Amber Ratification
Books, Bling, and Ex-Mafia
In A Search For The Golden Gem
Copyright 1-26-20 / 3,672 words
by Jon Kramer

Nonfiction. These events took place circa early 1993.

In 1989 Hal and I went overboard in our enthusiasm for rocks and opened the first Potomac Museum Group (PMG) retail store at Calhoun Square in south Minneapolis. We sold gems, jewelry, fossils, and geologic curiosities, along with a bunch of stories about our adventures finding them. No doubt about it, the stories sold the rocks. Our most memorable stories were derived from fossil collecting expeditions across North America and those were parlayed into retail sales.

What set us apart from other nature shops was the fact we collected and prepared most of the fossils, minerals, and gems we sold. We dug the fossils, cut the stones, polished the gems, and even made a lot of the jewelry. Annual expeditions were launched east (fossil ferns and shark teeth), west (fossil fish, trilobites), north (Thomsonite, amethyst) and south (fossil footprints, brachiopods). We quarried 2-billion-year-old stromatolites on the Iron Range, went diving for 20-million-year-old coral in Georgia rivers, and excavated 12,000-year-old mammoth bones in Wisconsin cornfields. On average we spent nine months of the year out in the field on fossil and mineral expeditions. It was an adventurous and rewarding experience chasing Deep Time through the Earth’s geology.

In 1990 the novel Jurassic Park hit the stores. It was a dinosaurian smashing success – in more ways than the author could ever have imagined. A key ingredient in the storyline is amber. The fact that virtually all the world’s amber was formed many millions of years after the dinosaurs died out – and thus was incapable of containing dinosaur DNA – was an inconvenience treated in Michael Crichton’s plot simply by ignoring it. Yet, thanks largely to Mr. Crichton’s blockbuster, suddenly amber was all the rage. We couldn’t keep enough of the golden fossil resin in stock – it simply flew off the shelves. As the weeks went by, our wholesale supplier – greedy troglodyte that he was – kept jacking up the prices. Can’t say I blame him, but we did anyway. Inevitably, in 1993, the movie came out and we decided it was time to go direct. To hell with the scalping middle-man.

There are two primary sources of amber in the world – the Baltic Sea and the Caribbean island of Hispaniola. The Baltic amber is slightly older, geologically speaking, and more expensive because…. well, because it is. Besides being less expensive, and more easily attainable to a US retail store, the Caribbean amber has a much greater abundance of fossils: exquisitely fine preservation of insects and plants are common. For this reason we focused on the Caribbean material. Any piece with a recognizable fossil of any kind was a sure-fire sale in the new Jurassic world.

Tucked into the lineup between Cuba and Puerto Rico, the mountainous island of Hispaniola is shared by Haiti, on the west side, and the Dominican Republic – aka the DR – on the east. The two nations are nearly on par with their economies: both are desperately poor, despite the fact they are tourist destinations for Americans and Canadians alike. The bulk of the island’s amber deposits are found high in the central mountains, primarily in the Dominican Republic.

So it was that early one March morning, Kathleen and I flew to the DR to track down a direct source of the golden gem. Fortunately, we had a long-time friend who lived there during the winter months. He offered to put us up and introduce us to “a guy who can arrange darn near anything”.

Our friend Bill was a slim, generous, and methodical ex-professor who owned an ancient – but running! – VW bug. In the summer he lived outside Chicago, near where he was raised. In the winter, he and his wife Bev lived in the DR. By the time we visited, they had been in the DR for over ten years.

Bill picked us up at the small airstrip in Puerto Plata and shuttled us in the bug up to his nice breezy house on the top of a hill outside town. It was inside a gated property, in an appropriately-named gringo enclave called Costambar (“amber coast”). When he built the structure, some 10 years prior, Costambar was not much of a community. The few gringos that had residences were settled down on the beach. There were no structures on the hill, so Bill bought the entire hilltop. Thereafter it became known locally as “Bill Hill”. He enjoyed 360-degree panoramic views of the ocean, the harbor, and the mountains. For awhile.

One morning about 4 years prior to our arrival, Bill was startled awake by explosions. Nearby explosions. Being a Vietnam Vet, he instantly freaked out and hit the deck. When the explosions subsided, he crawled across the floor and carefully looked out the window. What he saw amazed him – heavy machinery was tearing into the hillside – his hillside! – not 50 yards away.

