Borderland Beat

by Alex Marentes

  It was just another day in Juarez.

  They eventually found a cache of weapons in the trunk of the car and a substantial amount of U.S. currency ($30,000). Mexican authorities suspected that the father had ties to the Juarez cartel and that the shooting was a matter of “ajuste de cuentas,” or “settling of scores,” a phrase I would later hear often after reading about an execution. Alicia's father was known to be a lieutenant for “La Linea,” the armed wing of the Juarez cartel.

  Up until then I had never heard of La Linea.

  Living in the comfort of my home, I did not have the slightest idea what was happening in Mexico. But I soon learned that crimes such as gangland-style murders and kidnappings were at record levels, making Mexico one of the world's most dangerous countries in the world. I learned that kidnapping was a multi-million-dollar industry in Mexico.

  I soon realized that Mexico's murder rate was topping all others in the Western Hemisphere. All this despite the fact that Mexican President Felipe Calderon’s tough new war on drugs had sent thousands of Mexican Army troops into the countryside, while a record number of drug warlords were extradited to the United States for trial.

  I learned that crime had been on the rise in Mexico throughout the last decade, as drug cartels battled each other for control of lucrative smuggling routes. And it wasn't just the violence, but the extent of it. I saw that Mexico's violence was often spectacular and lurid, with tales of street shootouts, decapitations and bomb blasts filling Mexico's news pages and airwaves.

  No place was immune, and Ciudad Juarez, our back yard, was the worst. As I continued to read the news every day, the bloodbath continued unabated and everyone here in the U.S. had no idea what was happening right across the border.

  I did not know it at the time but this was a nasty storm that was just beginning.

  The violence and mayhem just multiplied over the months and years. I bought books about the Mexican drug war, saw the daily news, read the Mexican newspapers, and glued myself to the internet while learning about the Mexican cartels.

  Everyone around me went about their business as usual without any inclination or idea of the misery and devastation that was ravaging a country that shared a border with us. I myself would not have known about it if it had not been for the tragic fate of a little girl named Alicia.

  The real important issues about Mexico have been lost on the U.S. side with the debate of issues such illegal immigration and the origin of weapons in the hands of Mexican cartels. I have seen some real heated confrontations on both sides of the aisle. We have Mexicans blaming the U.S. for creating a demand for drugs through their vile habit, and Americans blaming Mexico for permitting a drug industry through corrupt practices. I do not want to sound cliché when I repeat the saying, “drugs go north while money and guns go south.”

  There is a big connection between Mexico and the U.S., and it's more than just a border or the cultural history that sometimes bind us. It is a shared common interest to stop the flow of drugs and the misery of the tragic and violent consequences it brings with it.

  The bottom line is that the sale of illegal drugs is just a business decision and it exists for two reasons: product is very good, and profit is very high. Nothing on Earth can stop something that generates billions of dollars and is desired by millions of people. The sad part of all this is that when you try to stop it, it fuels a wave of violence like what's happening in Mexico and which could very easily transform that nation into a failed state. That is why we will never totally eradicate illicit drug trafficking, the temptation it brings, and leaves in its wake the worst violence one can possibly fathom.

  Now here we are, the violence has not subsided, it is relentless and more shocking with every passing day. I knew someone had to record it and bring it out, because the violence is not about merely interchangeable parts, but about real people. This is more than just statistics, or about nameless decapitated bodies thrown into the middle of the street with a “manta” attached to them, (a narco manta is a written message that is left on a cardboard placard or banner at the scene of an execution, or displayed in public to warn other cartels or government officials). It’s about real people like that little girl named Alicia who had a heart to give, if only just to give someone some water. Despite the fact that Alicia's father was colluding with the Juarez cartel in crime, drug trafficking and murder, Alicia was just an innocent child with a good heart. She was an innocent of circumstances who found a way to do a good deed. It was in her nature, and was a glimpse of hope, despite all that is bad in this world.

