This event was not documented in any way. The entire thing was absent of me having my mobile phone and a way of documenting what happened on me. You’ll see why.
My Father has a friend from Holland who deals in contraband. It’s a hard business, but I was told of this weekend a few days before. Literally a phonecall from an unknown number
“Hey [RemadE], fancy making some money this weekend?” and I instantly knew the voice.
“Of course”
“Good. Be at mine for 4pm, bring overnight stuff”
And that was it. I got the bus back and headed straight to my mates house. I had packed my meds, a change of clothes, a coat, pillow and some reading material. Just in case I had a spare few minutes.
We set off at 4:30 to Gatwick and got on a plane to Amsterdam. In short he only needed me to help him bring back some contraband as there were 2 of us, so that’s twice as much. Simple enough – but the journey was the hilight.
After reading and getting off the plane we were greeted by some friends in suits. I never got their names. Most of the people I still don’t recall their names, but that’s the beauty of it all.
Throwing my bag carefully into the boot of the Mercedes CL500 we got heading to a house where the goods were kept. It was still daylight and I was still pretty whacked out from flying, then just being whisked off my feet.
4 of us in this car, we eventually got to this small house outside Amsterdam.
“I’m not allowed back in the City, you see” he told me.
“I remember you saying why” I replied. This guy was not to be fucked with. Amsterdam is a hotbed of mafia-style groups and his tattoos showed his dues.
The car pulled up on the drive and we went in. All we came here was to pick up some gear and go back. But that wasn’t happening anytime soon.
“I’m a regular customer of the travel companies. They don’t care if I miss a boat or plane. I just pay them an extra €10 and I’m on the next day. Relax.”
I put my bag down and the room was a traditional, mahogany coloured place. Being in Holland there were drugs around and businessmen all reclined around tables. I didn’t know if this was for leisure or business. But fuck it, I followed my mates lead and had some attention from some females. Outside was a hot tub and a few girls hitting a bong. If anything I felt like Robert Deniro in “Jackie Brown”. These guys were loaded, dangerous and there I was, just a +1 and about to get into the swing of things.
I was told we are leaving at 4am to get the ferry back
“Customs aren’t as half as bad there”
I now had 5 hours to enjoy myself. It was a haze of chatting shit, watching cocaine get snorted off glass tables, boobs, veuve cliquot and money being counted. The whole thing could have been pulled straight from a fucking movie. Needless to say I dabbled, but had to keep straight for our journey back.
As 4am inched nearer I eyed my mate up who was catching up with some friends. I said goodbye to the girls and shook the hands of the men I met and we left the house to return to another car. Not quite a Mercedes, as it was a Citroen, loading it up with the contraband we were bringing back.
As I was getting into the car
“Stop”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come here” my friend commanded.
“O-k”
He patted down my pockets and looked at my nose. Checking me over for drugs seemed pretty sensible. Completely pissed through my mind, so glad to see he was still on the ball.
“Being caught with this stuff is bad enough, but being caught with what they had in there is even worse. You Brits are too serious about life”
“Ok let’s go”
That night saw us drive through Belgium and into Northern France, passing his house where I stayed a few years before, and pulling into the Nord Pas De Calais Ferry Port. Patiently waiting.
Waiting.
And driving back onto the boat.
It wasn’t even the rush of customs that got me about this story. it was the crazy European experience I had over the course of 24 hours, and I am now back in my University room wondering what the hell just happened.
A weekend I will never forget.
Interesting read. Keep posting