The Darién Gap: Where Dreams Die exposes the deadly migration route where migrants trek through waist-high mud and perilous rivers, often finding human remains. Driven by Venezuela's economic collapse under Nicolás Maduro and civil wars elsewhere, travelers face robbery, sexual assault, and dehydration while relying on indigenous Emberá hospitality in Bajo Chiquito. Despite US policies externalizing borders and funding deportations, hundreds of thousands cross annually, trapped at Las Blancas due to $60 fees or exploited by smugglers. The episode critiques dehumanizing narratives and transit bans, concluding that true safety requires mutual aid and accompanying migrants rather than futile attempts to close the gap. [Automatically generated summary]
Transcriber: nvidia/parakeet-tdt-0.6b-v2, sat-12l-sm, and large-v3-turbo
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Translated Interview Hope00:03:26
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And before we listen to this episode today, I just did want to make you aware that I conducted these interviews in French and Spanish, mostly Spanish, and then transcribed and translated them.
Crisis in Our Country00:15:06
So what you're hearing is a translated interview that's been edited for brevity and content.
I hope you enjoyed the episode.
The most difficult part of the journey is when you are taking and you meet dead bodies on the road.
It makes you weep.
It makes you cry.
But there's only one focus in the forest.
Ahead.
You have to keep going.
You see mothers, children, they are crying just to have a sip of water.
It is not easy.
A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting beside the Tuquesa River on a warm afternoon in late September, making silly faces at a two-month-old baby as we both marveled at the cloud of yellow butterflies.
Anywhere else on earth, it could be an idyllic summer day.
But in these final steps of the journey across the Darien Gap, it's hard to open up your mind to experience joy.
I'd only been in the tiny Embarray village of Bajo Chiquito a couple of days and I'd already seen the lifeless body of a little girl as other migrants carried her into town.
The river I was sleeping around in with this group of migrants resting here in the shade had swept sleeping children to their deaths earlier this year.
And upstream of me, there were at least three people's remains.
Here, it was shin deep, but crossing upstream, where it's above head height and rages down out of the mountains in steep ravines, was, the migrants I walked back to town with told me, the stuff of nightmares.
The voice you just heard was a migrant from Cameroon who called himself James.
That's not his real name, and astute listeners will have noticed that it is my real name.
But for the protection of James and his family, it's a name we'll be using.
When I met James, we were in a migrant reception center called Las Blancas, to the north of the Darien Gap.
To get there, one has to take a dugout canoe called a Piragua from Bajo Chiquito.
The voyage takes five hours, and for that five hours, migrants are packed, 15 to a boat, wearing bright orange life jackets.
The boat with Nembra Piraguero, who sits at the back, driving the boat with a two-stroke motor, and a guide who sits on the front, using a pole when necessary to push the boat through shallow sections.
The Embara people are indigenous to the area that's commonly known as the Darien Gap, or at least to this part of it.
And the tiny Embarrass village of Bajo Chiquito is the first settlement migrants encounter as they emerge from the perilous crossing of the jungle that divides Central America from South America and thousands of people from a better future.
There's a morale patch that the Panamanian Border Patrol and military wear on their uniforms that reflects a slogan in a government messaging campaign.
Tarien no es una ruta, es una yungla, it says.
The campaign was launched in August and it translates to the Darien isn't a route, or maybe a road is a better translation.
It's a jungle.
Obviously, it's actually both.
But this is like no route most of us would be familiar with.
The dark and foreboding jungle I saw in Bajo Chiquito is one of the most impenetrable on earth.
And the crossing of it is among the most dangerous land migration routes.
In the 1970s, the British Army sent its most experienced explorers to find a way through the gap.
Their commander called the gap a god-forsaken place.
Today, migrants have their own names for it.
La Ruta del Muerte, or sometimes the Green Hell.
Here's a group from Cameroon explaining why they didn't see a future there and they decided to take this dangerous route.
We are coming from Cameroon.
My name is Powers.
There's a lot of crisis in our country.
There's a civil war going on in Cameroon right now because our president, President Pombi, has been in power for over 42 years.
So how's the Anglophone?
They started revolting for him to step down because he doesn't develop the Southern American...
Sorry, the English section of Cameroon.
Yeah, the Anglophone section.
So revolt.
He said he was sending the military and he was killing the citizens of our country.
