Tags
#bizarre, #cali, #colombia, #drugcartel, #drugs, #lollipop, #missionary, #missions, #prison, #truestory, #USA, #Venezuela, Interpreter
Above is a picture of Juan Carlos Ramirez Abadia AKA Lollipop before and after face changing surgery (Taken from Internet)
AKA Lollipop: a true story by Renn Diddo
When the warden asked if we wanted to meet Chupeta, which means ‘Lollipop’ in Spanish, I didn’t think to question who he was; I just translated. Bill Brister, the North American missionary I had been interpreting for, did ask the obvious question: “Who is he?”
“Quien es el?” I parroted in Spanish.
The warden paused. She looked me over and then slowly, in a patronizing tone said “Juan Carlos Ramirez Abadia.”
“Juan Carlos Ramirez Abadia,” I mimicked her satirically. I had no idea who this woman was referring to and I knew that Bill would be even more clueless.
Visibly disappointed at not having made an impact with her star inmate, the warden simplified it for us by explaining, “He is the head of the Cali Cartel. He’s here in Zone 7.” The Cali Cartel, was one of the world’s most powerful and dangerous cocaine cartels.
“Of course we’d like to meet him,” I replied excitedly in Spanish, even before telling Bill who the unlikely nicknamed ‘Lollipop’ was.
“Wow, a real, dangerous-ass-world-stage criminal: How COOL!!!” I thought to myself. Now pleased by my obvious interest in her star Cali Prison convict, the warden, declared: “I’ll take you to the door, only you and Bill can go in, and the rest of the missionaries will be escorted out of the prison.”
As soon as I told Bill who Lollipop was, he too became agitated. “Get me the best Bible,” he said to one of his assistants, “the one with Jesus’s words in gold, the BIG one.”
Bill and I were left standing in front of a blue iron door set into a tall, concrete wall.
The racket of the prison, which had been incessant, even from outside its barbed wire topped walls, seemed to have been swallowed up by the moment. From here on in, the warden had warned us, everyone was an inmate: there was no prison security presence within Zone 7.
The door opened and an inmate, who I nicknamed Mastodon, waved us in. He was a tanned, hard-faced, six-foot-four muscle of a man, dressed in a tight white t- shirt, faded blue jeans and brown sailing shoes. We stepped forward; the thick iron door was closed behind us. Another blue door just like the one we’d stepped through stood locked in front of us. The place felt like a concrete dressing room. For some reason, in spite his size and the large vertical scar that jumped over his left eye from his forehead to his cheek, Mastodon was not intimidating.
“Que llevan ahí?” he asked.
“Perdone?” I replied, surprised at the sweet-auntie like voice coming out of this mountain of a man. I looked up at his towering head with searching eyes, for a second unsure if it had been Mastodon who had spoken.
“En el bolso? Ábranlo!” The sweet, plump-middle-aged woman’s voice was his! I quickly turned to Bill.
“The backpack Bill,” I translated in a loud urgent whisper. “Open it and let him see inside.”
From the moment we had first been let in to ‘spiritually reach out’ to the all-male inmates of Cali Prison’s population, we were met with what can only be described as sub-human conditions. Dirty, emaciated, knife-scarred inmates wore mostly rags, or, only shorts and sandals. The areas that we’d visited earlier were packed to the point that little movement was possible along the damp cramped walls. The place was all mustard-yellow-brown-and-grey, like a fading monochrome film but with disturbing sounds and smells to match. The sky, if it was visible, had no home here. Aluminum tins were water cups. The sense of imminent danger was everywhere and fear was evident in the eyes of the weak who, according to the warden, more frequently than not died at the hands of others. But now we weren’t with the main population anymore.
“Welcome to Zone 7,” announced Mastodon. The first thing I heard was a woman’s grunt. As the door finished opening I saw a beautiful tall athletic blonde who had just served a volleyball. As the ball was returned I followed the trajectory to its source only to see another beautiful slim, tall, dark woman in a very small top and tight shorts running to the net preparing for a jump. I stopped and slowly took a step back.
“What is this?” I asked myself in silence.
On the left, beyond the full sized rubber volleyball court, was a bar; a long dark brown wooden bar with stools, just like one would find in a Spanish Tavern. To the right of the bar I saw a series of doors. These were light brown identical doors with round silver handles, probably aluminum. On the left of each door was a small window, some with curtains on the inside. On the left of each window was a grey air conditioning unit sticking out of the wall. My eyes lifted and I saw that there was another identical set of doors above the ones at ground level. The top ones had a railing in front of them making a long balcony. There must have been twelve in total and with the stairs to the right, they reminded me of what motels look like in American movies except this place was bright, clean and shiny. That’s when the loud Salsa music hit me.
I turned to my right, to see that behind the volleyball court was a large modern Nautilus gym. It was fully carpeted with floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirrors and a large stereo system. “Paulo! Paulo!” I heard Bill calling urgently.