  Ciudad Juarez, a Mexican city that borders El Paso, Texas, was one of the most violent cities in the world. The Sinaloa Cartel was disputing the territory, trying to take the plaza away from the Juarez cartel. It was making Juarez a playground for shootouts, assassinations and the most horrific violence anyone can imagine. The homicide rate was spiraling out of control. Yet, the U.S. was blind to it all. It was around this time that I started reading a lot about organized crime in Mexico, and I was shocked at the amount and extent of violence on the other side of the U.S. border.

  Rocky Point - Sonora

  The same summer of 2008 when Alicia's family was executed in Ciudad Juarez, my brother and I were planning a motorcycle trip to Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) in Mexico. I still had not been aware of the tragic incident involving Alicia when we made our trip. We would be traveling in our larger street motorcycles, my brother had a large Harley Davidson and I had a 2006 GL1800 Honda Goldwing. The plan was to travel along the border on the Mexico side to see the countryside.

  We crossed in to Mexico at the Santa Theresa point of entry on the Texas–New Mexico state border. We then took Rural Road 2 that runs along the border through the Mexican state of Sonora. We were to stay in Agua Prieta, Nogales, a town sharing a border with Douglas, Arizona.

  I did not know it then but the state of Sonora was very active with cartel activity. There were shootouts where multiple people were being killed. Many of the police officers from different municipalities were also killed. There was an intense fight over the plaza of Sonora, one of the main points of drug trafficking in to the U.S. Sonora is known for its narco tunnels into the U.S., primarily funded by the Sinaloa Cartel. There were a lot of executions and most of the town lived in fear of the drug cartels. Sonora for the most part was being ignored by the federal authorities that were focusing most of their resources on Ciudad Juarez and Tijuana.

  We entered Agua Prieta toward the end of the day. I immediately started to look for a motel. I saw a few on the outskirts of town, but they appeared to be in the industrial district and they did not look very inviting to me. In the middle of town, I saw a brand-new beautiful motel that seemed like a very safe place to stay. We pulled in and I thought that perhaps it was still under construction as there were no cars in the parking lot. The sign on the office window read “Vacancies.”

  The man in the office told us he did not have any vacancies, and also something about not being open for business. I tried to get him to recommend a motel and directions, when a late model luxurious SUV pulled up. Two beautiful ladies who were well dressed came in and told the man behind the counter to give us a room.

  The man got us a room.

  The two ladies were really friendly to us and I assumed they were probably the owners or managers of the motel. My brother started a conversation with the lady driver and invited her for some drinks in town. She politely declined and said that she hoped we enjoyed our stay.

  We went to eat at a little restaurant that was within walking distance of the motel and I asked the server about the motel. I also told him about how the two ladies had ensured we got a room. His eyes lit up when I told him about it.

  He cautioned us to be very careful and refrain from talking to people we did not know. “You can’t trust anyone here, it’s very dangerous,” he told us, almost whispering and looking around as if he was looking for someone. He said that the motel was owned by a cartel boss who we
nt by the name “Dos Mil” who lived in Cananea, just west of Agua Prieta. He owned a large, beautiful mansion, modeled after the architectural preferences of Amado Carrillo Fuentes (a former Juarez cartel capo), a hacienda-style home complete with cupolas.

  He said that the motel, like many other businesses he owned around Sonora were fronts to launder large amounts of money. He told me that “Dos Mil” was very dangerous, drove around with a large armed escort and could kill anyone at will without any consequences.

  He told us that the lady driving the SUV was one of Dos Mil's girlfriends and that the cartel boss didn't like anyone talking to her. He told a story about a man who asked the girlfriend to dance at a local nightclub when Dos Mil was in the bathroom. Dos Mil also owned that particular nightclub. He came out of the restroom and saw the man talking to his girlfriend. Dos Mil went in to a rage and shot the man 20 times right in front of everyone. The whole thing was swept underneath the rug. He said most local police were on Dos Mil's payroll.

