Snowing in Bali by Kathryn Bonella Page A

– an omen, perhaps, for a state he’d one day need to get used to.
    His life seemed as simple as his signature clothes – a baseball cap, sunglasses, sandals, T-shirt and Capri pants – but at this point Chino was sizzling with ambition. He bought a two-door Honda Civic, rented a house in Kuta, and started a T-shirt business, while covertly moving into ecstasy. When the band split after two years, they lost touch until one day, many years later, Chino rocked up at bassist Putu’s unsophisticated family restaurant in a back street of Denpasar in a shiny new green Porsche.
    One day he came to my warung [restaurant] by Porsche and told me, ‘I’m rich now.’ ‘What?’ ‘Yes, I’m rich.’ I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and suddenly he comes here with a fancy car and I’m wondering, ‘Why are you rich now?’

    Did you ask him?
    Yes. He just smiles, so I didn’t ask deeper. I was just happy to have a rich friend who still remembers me.
    But were you surprised?
    Yeah, very, very surprised. Basically, I didn’t know for a long time why this guy was rich.
    â€“ Putu
    Despite the new Porsche, Putu noticed Chino still wore the same simple clothes; the only subtle difference was his sandals were now Louis Vuitton.
    Chino invited Putu to bring in his car for a wash at M3. Putu drove a 1977 Toyota Hilux, so he declined, but he did accept invitations to lunch at the M3 café, where Chino would slip him 400 or 500 thousand rupiah [$40 or $50] from his wallet – for most Balinese, about half their monthly salary.
    For me he’s Robin Hood but for other people he is evil, and I don’t care.
    Why?
    It’s his own business, not my business.
    â€“ Putu
    He also invited Putu to the grand opening party of M3, held months after it was operating. People from many walks of Chino’s life turned up that night, from musicians and local journalists to drug dealers, including Rafael. If the journalists were aware M3 was a giant laundry, they didn’t write it. There were many nights when Chino threw open the doors for parties. The glassed-off café would come alive with music, sometimes with ex–band members Putu and Manto jamming, or large screens erected to broadcast international sports events, while kids, including his own son, played video games.
    The drug boss had created a grand Bali life, with status, close ties to politicians and cops, real estate and ritzy toys. He owned a large property on the river in the heart of Legian, with a house, swimming pool and huge parking area for his favourite toys – a fleet of prestige cars and motorbikes. The jet-ski rental business comprised a pier and racks on the sand to stack his 20 machines. He was also building a go-kart racetrack, and dreamt of one day hosting the world go-kart championships in Bali.
    To stay safe, Chino flew high on the radar with his legitimate businesses, or laundries, but was able to use his smarts, connections and cash to switch any radar off the true source of his immense wealth. There was no better place for the slinging of bribes than Bali and Chino had a number of police on his payroll, with local papers reporting he was ‘a close friend of some high-rank government officials’. Police officers working for him would sometimes even pass over envelopes filled with cash to the island’s drug dealers.
    Sometimes I go to Chino’s place, M3, to receive $10,000, or $20,000, and the cop, in uniform, full uniform, gives me the money, says, ‘Hey, Andre, Chino left this money for you.’ ‘Oh, thanks for this.’ I would never talk to him about drugs, and he never asked, but for sure the cop knew it’s cash for drugs, because he was working for the big boss of cocaine in Bali and moving money for him. The police work for good money to give Chino protection. In a police job in Bali, how much do they get? Two million per month [$200]. Chino