El Haour where can I buy cocaine

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El Haour where can I buy cocaine

Route 36 is an illegal pop-up lounge bar located in La Paz, Bolivia where cocaine is served by the gram on a silver platter, along with the cocktail of your choice. It also seems to be somewhere literally everyone knows about, which leads you to suspect that, for it to remain open, there may be an element of corruption at play. Of course, while everyone knows of it, not everybody knows where it actually is. After provoking blank faces from three cabbies, we eventually found our man. He quoted us 15 bolivianos just over a buck and took us on our way. The only hiccup on our journey was the roadblock we had to circumvent. The day before our taxi ride, at the end of July, those demands were delivered by way of dynamite set off in the middle a busy road. This is the sort of climate in which La Paz has resided for the past few years; tourists indulging in artisanal local drug services, while protests rage every couple of months, from soldiers demanding better working conditions to the disabled campaigning for better welfare support. Arriving at the bar, we were almost manhandled through a four-foot opening in what looked like a garage door by the three young Bolivian men who were rather inconspicuously standing guard outside. It was delivered to us instantly. Route 36 changes location as soon as there are complaints from the locals. According to a few of the guys sat around the table, it had been here for several weeks. There were around 20 people in the bar. We were sat with eight English gap year kids, two Belgian professionals, and the Norwegian. Half a dozen Irish businessmen were sat on the opposite side of the bar, definitely the most wound up and coke-y of everyone in there, in addition to two bar-women, the hostess, the DJ who kept playing fucking terrible dubstep , and two security guards constantly pacing around. In the Andes, the leaf is considered a sacred commodity, and President Evo Morales is a staunch defender of its medicinal and nutritional qualities. And he makes a very valid point; its cultural importance for Andean people, who have chewed the leaf for thousands of years, is primarily to relieve altitude sickness, not facilitate four-hour house party conversations with your boss about how to improve workflow. Since legalizing coca cultivation after he was elected in , Morales has repeatedly insisted that coca is not cocaine, calling on the UN to remove it from its list of prohibited drugs. I had to excuse myself from pleasantries and introductions to rack up on the cut-out surfaces that the bar had provided. Unsurprisingly, I became chattier than usual as we all exchanged life stories and travel tips. This place was a far cry from their experience that day. The bar had a deal going, so Josephine and I pooled our cash with our two new friends to get four grams for the price of three. Suddenly a charismatic—but a little wet behind the ears—Swedish guy pitched up next to us and started passing lines around for everyone. I had to show him how to snort the coke. He was the kind of man who would get busted in a second anywhere besides the security of that box, and his entrance summed up the ease with which one can locate the place. By 5 AM I was pretty wired, chain smoking cigarettes and talking very much at people rather than with them. At around half 6, a woman in her fifties asked us if we wanted any weed, trying to avoid the gaze of the bar-staff. Photo by Zxc via. By Manisha Krishnan and Keegan Hamilton. By Drew Schwartz. By Nathaniel Janowitz. By Manisha Krishnan. Share: X Facebook Share Copied to clipboard. Videos by VICE.