Just because the DR is a poor country doesn’t mean it is immune to progress, especially when opportunity came a-knockin in the form of a building boom to attract foreign tourists. There was no telling – quite literally NO telling to anyone – when or where the government – or friends of the government – might decide to build a hotel, spa, or guard station. Bill of course was, at this point, uninformed as he watched bulldozers and backhoes make hash out of his hill. He was, however, incensed – these hoodlums were literally blowing up his property. So he grabbed his hat and his property file and headed over to accost the head honcho, whoever that may be. In short order he found the foreman. He pulled out the survey map and showed the fellow they were obviously trespassing inside his property lines. The guy was thoroughly confused, but apologized profusely and pulled off his team.

Next morning the explosions resumed – in the exact same place. Bill ran over to confront the foreman again. But this time the guy pulled out his own survey map – minted only a month before – and it showed a crisp, clean new property line bisecting Bill Hill. Bill was livid. He jumped in the VW and zoomed to town. The local assessor passed the buck – You’ll have to take it up with the officials in the Capital. Next day he drove to the capital, Santo Domingo, conveniently located 6 hours away on the opposite coast.

What he found after an entire day bouncing and rattling over potholed roads did not help his mood. A new deed had been created out of thin air, complete with official survey and assessor’s stamp. It was issued to one Hernando Ruiz. Bill’s deed had been “amended” without him knowing it.

Who the hell is Hernando Ruiz? Bill howled in frustration.

The desk clerk knew – He’s the brother of Jesus Ruiz, the head of the Army…

If you’ve ever been to a third-world country – especially one as poor as the DR – you learn quickly that those in power will do as they wish. And if you don’t like it, you best keep your sentiments to yourself, least you end up in prison – if you’re lucky – or dead if you’re not.

Bill knew damn well he had no chance whatsoever to combat what was happening head-on. But he did have a plan, one that relied on an important connection to a US transplant named Richard Trexler, also known as El Maestro del Metro – The Master of the Underground. Bill immediately went to his friend for help. Richard was an expat American who had a propensity for colorful Hawaiian shirts and personal gold ornamentation which he called, affectionately, his “bling”. In 12 short years on the Island, he had become a local legend, with deep connections in all aspects of the DR economy, both legal and nefarious. He described himself as a “deal-maker” and “fixer”. He was, we’d learn, a lot of both.

Hernando’s original plan, apparently, was simply to ignore Bill and build his hotel. If Bill became a problem, Hernando knew how to take care of that. Another disappeared foreigner could easily be arranged. But Richard – the fixer – stepped in before any of that plan was implemented. In no time at all he arranged a meeting with Hernando at Bills house. By the end of the visit the three were smoking Cuban cigars and toasting to the new hotel going up next door on Bill Hill. What did Bill get out of it?

Reliable electricity and protection, he said proudly. Rare is the gringo that can get either, and I have both!

By the time we got there the hotel was in full swing. Bill had become pragmatic – and considering his benefits – rather smug about the whole thing. He’d not only gotten used to the seven-story edifice blocking his view to the east, but regularly enjoyed going over and hanging out at the bar. He knew all the employees by name. Occasionally, Hernando would stop by and together they’d smoke cigars on Bill’s porch.

Bill took us to meet El Maestro. We swung by a local shop and Richard hopped out to buy a bottle of rum. On the way over he gave us the backstory: Richard had once been a wealthy businessman in New York. He owned two dozen successful hair salons around New York City. This came to the attention of the local crime bosses. Eventually he was pressed into service to launder money for the Mafia. They make you an offer you can’t refuse, he said disdainfully.

Initially Richard saw nothing wrong with a little fast handling of cash. And his cut was nothing to sneeze at. But as it became apparent the dirty money was a result of wrecked lives and stolen souls, it took a toll on him. As the story goes, one day he woke up – and left. Just like that! he gave it all up. I was sick of it, he told me, all the drugs, all the murder, all the goons and their fancy suits. I was just a little shmuck – a bug waiting to go SPLAT! on the windshield of life.

So he dropped out and headed south. He gave his wife the business – he signed over everything, including the house. All he took was the cash he had in his account, and that was plenty enough for him. I bummed around the islands for a few years and landed here. Never been happier. Richard lived next to the beach in a wooden shack he built with his own hands. It had a dirt floor and scrap plastic for a roof, but it was sound and cozy and plenty enough for him and his gal Maria. And it was wall-to-wall books. Every vertical surface was covered floor to ceiling in paperbacks. There were boxes of them everywhere. The modesty of the place belied the literary thirst of its Mafioso tenant, bling notwithstanding.