  He warned us that my brother had placed our lives in danger by asking the ladies for drinks. Back in our rooms in the motel I suddenly did not feel real safe.

  I heard a knock on the door at around 9 p.m. that frankly scared the hell out of me. It turned out to be a man who was asking if he could wash our bikes in the morning for a donation. Relieved, I said yes. I can attest that I did not sleep well that night. The next morning, I picked up my camera that had a long lens attached to it and was going to load it on the small trunk of my bike. The man washing my bike looked up at me, saw me holding my camera, and I guess he must have thought that I was holding a firearm. He screamed, put his hands up and head down. He started pleading for me not to kill him. I had never seen such fear in a man like I did at that moment.

  We made it to Puerto Penasco and had a very good time with no issues whatsoever. On our way back to Albuquerque, we drove the U.S. side of the border.

  In 2008, there were a lot of Mexican cops that were killed or caught actively colluding with organized crime in the state of Sonora.

  Later, while I tried to do some research of the so-called Dos Mil, who was mentioned on our trip I got an idea of who this person might be. It was none other than Francisco Hernandez Garcia alias "El 2000," or "El Panchillo," who was at one time a drug lord for the Beltrán Leyva Brothers Organization Cartel (BLO).

  It is said that "El 2000" allied himself with Los Zetas after he felt betrayed by the BLO. The Zetas had a feud with the BLO who at one time sent one of their Lieutenants, Édgar Valdés Villarreal “La Barbie” to the state of Tamaulipas to help the Gulf Cartel take over the gulf region. There is a video that went viral on social media where La Barbie is seen torturing and executing four members of Los Zetas. Suddenly “El 2000” felt that he needed to control his turf, specifically police officers working with and for Sinaloa and BLO.

  In 2008, they found the head of a local cop wrapped in silver duct tape. They had used a knife to pin a note with a message in his chest. As a final touch, they left a hand grenade by the corpse—a calling card, of sorts.

  The note read:

  “Miren ojetes, la pelea no es con el gobierno, es con Arturo Beltrán y La Barbie (Édgar Valdés Villarreal) –capos del cártel de Sinaloa– Todos los judiciales y municipales que estén con ellos se van a morir: Carlos Bojórquez, Andrés Sánchez (PJE), Manuel Ángel Barrios Mo PJE.”

  On the back it read: “Policías Municipales… Urrea… Almaraz… tienen 24 horas para salir del estado, todos los policías que estén con la maña morirán Att El 2000 y aliados.”

  Somewhat it translates: "Listen here assholes, our fight is not with the government; it's with Arturo Beltrán Leyva and La Barbie of the Sinaloa Cartel. All the state and city police who are with them will die."

  It contained at least 10 names of police officers from around the state of Sonora who were targeted for execution, and it was signed “El 2000 and allies."

  Cananea narco-trafficker Dos Mil had risen to power by eliminating the established Sonoran narco-families and could kill a person just for looking at him the wrong way. He controlled the Sonora region and ruled with total impunity. That is who my brother risked his life for, just for flirting innocently with the girlfriend of a bad hombre.

  The Curse of Cusarare

  December 24, 2008

  There would be another event that would eventually prompt me to get involved in some way. It involved my love of photography and motorcycles

  I am an avid motorcycle rider who likes to travel to remote areas with an enduro/dual sport type motorcycle that's modified to travel long distances. I have traveled in remote areas all over the southwestern U.S. and Mexico. Every Christmas, friends and I used to ride our bikes to the Copper Canyon area to enjoy the beautiful remote mountains of Chihuahua. So, in December of 2008, I traveled to Creel, Chihuahua with an American friend named Everest to ride our motorcycles through the desolate back country of Copper Canyon. It is Sinaloa territory, and the hills of the Sierra Madre are where they plant their marijuana crop and poppy fields, and poppy is what they turn into heroin. I had a dilemma, and that was whether I should tell Everest of the sleeping giant—the drug cartel violence—that was starting to wake up. I made the mistake of not telling him because I didn't want to scare him away. I wanted him to enjoy the trip and relax without having to worry at every turn in the road. I had been looking forward to the trip all year and I didn't want him to get scared and cancel the adventure.

