By Jess McGlothlin
His name was Juan.
Against cultural expectations and the societal norms of the regions he frequented, Juan was not Hispanic. Blonde, blue-eyed, and carrying an ever-present but masterfully undefinable Southern accent, Juan carried a tan deep enough to hint at plenty of time in tropic climes. His wardrobe was that of a well-traveled businessman with the grunge flair of someone who spent more than enough time in the outdoors: worn boots, weathered jeans, faded button-downs, and a butter-soft taupe leather jacket that somehow managed to defy expectations and fit in at beaches, jungles, and hotel bars alike.
Put him on a street in Bogotá or Santa Cruz de la Sierra, however, and he’d stand out like a sore thumb. But the locals tended to leave him alone. Maybe he was just unassuming enough. Maybe they suspected that a gringo who looked that at home on their streets was someone they’d best not pick fights with. Whatever it was, Juan’s general air of unfuckwithery served well for his chosen carrier.
It’s All in How You Do the Thing
Juan rode a fine line between a legitimate role in the fly-fishing travel industry and making the real money as a … courier of sorts. Whenever those in his realm of contacts needed something passed across borders outside the purview of various governments, they reached out to Juan. Pending the time of year and his particular mood at any given moment, he could be found anywhere in the Western Hemisphere; preferring to spend his summers with his lover in Montana and his winters in Bolivia, Columbia, and Peru. But if someone needed a large sum of money transferred from the States to, say, Cuba … Juan could find a way to do it under the radar.
No one really knew how it worked. But the right people got paid and so no questions were asked. Business went on as usual, Juan making a tidy living and using up more than his fair share of one-way plane tickets around the globe.
Juan’s reputation initially grew off one simple system he’d devised to move coca leaves from the Amazon back to the States without drawing any attention whatsoever. Any angler who has headed right to the airport after fishing for days wearing waders or wading boots can appreciate the unique … funk that grows in gear. Juan, enterprising pendejo that he was, decided to use this funk to his favor. Turns out that the neoprene booties of waders are the perfect stash for a few baggies of coca leaves—or whatever other questionable souvenirs one might choose to bring back from the jungle. Never mind that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t fish the Amazon in waders … he made the trip every time with two pairs of waders in his bags, which magically came home wet, stinking to high heaven, and filled with merchandise.
The Fly-Fishing Coca Trail Mule
Schedule II narcotic label be damned; no customs agent in their right mind wanted to search through a pair of wet, smelly waders. Waders purposefully soaked in mud and jungle water, then wadded up in a dry bag and shoved in the bottom of the bag proved to be too much for customs agents. Juan swore he’d never even had the bag searched at the airport. A stupidly simple system; smuggling coca—and its derivatives—in the musty neoprene boot foot of old Simms waders.
Juan’s still working his magic to this day. If you see a tall, tanned, blond gringo in a South or Central American airport with a beaten leather jacket and a couple of old duffels, give him a nod and ask how the fishing was. It just might be Juan on a run.