Richard spent most days in a dilapidated old lounge chair on the beach, two uneven stacks of paperbacks beside his perch. A voracious reader, he’d grab a book from one stack, finish it off in an hour or less, and add it to the other. On occasion, he would hire himself out as a “fixer” in something akin to a Travis McGee lifestyle, taking in a little extra for his retirement plan. He had no allegiance to anyone, or any political ideology. But he had the respect of the entire community and that made El Maestro indispensable when the time came to “fix things”.

We found him on the beach reading. After a little convivial visiting ala a few shots of rum, I told Richard what we were looking for. I stressed we wanted to bypass all the middlemen and get right to the source of the amber, to deal with the amber miners themselves. The idea intrigued him – it apparently had the right balance of challenge, conspiracy, and adventure. A deal was struck: For a modest commission, Richard would get us directly connected to miners and craftsman up in the mountains.

The following week, via the coconut wireless, he summoned us to his shack where he introduced some miners who’d come out of the hills to meet the gringos from Minneapolis. Before long we had it sealed: They would supply us amber at good prices while, in turn, we’d buy everything they could mine. I put one qualification on it: They had to prove they were the actual miners by taking us into the mountains, showing us the mines, AND we had to be given the opportunity to dig some specimens for ourselves right out of the ground. They looked us over warily and conversed with Richard. In a few minutes the it was agreed and we shook hands.

Time for the Ratificacion! Richard announced.

The what? Richard informed us it was customary – indeed, necessary – to have a “Ratificacion” of the deal. This, he said, was accomplished by purchasing a bottle of the best local rum and he -the deal-maker – would pour the ceremonial shots. A grand toasting would ensue and, of course, much good fortune would follow. I looked at him quizzically, trying to figure out whether this was bullshit for his sake, bullshit for our sake, or bullshit for the miner’s sake. Or was there any truth to the yarn. But I wasn’t about to make things go sour with an ex-Mafia guy – so I handed him a $20. I’ll need two more of those, he said, matter of factly. When I looked surprised, he whispered, It’s important! These vaqueros will think you’re trying to cheapen out and put one over on them….

He ran off to fetch the booze and returned with a brand I’d never heard of – “Pirata”. I was lucky to get it for only $54, he announced showing me a little, brown pint bottle, I know Jose, the barkeep…. Shots were poured, glasses clinked, and rum imbibed. Spare change from the $60 was not forthcoming.

Two days later we were in Bill’s dilapidated – but still running – VW Bug headed into the mountains. Richard accompanied us. That made four large adults crammed into the tiny battered and banging Bug. If it was just for a short time, and the vehicle wasn’t moving, you’d say it was very cozy. But neither of those was the case here as we rattled up into the mountains over wash boarded road and potholed mud tracts, crammed into this bouncing tin can.

On the way Richard pulled out a small stone carving that he said was made by some local people up in the hills. I was intrigued – the stone was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It had an off-white matrix with dark dendritic layers coursing through it. When smoothed and polished it radiated a warm, ethereal glow. Richard said we would be driving nearby the village where it was from and we could stop if I was interested. I was. We did.

The village had a thriving cottage industry centered around digging and carving this unique stone from the nearby hillside. It had been discovered only a year before and they didn’t even have a name for the deposit, so we coined one on the spot: Imbert Stone, named for the local village. An informal business cooperative had arisen among the half-dozen families that lived near the site where the stone was dug up: Some specialized in digging the stone, others mastered cutting and shaping it, and still others transported it to the coast and sold it to tourist shops. When we learned the price of a carving was less than a Big Mac, I asked Richard to find out how many carvings they could make before we flew back to Minnesota. After some intense negotiations – in Spanish, spoken at the speed of light – he reported back: If you’re serious, they’ll work day and night and deliver around 250 carvings. Nodding heads and shaking hands ensued. Richard was beaming and declared another “Ratificacion” was in order. He leaned over and quietly asked for a new triplet of $20s.

We were deep in the mountains surrounded by rainforest jungle. We hadn’t passed a shop of any kind for hours. While handing over the extortionist ransom, I wondered out loud where he was going to find a bottle for sale way out here in the jungle. I didn’t have to wait long: Lucky for you, I got Jose to spot me some bottles… Richard assured me, taking credit for anticipating such exigencies. He thereupon produced a new bottle of Pirata, uncorked it and gleefully poured shots. We tossed them back and were on our way. The slightly used bottle went back into Richard’s bag.

Weaving through dense jungle and sliding along muddy tracts, we somehow got to the mines – barely – although “mine” is not the kind of adjective someone from the US mainland would conjure up to describe these worm holes snaking into the hillside. Still, the amount of excavation that had taken place here was impressive. There were pits and tunnels everywhere, each with a spewing of grey shaley rock pouring out of it.