  It turned out that not warning him was a grave mistake on my part and something that I would later regret.

  The Chihuahua state highway from Creel is a well maintained paved road that winds through beautiful Ponderosa and pine trees. It had snowed the day before, but on this day when we were on the road it was all sunshine and blue skies. The smooth asphalt was already dry from the melting snow, and as I accelerated, I thought to myself that that particular road was made for motorcycles.

  As I leaned my bike to the right on another twisty curve, I could hear the knobby tires of my DR650 dual sport bike squeak a bit in protest as the rubber met the pavement. I was careful not to lean too much because I figured it was too early to chance an accident. We each had our own bike and we were riding to the bottom of Copper Canyon on our journey to reach Batopilas, a town of 1,200 people. I was following Everest, who was keeping a good speed. I looked down at my speedometer and saw that I was just below 50 mph while pulling out of the wide curve. I had to remind myself not to push myself too hard because, after all, we were there to relax and do three full days of riding the Tarahumara back country.

  Christmas was the next day and I was glad to be away from all the commercialized propaganda of a holiday that no longer seem to mean much to me. I took a deep breath, taking in as much fresh air as possible and was glad to be there, riding my bike on Mexico Highway 25.

  I saw a blue a sign to the right announcing our approach to Cusarare, a small Indian town on the side of the road. I could see that we were approaching another curve and I downshifted to a lower gear in preparation to enter the curve at a decent and safe speed.

  Everest was a much better rider than I was and he tended to pull away from me on the curves, so I had to accelerate to catch up to him on the straightaways. I saw Everest disappear on a turn ahead of me, so I leaned my bike to the right to start into the curve while trying to maintain the same speed.

  When I came out of the curve, I could see that Everest had pulled away a bit and I immediately started to accelerate to ensure I kept a good, close gap between us. As I started to gain distance and get closer to him, I noticed that another curve was coming up fast, but this time it was a left turn. I still had some time to accelerate a bit more and gain a little more distant toward Everest before I had to slow down for the upcoming curve.

  As Everest approached the curve, I noticed that he had moved to the center of the lane because there was a person in a yellow jacket riding a bicycle on the right side real close to the edge of the steel guardrail. Everest appr
oached the curve with his motorcycle on the center of the yellow line of the road and he was gaining on the bicyclist. As he accelerated and leaned into the curve, he came side-by-side to the person on the bicycle. Suddenly the bicyclist made a quick left turn toward the middle of the road and right into the path of Everest and his motorcycle.

  Everest didn't have time to react and t-boned the bicyclist straight on. There was a loud crashing sound, and the bicyclist flew 20 feet through the air as a result of being hit by a motorcycle at full speed. Everest and his bike went down on the right side. The impact and momentum of the crash propelled Everest over his bike and he slid on the pavement about 15 feet in front of his motorcycle.

  I immediately started to look for a safe place to park my bike. It seemed like everything was in slow motion; every movement was fluid as I stopped my bike, placed the kick stand down, turned the key to shut off the engine, dismounted, and took off my helmet and placed it on the ground.

  Everest's motorcycle was on its right side, still in the middle of the road, and Everest was on the ground on his side facing away from me. He was the first person I was able to reach. He still had his helmet on but his face shield was gone.

  I called to him but got no response. He was not moving at all. I got really close to him, called out his name about four times but still got no response. I opened one of his eye lids and noticed that his eye was also not responsive. I immediately started to feel for a pulse on his right wrist but I wasn't certain there was one. My own heart was racing fast and I was breathing hard because I had run to get to Everest.

  I was excited, and that wasn't helping me. I was a trained first responder and I knew I had to calm down if I was going to be of any help. The problem is, a crash or catastrophe is never easy when it involves someone you know. Somehow, I calmed down and was finally able to detect a pulse from Everest.