CONFESSIONS OF A NAIVE DRUG SMUGGLER

A British diplomat in Jamaica claimed last week that one in 10 passengers
flying from the island to the UK is smuggling cocaine. So what made Sissy
Gascoigne agree to carry a bag home for a friend?

My fellow passenger swung her T-shirt above her head, while her stupendous
bosom hung bare. "I've been tryin' to escape this raas claat country for
days," she yelled, sending trolleys and cordons clattering to the floor.
Seventy of us at Heathrow had been told that we would have to wait until
the next day for our flight to Jamaica, and this news was not being
received well. In the queue to collect our compensation money for the
delay, a lady was cautioned by the police for punching an air hostess, and
others for smoking spliffs.

It had been a long-held dream of mine to go to the land of reggae. When I
eventually arrived this July, I was met by my hostess and her new companion
- - a dog. She had bought the half-Doberman, half-Rotweiler that day to
protect herself from a stalker who, at 6am, naked, had thrown himself on to
her as she slept. Although he had armed himself with one of her kitchen
knives, she had managed to push him away with scratches and screams. "I was
not going to be raped in my own bed," she said. She then contacted the
local mafia, rather than the mistrusted police force, to deal with him.

To encourage the dog to be macho, we christened him Conch. Conch soup is
one of many potions thought by Jamaicans to improve sexual prowess.
Another, Magnum, is advertised on television with an entwined couple and a
gravelly voice-over saying, "Magnum: make sure when you drink it that your
man is near."

I did not fall for the sexual hype, but I managed to be much more stupid: I
agreed to carry some records back to London for a Jamaican acquaintance. I
had met Mr DJ, as I will call him, some months back. Once he had stopped
asking me if I'd ever been with a Jamaican, and did I know what I was
missing, we struck up a friendship based on our mutual love of roots reggae
music. He set the house on fire with his music when he played at my
parties, and I'd stayed up all night dancing at his gigs. We swapped
records and talked about music. In short, even though I only understood
half of what he said and found him a little rough at the edges, I thought
we had surmounted cultural barriers and made friends.

I had wondered how he funded his frequent trips to Jamaica, and his giant
record collection, replete with dubplates (exclusive cuts made especially
by an artist for the DJ, with modified lyrics), but I didn't think it was
my business, and he always finished phone calls saying, "one love" instead
of "goodbye", which I thought was dead exotic.

At Mr DJ's request, I went to Kingston to meet his friend "Big Al" (all of
5ft tall), who gave me some beaten-up old seven-inches in a slick black
bag. Because I collect even the most scratched of records, I didn't
question why an up-to-date DJ wanted these 45s so much; nor was I at all
suspicious of the shiny black bag.

The next morning my pal Micky ran his fingers over the lining and said,
"This has too much weight for an empty bag." It was the first time it had
entered my head that there was anything suspicious about it. Neither of us
searched the lining, being loathe to ruin a handsome bag, but we decided,
even though I was convinced that Mr DJ would never do such a thing to me,
that I should accidentally-on-purpose leave it behind. I gave it to a very
pleased Micky, who planned to go and impress the bank manager with it,
using it as a fashion accessory rather than an accessory to crime, in order
to get a loan for a wild business plan involving shellfish and roller skates.

Micky was clutching the bag when I said goodbye to him and Ralph the taxi
driver at Montego Bay airport the next day. We had stopped at a couple of
bars on the way, where Ralph the driver ("Reliable and Defensive Driving,
Nobody Beat my Price") had bought me my last Red Stripe beers before I
checked in my luggage, heavy with vinyl that I had bought fresh off the
Jamaican presses.

As Jamaicans don't require visas to enter Britain, a crowd of security
guards meets every flight from Jamaica in an attempt to catch a percentage
of the mules carrying drugs into the country. They estimate that they catch
only 30 per cent. As a lone white female I had my passport checked more
than once, and was searched thoroughly.

"Are you carrying any bags for anybody?"

"No," I replied automatically.

As soon as I had switched on my phone back in London, Mr DJ rang and said
that he wanted to meet up immediately to collect the records because he was
playing that night. I resisted, as I wanted to have an uninterrupted dinner
with my boyfriend, but Mr DJ had an urgency in his voice and I agreed that
he could come to the restaurant where we were eating.

Outside the restaurant, a shiny silver Volkswagen pulled up on to the curb.
Out jumped Mr DJ. I gave him the shabby plastic bag of mine that contained
his records. His smile suddenly vanished. "Where de bag?" he squealed.

"The bag? Oh, yes, gosh, silly me, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot it," I
said as casually as I could. "Don't worry, I know where it is and who has
it, it can be sent over by DHL or FedEx."

My bright suggestions withered in his scowling silence. "Where de bag?" The
voice came from the car: a caricature Yardie now emerged, complete with
trainers encrusted with glitter, a string vest, and even a prominent scar
running down his cheek. He was fingering a wedge of twenties. Without
looking up he repeated, "Where de fuckin' bag?"

"I forgot it," I stammered. "I'm sorry, confusion with the packing, I left
it sitting in the house..."

"You thought there was something in dat bag, didn't you?" he interrupted.
"You didn't forget nothing. You thought there was drugs in it, that's why
you left it. How we going to get it back?" he said, ignoring the fact that
there was no "we" about it.

"I know where it is."

"Where?"

"With a friend."

"Ring him now."

"I don't have the number on me, I'll get it after dinner."

"No, you will ring him now, get in the car, we'll go and get the number."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Get in the car, girl."

By now I was furious: my immediate reaction was revulsion at their
rudeness, rather than any realisation of the danger to which they had
attempted to expose me. I didn't want to believe that I'd been framed, I
wanted to believe the story of Mr DJ - who was now shaking with fear - that
the bag was a wedding present for Scarface's girlfriend, a truculent black
babe sitting in the back of the Volkswagen.

I stormed back into the restaurant and stuttered out the story to my
boyfriend. Mr DJ followed me and crouched down by the table, full of pleas.
He was terrified of Scarface, but I was frightened and I knew that you
didn't go in cars with strangers, especially angry ones. Mr DJ said that
they would wait outside until we had finished dinner. My boyfriend and I
calculated that the bag could have held about 500g of cocaine, which would
retail at about UKP25,000, or a third less if it was crack. No wonder the
silver Volkswagen posse was jumpy. I suddenly remembered that I did have
Micky's number in Jamaica with me. I rang and told him that someone was
coming to collect the bag. Outside, Scarface was sitting in the back seat.
I handed him the phone. He spoke to Micky, and then made another call to
Kingston and sent someone on the two-hour journey across Jamaica to pick up
the bag. Next day, Micky would tell me that Big Al had appeared and closely
inspected the bag before leaving, spitting threats. Now, in London, the
silver Volkswagen disappeared in a cloud of bad vibes.

This attempted stitch-up was more dangerous to me than anything I had
experienced in Jamaica, the country with the third-highest murder rate in
the world. According to the latest estimates from the British High
Commission, more than half of the ganja and cocaine intercepted at
international airports in Britain is found on travellers from Jamaica. If I
had carried the bag and been caught, which I almost certainly would have
been, and presuming that the drug was cocaine, I would now be serving a
mandatory prison service of about two years and be banned from travelling
to Jamaica and the US for the rest of my life.

A family friend to whom I told the story said that if I had been caught
with drugs, she would always wonder if it was possible that I didn't know
what I was carrying in that bag. The fact was, I didn't.