Mixing Cocaine and MDMA

El Haour where can I buy cocaine

None of the villagers had ever seen a boat of this size floating so close to that part of the coast, where the sea was shallow, the tides strong and the rocks razor-sharp. They supposed it was an amateur sailor who had got lost. In fact, the man sailing the boat was a skilled seaman. Two Italian passports, a Spanish passport and a Spanish national ID card were later found in his possession, all of which showed the same year-old with weathered skin and dark curly hair. But each of the four documents listed a different name. Although he was under orders to take the yacht to mainland Spain, his return crossing had been rough. Big lumps of Atlantic swell had pummelled the boat, damaging the rudder and leaving him floundering. He had to get rid of his freight temporarily, and so he began scouring the coast for a place to hide the drugs. The sailor navigated the yacht to a cave near Pilar da Bretanha and began offloading the cocaine, which was bound with plastic and rubber in hundreds of packages the size of building bricks. According to the police investigation that followed, he secured the contraband with fishing nets and chains, submerging it beneath the water with an anchor. The island has , inhabitants, most of whom are separated by only one or two acquaintances. Although the island has the mix of intimacy and claustrophobia that marks many small communities, the predictability of life here creates a sense of security that is reinforced by the vast Atlantic Ocean, which barricades Azoreans within a subtropical paradise. Earlier this year, I visited the island to speak to people who were affected by the influx of the cocaine, or were involved in trying to track down the smuggler. The stories they told of how the drugs changed the island were by turns bizarre, thrilling and tragic. No one expected in early June that they would still be talking about the effects of the cocaine nearly two decades later. On 7 June, the day after the yacht was first sighted, a man from Pilar da Bretanha climbed down a steep path to the small cove where he often fished. On the shore, flapping in the surf like a beached jellyfish, was a large mound covered in black plastic. Beneath the plastic, the fisherman found scores of the small packages. Leaking from some of them was a substance he thought looked very much like flour. He decided to call the police. Within hours, local officers had registered some packages of uncut cocaine, weighing kg. It was only the first of many such discoveries. Two days later, a school teacher named Francisco Negalha alerted the police after finding 15kg on a beach on the other side of the island. Not everyone who found packages reported it to authorities. A number of islanders became small-time dealers and began transporting cocaine across the island in milk churns, paint tins and socks. One such report suggested that two fishermen had seen the man on the yacht dumping some of his cocaine. I heard that one of these men was selling so much of the stuff from his car that his seats were white with powder. The same man had apparently paid a friend g of cocaine just to charge his phone. Before the yacht arrived, locals had seen little cocaine on the island. It was more common to find heroin or hashish. The other was in yellowish crystals. Most users snorted the powder, but dissolved the crystals in water and then injected it into their veins. Both methods were potent. A police officer told me the story of a man nicknamed Joaninha, or Ladybird, who had hooked himself up to a drip of cocaine and water and sat in his house getting high for days. A product so valuable in the rest of the world was rendered almost worthless through abundance. There were rumours that housewives were frying mackerel in cocaine, thinking it was flour, and that old fishermen were pouring it into their coffees like sugar. No one knew how much of the stuff was still out there. Jose Lopes, the judicial police inspector, had been chosen as one of the leaders of the investigation. At the time, he was 34 years old and had worked eight years as a policeman, seven of them on the Azores. He was very familiar with the local drug trade and had a reputation for his encyclopaedic memory. He knew that the cocaine had almost certainly arrived by boat. Thanks to the testimonies of villagers, who had described the vessel, and records of the coming and goings of boats kept by the maritime police, Lopes and his team were able to track down the yacht within a matter of hours. Then they began to stake it out. At around 1am on 8 June, police watched as a Nissan Micra parked up beside the yacht. They later found out that the car had been rented at the airport by a man named Vito Rosario Quinci, who had arrived by plane the previous day. Vito Rosario turned out to be the nephew of the smuggler, a Sicilian whose real name was Antonino Quinci. Spanish prosecutors would later claim that Vito Rosario was the link between Quinci and the unnamed Spanish organisation running the cocaine operation. Two more boats, each carrying more than half a tonne of cocaine, were destined for different ports in Spain. Vito was later found guilty of involvement in this drug smuggling operation and sentenced to 17 years in jail in Spain. However, in , the conviction was overturned after an appeal found that the police had used illegal wiretapping to gather evidence. He denied knowledge of the drug-smuggling operation. Vito met his uncle in the cramped living quarters of the yacht. Later that morning, the two men sailed out of the harbour. Police tailed them to Pilar da Bretanha, the location where Quinci had attempted to stash the cocaine two days earlier. The pair drifted there for 35 minutes, presumably long enough to establish that the cargo was missing. They seemed to do little except make occasional trips on a rubber dinghy, sometimes to buy fuel and other supplies, sometimes to places where police could not track them. On a shelf in the cabin, wrapped up in a plastic bag, investigators also found a brick of cocaine weighing g and a film canister containing another three grams. The arrest went smoothly. The inspector spoke decent Italian, having lived in the country for a short time before he had become a police officer. He and Quinci were able to converse informally. But in an official interrogation on the following day, Quinci suddenly stopped cooperating. He denied having trafficked the cocaine, and said the bricks the police seized from the boat were things he had chanced upon at sea. Or perhaps he thought he could avoid prosecution. What soon became clear, however, was