There's a lot of hardship, a lot of death.
I, for one, have lost everybody.
I lost one of my family, my mom, my dad, my two brothers, and I'm the only one left.
So things are normal.
There is no job.
I've completed school, but there's nothing for me to do, so that's why I decided to migrate.
To get to Bajo Chiquito from Colombia, as James and other migrants did, there's no road you can take.
You can't even take a boat or a train.
Instead, you have to walk the Darien Gap, an area of rainforest and mountains that is one of the most dangerous migration routes in the world.
For anywhere between 2 and 15 days, migrants trek through waist-high mud and rivers deeper than they are at all.
They must climb giant boulders, cross perilous ravines, and traverse sheer cliff faces.
All of this with barely any water than what they can carry, little to no food, inadequate clothing and terrible footwear, and no medical attention.
They must walk past dead bodies and past people who might soon become dead bodies as they beg for help.
They carry their children, their dreams, and sometimes each other across mountains and rivers.
And in Bajo Chiquito, they take what for many of them will be the final steps of this part of their journey.
It's a journey that few of us can imagine and that we're lucky to be able to avoid.
My own migration to the US 16 years ago was much simpler and safer.
But for migrants like James, the journey is worth it, because what they're leaving behind is worse.
Here's James describing the situation in the state of Cameroon.
The situation in Cameroon is very, very...
Very, very difficult, especially in the Anglophone part of the country.
Yeah, because for about five to six years, there's a war, ongoing war in the Anglophone crisis.
Yeah, so there's been fighting, there's been shooting, killings.
I myself, speaking to you here, have been targeted.
My cousin was shot and with his husband were shot together.
Both of them were nurses and they were shot by the army that were there to protect the people.
So the situation back at home is very, very tense.
Yeah, it's very, very tense.
When you see most of Cameroonians traveling, taking the rigs path from Colombia, Brazil, right up to where I am, it is not because they like it.
It is because of the situation back at home.
And most of it, and most of the time, it is the Anglophone population that is suffering.
Most of them, they choose this path because they will not have a direct visa to America.
Yeah, it's very hard to get one.
Yes, it's very, very difficult.
So they have to use the hard way, which is the only way.
The truth is that dead bodies, terrible stories, and families celebrating the end of their work is nothing out of the ordinary in Bajojiquito.
The Embarrass town, with a population of just 590, is a place I've been trying to come to for almost as long as I've been writing about migration.
There are a few stories in my time as a journalist that I've been pitching for close to a decade.
Most of the time, I give up if there are no bites after a few months.
And that's why you won't see me write about the people who tried to hire mercenaries to intimidate voters in 2020, or the Burmese rebels who funded their revolution with co-op produced tea, or a surfing team in the Gaza Strip.
And on reflection, you probably won't hear about that last one anywhere now.
The media cycle has a way of coming around to these stories eventually, sure, but I'm not really one to go back to editors who didn't give a shit about people before and only care about their stories now because they get more traffic.
But there's one story I've never given up on, and that's the story of the Darien Gap and the people who risked their lives crossing it for a shot at the American dream.
And at this point, I do want to acknowledge that I'm incredibly grateful to the people I work with for trusting me when I asked them to pay for me to disappear in a dugout canoe into the jungle and come back two weeks later with a story.
The Darien looms in the stories of migrants I meet at the US border as a sort of heart of darkness on what is a very difficult and dangerous journey.
It's worse than the freight trains they hop on in Mexico, worse than the crowded buses, worse even than the months of waiting for an asylum appointment.
I firmly believe that you can't really understand and write about things you haven't seen, smelt and heard.
So for years I've been asking editors to send me to the tiny Embarrass community on the banks of the river so that I could share the final steps of this horrific journey with the people who see little option but to risk their lives for a better future for their children.
Because the US refuses to create more legal pathways, people instead take the sodden pathways straight up and down the mountains of the Darien rainforest.
The journey will take them past the corpses of people who never left.
The terrain is too fierce for anyone to carry their remains out.
So they must simply rot there as a reminder to migrants that they must keep going.
It's a sort of deterrent through death that has been the unofficial and official US border policy for decades.
Deterrent or not, once you're in the Darien, there's no turning back.
And the lack of escape routes has made the gap popular among criminals who commit untold numbers of sexual assaults, murders, and armed robberies every year in the jungle.