We met our new friends, and they took us to a few holes where the entrances had not collapsed. Cautious, but enthused, I crawled around these terrifyingly unsafe tunnels taking note of some important aspects of the geology. I chipped out several good specimens along with matrix that had amber embedded in it. After a few hours we were thoroughly satisfied, the car was over-loaded with rock, and it was time to go. We were just about to squeeze back into the torture chamber for the ride back down the mountain when Richard raised a hand. Yes, you guessed it, time for another Ratificacion. By now I was getting used to this formality, although I still had my doubts about its validity. No sooner had we grouped outside the car than Richard had his hand out.

Where’s the bottle I just paid a king’s ransom for?, I protested, a bit miffed.

Can’t use a bottle that’s already been opened! he lambasted me, astonished that I would even suggest such a thing. It has to be brand new! The vaqueros will be watching closely, he warned, all serious-like.

Besides, once the bottle is cracked, the Voodoo goes out with the first pour.

The Voodoo? Apparently, the mystical spirit world of the ancient Haitian quasi-religion somehow figured into these “Ratifications”. Considering our proximity to Haiti – which was now actually within sight from our vantage point here in the mountains – I shouldn’t have been surprised. From my perspective, though, whoever the Voodoo God of Deal-making was, he or she had a drinking problem and with it a co-conspirator named Richard.

Another sixty bucks and a shot of rum got us, finally, on our way.

Five days later, the carvings were delivered by caballeros on horseback who came down the mountain to Richard’s shack. We went over in Bill’s defiantly-still-running Bug and loaded them in the back. And, of course, yet another Ratificacion consummated the deal before we were able to get away.

That night we scrounged for paper and boxes to wrap them in. I called the airline and inquired about weight limits for checked bags. While on the phone I asked the guy if the plane was fully booked, professing to have some friends that were thinking of buying tickets at the last minute. Oh, no problem!, he exclaimed, That plane’s not even half full.

We made darned sure each box came in under the weight limit. By the time we got to the airport the next day, we had 11 boxes of rocks, four suitcases, and several carry-ons. There were two different carts piled high with boxes and luggage, their wheels mashing into the concrete. When we got to the front of the line, the clerk looked at us askance: All that? she exclaimed, incredulously, For just the two of you?

Absolutely, I said very calmly. I called yesterday and the guy said the plane isn’t even half full. He assured me there’d be no problem checking extra luggage.

Who told you that? she asked, obviously not buying it.

Ricardo, I replied confidently. I called him about 4pm and he literally said “No problemo!”

What is all that stuff, anyway?, she asked.

Gifts for our nieces and nephews, I answered hoping she had some of her own and would appreciate the magnanimity of my intentions. A box for each of them. Just imagine how thrilled they’ll all be to get these wonderful gifts from the Dominican Republic!

Mister, she said scornfully in perfect English, do I look like I was born yesterday? She was obviously pissed. I’d blown it. We were now at the mercy of the Voodoo Gods and I quickly made silent amends for the scorn I had heaped upon their noble deities earlier. After some awkward silence while she punched keys, she looked up with a half smirk: But you know what? she chirped, I don’t care… have a nice flight. With that she handed over our boarding passes and waved forward the next couple.

We stood there not really knowing what had just transpired. Had she given up and let the boxes go through? Or was she calling my bluff and denying them? She was on the phone now and I was a little worried that she was calling the cops. It wasn’t like we could run anywhere, so we just sat there with our two giant carts of boxes and waited for whatever was coming. What came next was not the police, thankfully. It was two porters to take the luggage. They whisked away the boxes, leaving us with just our boarding passes and carry-on. What a relief!

Just before boarding, we stopped into the tiny gift shop in the terminal. As we were at the counter purchasing sodas and snacks, I looked over the teller’s shoulder and spotted the by-now very familiar brown bottles of Pirata on the shelf behind. I asked the price. Eight bucks! While not entirely surprised, I was nonetheless a little dumbstruck at the incredibly steep upcharge Richard had pulled on us. The gal mistook my hesitation and said defensively, It’s not me who set’s the prices! Then she leaned in close and said in a whisper, If you have time, go down the street to the left – there’s a bottle shop that sells the exact same thing for half the price…

I guessed Richard had netted about $400 on the multiple “Ratificacions” imposed on our dealings. A nice little bonus to his commission. Not to mention stocking up on a case full of barely opened Pirata! I had to smile, though – the charade was ingenious and the gringos fell for the entire week-long scam. He had bailed on New York because it was crooked – but there was still a little New York left in him.

I bought a bottle. On the plane we had our own Ratificacion.

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