that he had not given up hope of escaping the island. The flow of drugs was usually small and predictable. Often when the police made a seizure, they would make such a dent in the drug supply that local prices would skyrocket. But now police faced an unprecedented situation. As well as the kg of cocaine they had seized in the previous two weeks, Lopes thought that at least another kg were still unaccounted for. Rabo de Peixe, the fishing village where Quinci had first moored his boat, is one of the poorest towns in Portugal, and locals told me that it was a place where even other islanders can feel like outsiders. But that summer, it became a hub for the sale of the missing cocaine. From the town square, perched atop a promontory, narrow streets lined with pastel-coloured houses snake down to the harbour. In these streets, where fishermen hunch over dominos in grotty bars, slurping from small glasses of red wine, kilos and kilos of cocaine exchanged hands. The results were catastrophic. A month after Quinci had arrived on the island, the cocaine was still wreaking havoc. The article reported a spike in the number of overdoses and the death of a young man. Local television networks began broadcasting health warnings to the islanders advising them not to try the cocaine. But it was too late for some. T he prison at Ponta Delgada, where Quinci was sent to await trial, looks like a brutalist castle and looms over the main road heading out of town. According to a witness cited in court documents, while in jail Quinci was often on the phone, talking in Spanish and trying to secure a scooter or rental car. In exchange for help in escaping the prison, Quinci had offered to draw maps for other inmates that would lead them to the cocaine. On the morning of 1 July, about a week and a half after his arrest, Quinci entered a courtyard of the jail for his designated recreation time. His arms were wrapped in ripped bed sheets to protect them from cuts: the yard was surrounded by a long, low wall topped with barbed wire. At around From one of the white hexagonal guard towers, a correctional officer named Antonio Alonso fired a warning shot from his rifle, but Quinci kept climbing. Alonso then aimed his sight directly at the fugitive, and placed his finger on the trigger. Below, prisoners had gathered and were cheering Quinci on. On the other side of the wall, Alonso could see civilians walking up and down a promenade on the main road. He watched as Quinci went over the wall, up the road, on to a small scooter and into the distance. Police were immediately alerted of the escape and moved to seal off the island. Rumours circulated that he was sleeping rough in fields, church lofts and chicken sheds, snorting cocaine to stave off his appetite. Eventually, he ended up in the house of a man named Rui Couto, who lived in a village 26 miles north-east of Ponta Delgada. When I met Couto, who is now in his late 40s and has a tattoo on the left side of his shaved head, he seemed nervous and agitated, and wore clothes that were too big for his skinny frame. Like many islanders, he had moved to the US when he was young. But he was forced to leave after being busted for drug possession. Couto claims Quinci was brought to the house by an acquaintance of his. He also told me he gave Quinci refuge out kindness and that there was no deal or plan with the Italian. The pair would often eat together and talk late into the night. Couto told me that although Quinci was in a sorry state, smoking cocaine in cigarette papers without tobacco, he was always friendly. Couto said that someone Quinci knew came round to give him a fake passport and money. Couto said he had been up late with a friend on the night before the police arrived. Around 7am on 16 July, he heard people shouting outside the house. Couto opened the door in his underpants and a squadron of armed police burst through the front door. According to Lopes, who was part of the raid, they were working off a tip from a police colleague who believed Couto was hiding cocaine at his house. But after checking under beds, sofas, cabinets and in toilet cisterns, the officers found nothing. The inside was covered in hay and smelled strongly of manure. But then, Lopes heard a noise. They found Quinci hiding in a corner, dirty and dishevelled. It was the biggest stroke of luck. But that was just the immediate aftermath of his arrival. Outside Rabo de Peixe, I waited with a group of drug users for the local methadone van, which travels around the island treating people for heroin addiction. That morning, about 20 addicts clustered near a kennel of snarling Azorean cattle dogs. Most of the addicts were gaunt with jaundiced eyes, rotting teeth and grey, wrinkled skin. Small children accompanied a few of the users, while most came alone and spoke to no one, smoking and staring at the tarmac. But the drugs also had more damaging long-term effects. They became addicted to heroin, which was shipped in from the continent, often via the postal service. After he was re-arrested, Quinci was put on trial in Ponta Delgada and given 11 years for drug-trafficking, the use of a false identity and escaping from prison. The decision was appealed and sent to the courts in Lisbon, which reduced the sentence to 10 years. The other two yachts that were part of the smuggling operation, the Lorena and the Julia, were impounded in July in Spain by the Spanish police. According to Europol, the pan-European police agency, the Caribbean-Azores route is now a mainstay of international drug trafficking. Criminals use the islands as a pit stop, where cargo is usually transferred to fishing vessels or speedboats for shipment to mainland Portugal or Spain. Last September, a catamaran sailing under a French flag was impounded near the Azorean island of Faial with kg of cocaine on board. My journey cut through towns of whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, past rich green pastures, walled off like squares on a chessboard. Farmers squelched through the soggy fields while portly Holstein-Friesian cows grazed. In the soupy, tropical air, everything seemed settled and staid. But, as I reached the north-eastern tip of the island, I saw the Atlantic stretching out to the horizon like a sheet of rippled slate. And some miles out, a white sail boat was rocking back and forth in the afternoon swell. By Matthew Bremner. Blow up: how half a tonne of cocaine transformed the life of an island — podcast. Read more. View image in fullscreen. Explore more on these topics The long read Drugs Portugal Europe features. Reuse this content. Most viewed.

El Haour where can I buy cocaine