📸 Photo

MARCHING POWDER

for changing everything at the last minute. Why was I paying him so much money if he couldn’t put the suitcases onboard? Finally, I managed to settle myself down. I went through the situation logically and decided I didn’t really need the colonel to take the bags on, anyway.

For a start, I was confident of the job I had done in packing the coke. But even if police found the drugs, there was nothing linking me to the suitcases. A false name was written on the identification tags of the two suitcases containing the coke. As an extra precaution, I had packed these two suitcases with women’s clothing. My own possessions were in a third suitcase that I originally intended to check in on its own and that looked nothing like the other two. I also had my briefcase as carry-on luggage. Nothing would go wrong, but if it did, at least I could rely on the colonel’s help to get me out of it. I wiped the luggage for fingerprints one more time and then went back to bed.

In the morning, I followed my usual routine. I had a shower, then slowly dressed myself in my best suit and tie. I put on my gold watch and the special gold ring that had always brought me good luck. I did my hair using the steamer and dryer. Then I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. By the time the taxi sounded its horn, I had forgotten that I was transporting cocaine. I was a successful businessman.

The taxi driver was an old, wiry man with tattoos. So as not to get my fingerprints on the suitcases, I got him to carry the two bags containing the cocaine for me. The driver looked at me curiously in the rearview mirror and tried to make conversation as he drove. I didn’t understand what he was saying and went back to studying the business faxes I kept in my briefcase. Halfway up the main highway that led to the airport, we stopped and the driver got out. There was a roadblock and flashing lights up ahead. Suddenly, I heard sirens. I looked out the window and saw three police cars speeding up the wrong side of the road towards us. I panicked and grabbed the door handle, ready to jump out of the taxi and run. But the cars flew past us and continued up the highway. My driver looked at me strangely through the window.

When I looked more closely, I saw that the roadblock was caused by a demonstration. Hundreds of protesters were marching down the street waving banners that read ‘Cocaleros’. They were Bolivian coca farmers and they were protesting against government restrictions on

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