In front of Bill stood a well-dressed Colombian man in his mid 40s. I blinked several times focusing hard on what was going on.
“Welcome,” said the man in perfect English, “I understand you came to see Juan Carlos. Follow me, we’ll get him for you.”
As we walked around the volleyball court past the barman who was drying glasses with his white apron I was struck by the size of the place. The ceilings were extremely high and in the middle of it all there was an open space through which you could see the clear blue sky. We walked up to three padded chairs. One chair was backed up against a column, the others set in front of it. The Colombian man gestured at the chairs that were next to each other. Bill and I sat down.
“Avísale a Juan Carlos que estamos listos,” yelled the Colombian at someone out of sight. Turning to Bill and I he then said “He may be a minute. He’s sleeping,” smiled tightly and walked away.
Nobody else paid any attention to us at all. Bill and I may as well have been ghosts. I took the opportunity to turn around on my chair and check out the volleyball game. Wow! These women were truly gorgeous! I felt Bill’s disapproving look upon me so I turned back, caught his eye and noticed that he was as puzzled by this whole scenario as I was, though I was quite enjoying it by now.
After about 15 minutes a handsome pleasant looking man with sharp movie star features, stepped out from one of the top floor doors, he glided down the stairs and then towards us. The man was immaculately dressed, yet casual. His look had a million dollars written all over it but it wasn’t extravagant. He had a large gold Rolex Oyster, I noticed. This was Juan Carlos Ramirez Abadia. As he approached, Bill and I stood to shake his hand. “Siéntense!” Said Juan Carlos smiling as he waved us back into our chairs.
We remained standing. We greeted him and shook hands. We sat down; Juan Carlos politely sat last. After introductions Bill got to the point of our visit and gave the message of salvation; offering the drug lord a loophole out of Hell. Juan Carlos accepted that he needed it and seemed jovial about the possibility of going to Heaven.
I noted that Juan Carlos, was extremely charismatic and likeable, and it was he, not the situation, who was making me feel important. Bill too, I could tell by his tone and gesticulations, was enchanted by the man and weirdly seemed eager to please him.
“We brought you a Bible,” Bill offered pulling out the massive leather bound gold-lettered book out of his backpack. “Read The New Testament. Here, this bookmark has the most important verses highlighted.”
Bizarrely, Juan Carlos seemed genuinely grateful. “Let us lay hands on you,” Bill said. At this Juan Carlos let out an unnerving laugh, as if someone else had laughed for him. “No, no, no my friends, that’s not possible,” I interpreted. “Now I must go. I thank you.” The Colombian who’d guided us here had come over with a mobile, which he handed to Juan Carlos.
“Muchas gracias señor Chupeta,” said Bill as he stood.
“No Bill,” I thought, “it’s ‘señor Ramírez’ not ‘Mr. Lollipop’ for God’s sake!” Juan Carlos froze. I froze. Bill stood grinning his naive Texan look with his hand outstretched.
I swallowed and said in Spanish, “it has been a pleasure, Mr. Ramirez, we are grateful for your time.” Juan Carlos slowly passed his phone over to his left hand, smiled then shook Bill’s hand.
“I must say,” I translated for Bill, “it seems that you live more comfortably here than we ever have.”
“Yes, but you get to leave,” retorted Juan Carlos solemnly. I shook his hand; he turned and walked away to his phone conversation.
That was 1997. By 2002, after having served only six years of his 24-year sentence, Juan Carlos Ramirez Abadia was released from the Cali prison, from which he had continued to run his drug trafficking empire. Up until 2008, when he was extradited to the United States from his hiding place in Brazil, the reputed $1.8 Billion fortune he had accumulated through drug trafficking and murder had served him well.
Back in the concrete dressing room, Mastodon locked the door to Zone 7 behind us.
“You should go to Hollywood to be a movie star,” I translated for Bill, who flattered Mastodon because of his perfectly proportioned physique. Mastodon blushed at this. Once again I was confused.
The thin, short, wrinkled 50-year-old warden, in her below-the-knee brown skirt and white blouse, approached us smiling.
“Como les fue?” she asked as she walked briskly. “Muy bien,” Bill smiled back, finally getting something right in Spanish. “That was excellent,” I told her, “Juan Carlos is very charming, a real gentleman,” I said. The warden smiled broadly, happy with my answer.
“We get along very well. He protects me. I used to get death threats from inmates. That doesn’t happen anymore,” she said proudly, as if speaking of a son. “Juan Carlos once blew up a civilian plane just to eliminate one man. The inmates respect that.”
My mouth went dry at the thought.
“And he’s well protected too,” replied Bill breaking the silence. “That body- guard at the door is the biggest man I’ve ever seen. I bet Arnold Schwarzenegger, looks small next to him.”
“Yes but he’s hopelessly gay,” replied the warden twisting her eyes in disapproval. She walked us out. We thanked her gratefully and went on our way.