy worked for him. The DEA approached Mr. Big and explained the facts of life to him. If he didn’t agree to cooperate, he would lose everything and spend the rest of his life in prison.
Mr. Big agreed, and continued running his business as usual, except that the DEA now supplied the weed and followed each shipment to its destination. God only knows how many people went down. This is how they broke up the good-old-boy network that had distributed weed in America. Drivers who were DEA informants delivered weed to every customer who had made prior purchases. Each load was followed by car and helicopter.
They had drivers making deliveries all over the country, after each of which the DEA would sweep in like gangbusters. To estimate how many people were sucked into this is impossible, but it probably affected thousands of people. They allowed Mr. Big to operate like this for more than two years.
But that wasn’t Tommy’s only problem. A storage locker near the Denver airport had been busted with 300 pounds of weed, along with Tommy’s BMW. The locker was in the name of Heather’s brother. As I mentioned previously, Heather was the cutie who Tommy had retired from the escort service and made his secretary. So Tommy had the heat on him in stereo.
Back in Nepal, Devi was hiding out in his father’s village, up in the mountains. My Tibetan partner in my carpet business was picked up, questioned for three days and, apparently, slapped around by the Nepalese police. Fortunately, he was unaware of any of my other activities, so they let him go. The inquisition was still going on in Nepal, and any further business was out of the question for now. I had rented my house in Jawalakhel for a term of one year, and the year was soon to be over. I managed to reach Devi, and he had someone move my belongings from the house.
D. B. Lama was finally arrested by the King’s Secret Police for heroin trafficking. He was thrown into jail with everyone he had imprisoned while covering his tracks for Kissinger and the DEA. The Nepali royal family had always operated the black market in Nepal. They had to sacrifice someone, and that someone was D. B. Lama.
The authorities found in excess of 100 kilos of gold and a large amount of foreign currency in D. B. Lama’s house. All of the plumbing in his house was solid gold, which had been painted silver in order to camouflage it as conventional piping. I heard that my buddy Bow Tie saved his life in prison when the people he had put in jail wanted to kill him. I also heard that I was on a blacklist in Nepal, and that there were warrants out for my arrest in Kathmandu.
King Birendra had problems of his own. His own son the Crown Prince was strung out on heroin and was sent to Switzerland to detox. For the first time, his absolute rule was now in question as students took to the streets of Kathmandu to demonstrate for democracy. The King’s army responded with a heavy hand. Students were killed, jailed, tortured and thrown off buildings.
Tommy came by to see me with a load that I in turn offered to Mark. It was the usual routine. I would meet Tommy at a shopping mall near Mark’s place, and drive the motor home to the warehouse where Mark would check it. Mark passed on the load of weed, as it was of poor quality. As we walked out of the warehouse, Mark noticed a helicopter flying nearby. That made him extremely paranoid and caused him to think that the load had been tailed. I thought nothing of it and returned the motor home to Tommy. Bruce Springsteen was giving a concert in Denver and Tommy invited me to come along, as he had front row seats. There at the concert I met some of Tommy’s friends, and was introduced as Joe. It was a great concert.
A week or so later, Tommy delivered a load to Cleveland and I went there to sell it to my pal, Alan. I stayed and visited a girlfriend of mine in Yellow Springs, Ohio for a week before returning to Colorado. When I arrived back in Colorado, I received a message from New York that Tommy and his crew had been busted in Arizona. I was advised to leave Colorado.
Ninetenn-eighty-eight marked my twentieth year in the ganja trade. It was Losar (Tibetan New Year), so I decided to go back to Kathmandu. I would get a tourist visa at the airport, and stay at Dutch Bob’s place in Boudha.
Party at Dutch Bob’s
One of my last parties at Dutch Bob’s
Dutch Bob
The inquisition there was still going on. Phurpa, my long-time servant, was arrested and beaten while being questioned. Devi was hiding in caves above his village, high in the Himalayas. All of the people who had been arrested more than two years earlier were still in jail. The King’s army was doing its best to put down the democratic movement by any means possible. As a result, I only stayed a few days, and then flew on to Bangkok, where I met up with Irish Patrick, who had finally made it out of Nepal. All of the old Kathmandu crowd was now set up in Bangkok. I headed down to Koi Samui, and just rested and regained my wits on the beach.
