Mike Goes to Jail, Learns Spanish

“The Cowboys.” That’s what people called the DEA agents who free ranged through Latin America in the 1990s.

They lived by their own rules, doing pretty much what they wanted, when and where they wanted. And to whom they wanted. People didn’t like them.

In Panama some months earlier we’d heard about a Cowboy who had carelessly sent our friend Mike Starbuck to prison.

Now in Columbia, we crossed paths with another one.

Waving a notebook, Norm shouted accusingly down the length of the bar, “Someone’s been cheating again.”

An Australian expatriate married to Maria, a Columbian, Norm operated one of the two marinas in Cartagena. The other marina, more upscale, was the Yacht Club half mile along the shoreline.

 According to Norm, the Columbians who kept their boats at the Yacht Club were a different type of people from those who tied up at his marina. “They pay their dock fees,” he said.

Calling home from the bar

Overdue dock fees were not the issue that morning. Norm was mad about unreimbursed phone calls.

Norm allowed cruisers to make long distance calls to the U.S. from the phone at the bar—on the honor system. For the third consecutive month Norm’s long distance charges exceeded the total recorded in the log book by a substantial amount.

We gathered around and examined the phone bill and log.

 “This one number shows up several times on the bill,” one of us said. “Some are long calls. The area code is 305. Anyone know where that is?”

“Miami,” we answered in unison.

“Norm, dial that number and find out who answers.”

Afterwards Norm said the woman sounded puzzled when she picked up, but she automatically answered, “Drug Enforcement Administration, may I help you?”

“You certainly may. You may put me through to the person in charge.”

A man answered curtly. “Where’d you get this number?”

“Where did I get this number? It’s all over my f**king phone bill, that’s where I got it.”

The guy paused, laughed, and hung up.

A Cowboy had been sneaking into Norm’s bar and stealing phone calls—business calls, so to speak.

A Cowboy visits Mike’s place

As I mentioned, another Cowboy had negligently sent our friend Mike Starbuck to prison for half a year.

Readers may remember Mike as the man with big coconuts. (My February 25^th post.)

A former cruiser, he had moved ashore in a remote and idyllic spot in Panama. He had a private beach and his own small bay where visiting cruisers could anchor. We all kept in touch via the Central American Breakfast Club, the ham radio net we talked on every morning.

A couple of years earlier a gringo couple had built a house out of sight around the point. Mike went to welcome them to the neighborhood. He didn't find them sociable.

The man said he was a pilot but was vague about who he flew for. As time went by, Mike noticed the pilot seemed to disappear for a few days now and then.

Predictably, the Cowboys from the DEA took special interest in anyone who kept a low profile, worked an irregular schedule, and knew how to fly airplanes.

For groceries Mike commuted by fast outboard to Portobello, half an hour away. He found a note on his door when he came home one day. Would he please contact the police about an urgent matter? The note included a phone number.

Respectful of the law, Mike got back in his boat, returned to Puerto Bello, and stepped into the phone booth at the dock. Two plain clothed policemen appeared and arrested him. He spent the next six months in a Panamanian prison.

Win some, lose some

A DEA agent had sent the police to the wrong house. Then they’d grabbed the wrong guy. The bust had failed. The Cowboy took no further interest in Mike.

The U.S. Embassy sent someone. “People like you cause me more trouble,” she said. Mike never saw her again.

His lawyer reassured him. “Don’t worry, Mike. Everything will work out okay.” People warned us, during our travels in Latin America, “If a lawyer says don’t worry—you should worry.”

Eventually a judge looked at the charges. “Why are we holding this gentleman?” Not receiving a satisfactory answer, he said “Release him immediately.”

“It was a long six months,” Make told us later, “but at least I learned to speak Spanish while I was in jail.”

“Yes,” his girlfriend said. “He can speak Spanish. But his grammar is terrible. He talks like a criminal.”

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Two Smugglers Caught in the Act