When I got back to Colorado, waiting for me was a message from New York to contact Murray. Murray told me that Tommy had been careless, and was caught with his records going back two decades. We hired a lawyer to keep tabs on Tommy and the ongoing investigation into his organization. Tommy’s secretary had turned state’s evidence and was under protective custody. In addition, Heather had provided the authorities with Tommy’s real name, and the fact that he had skipped out on a charge in Louisiana 15 years earlier. Tommy was going down on a RICO charge, and Murray and I concluded that we would probably never see him again. Poor Tommy, after he finishes his state charges he will then have to do his federal time. I doubt if he’ll ever see the street again. We both knew that Tommy wouldn’t talk, and no one knew our real names, so we thought we were safe. In fact, the heat was closing in on us.
I moved to Hawaii and bought a house on the island of Maui. I lived just below the volcano Haleakala in Kula. At that point, I started living off the fruits of my past endeavors. I was out of the ballgame. I found it hard to accept that I was no longer in the ganja trade. I now concentrated on my carpet and antique businesses. I wanted to sell my properties back in Colorado, but due to the recession there I couldn’t give them away.
The prices for marijuana were going through the roof, and the DEA set up a sting operation on the Big Island. They actually established a nursery and after getting to know some of the growers, supplied seeds and shipping to the States. The first year everything went smooth, everyone was paid fat. The second year a lot more jumped on the DEA bandwagon and this time arrests were made from Honolulu to Brooklyn! Helicopters would roam the island, looking for fields during harvest. The same thing was happening in Northern California, where the National Guard would walk through the forest looking for ganja crops.
At the same time, cocaine and heroin were cheaper than ever before. The War on Drugs has served only to make hard drugs more available. As for marijuana, the price per kilo was inching up to $10,000 for kind bud, $3000 for good Mexican and $1000 for schwag Mexican (stuff that not much earlier couldn’t be given away). Thai weed was getting scarce, as the big loads stopped coming in. After eight years in a Thai prison, Todd was released a very rich man. He rode one big deal into the States when he returned. The load made it, but Todd was arrested in Las Vegas on a money laundering charge after he tried to send $7 million to Thailand. He went to federal prison while everyone else got rich off his load. Poor guy, every day in jail he was sinking deeper into poverty. All of the proceeds from his 50-ton Thai load disappeared, over $100 million at wholesale prices.
Another friend of mine, Big Bob, hired a crew to off-load his ship in the Pacific Ocean and to transfer its 35-ton load of Thai weed onto a fishing boat for transport to California. The crew turned out to be the DEA. I was following a strategy on Maui of out of sight and (hopefully) out of mind. Denver seemed a long way away. Sometimes I would go party in Honolulu, but if I got island fever I would head back to San Francisco. I ran into Alan, my Cleveland connection, in Lahaina. I took him up to my house and we smoked fat joints as we gazed at the Pacific in two directions.
In San Francisco, I ran into KC. Amazingly, he was still on the run from that bust in Sydney, Australia 15 years earlier. He was living in Marin, and was involved in a home-grown deal. The weed was grown in Kansas, and some of it was excellent. I sold it for him.
Alan came in, and I loaded him up with some of the best Thai weed ever. It had twin double eagles stamped on the plastic. It was vacuum-sealed and nitrogen-packed—fresh as the day it was picked. When the bag was opened, the aroma alone was enough to get a person high.
I still had my Hawaiian connection as well. I got a call from the boys in New York. They had a load of hash, and I sold some of it. I was managing to pay my bills, but I was struggling because I couldn’t sell my Colorado real estate. There was a recession going on, and real estate had bottomed out in Colorado. It was a buyers’ market. My expenses were killing me. They included three mortgages and my costs of doing business. I had to move around quite a bit to make any dough at all.
I rode a load of top grade Mexican to New York with KC, but his payment terms were unrealistic. All I asked for was enough time to deliver the load to Murray’s warehouse, where I would check the weight and count the money, and be back in two hours. I guess he didn’t trust me. After all the business I had done for him. What an idiot!
My only option was to sell my home in Maui, and move back to San Francisco. My house in Maui sold in 30 days at a $60,000 profit. It’s a funny thing, but once the Maui house sold the other two houses sold as well. My stay in Hawaii lasted a little over a year. Having been in the ganja trade for 20 years, it had gotten into my blood. It wasn’t about the money anymore; it was about the action. I lived for the next deal.