Despite this, more than half a million migrants made the perilous journey last year.
And if many, if not more, will do so this year.
To understand the Darien, you have to first understand US immigration policy, which is something I talk about a lot on this podcast.
I want to include here a clip from Amos, a migrant from North Africa who met my friends and helped them build shelters in Nucumba last year, explaining his journey to the United States.
So another route right now, which is a difficult route, is through Brazil, because Brazil has, I don't know if you guys know, I think they do that for Americans too.
Yeah, so Brazil has sort of, I don't know the word, but the equivalency that means if you impose a visa on Brazil, Brazilians will impose a visa on you.
They do that to Americans too.
So, you know, where I'm from, they don't have a visa as far as for Brazilians, so we don't...
So a lot of Africans can go to Brazil and from Brazil take the route all the way.
Like Amos, James couldn't fly here directly, but he was able to get a little bit closer to the US by flying to Colombia.
I'll let him explain how he pulled that off.
For me to have a pass to Colombia, it was not easy.
So we had to.
There was a female under 20 World Cup that was that was taking place in Colombia.
So we had to go to Colombia as football fans.
That's why they had to give us our visa.
Hell yes.
All right, from Colombia, we'll find our way out of the airport to where we are today.
Most migrants from outside of continental America will have to travel to Brazil, just like Amos.
Here's one account.
I'll let the speakers introduce themselves.
My name is Somaye.
I'm from Iran.
My name is Mohades for Omiran.
My name is Ali and I'm from Iran.
They told me why they left Iran.
But I'm sure many of you could work that one out for yourself, so we won't include it here.
How did you come from Iran to here?
It was so difficult, and we came from Iran, Tehran to Dubai.
After that, São Paulo, Brazil, and after that, Bolivi, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, Nicokli and jungle, Panama, here, Panama.
And it was so difficult for us because we are young, we just leave our family, my sister, my mother, father.
It was so emotional.
It was so hard for us.
But because of the freedom, because we can't speak in our country, you know, if you speak in the streets, something like this, they will arrest you in a jail.
When you are not Muslim, when you will be like something like a Christian or something else, they will arrest you.
Yes, it was so, so, so, so difficult living in Iran.
But it's a wonderful country, but not government.
When I talk to migrants, I always want to offer them the chance to share their stories in ways that they want to share them.
And I asked them what they would want to say if they could talk directly to Americans.
It's a question I ask a lot because in all the coverage of migration I've seen in this country, I rarely see migrants' voices.
I'm very familiar with being the only journalist in the place and I would be lying if I said I didn't prefer it that way.
But I do always feel obliged to use the platform I have here to give people a chance to share their stories, their voices and their struggles.
So here's their message to you.
We love you, hope too, you love us.
Yes, that's a hard question.
Yeah, it's very good.
It will be our next home and we should be proud of that.
We should be holding for that.
We should be a real American for the country.
They know Romans are very bad situation, have a bad situation in Iran.
For all people, that is the same, but for women, it's very, very, very hard.
I think American people know about Masa, Amini.
Yeah.
And they really they kill us.
Really they kill women for simple things.
I heard hundreds of stories like this in my time in Bajo Chiquito and the La Has Blancas migrant reception center that migrants travel to after they arrive in Bajo Chiquito.
Tenacity Through the Jungle00:14:57
People left horrific things behind them and saw horrific things on their journey.
But they all remained hopeful for a better future in America.
These journeys in some cases can take a year or more.
One Nepali man I met in Bajo Chiquito had spent 30 months just to get that far and among his group his journey had been the fastest.
As long as these journeys are, the Darien often stands out as the hardest part.
To understand why, I want to take you back to that shady spot by the river, just a few minutes south of Bajo Chiquito.
So what I'm doing right now, as you can hear from my footsteps, is I'm doing what it told me not to do.
I'm walking along the migrant trail.
Lots of like vines and creepers.
Oh, fucking hell.
That's meanly eating shit.
There's little bits of tape marking the trail.
I think they just come down the river here.
And some local guys are pushing out wheelbarrows on the trail to dump trash.
There's trash everywhere.
It's a fucking mess.
The little wood arrows that they've carved just outside town to direct people into town.
And up ahead I can see migrants making what's probably hopefully their final crossing of the river here.
One thing I noticed was that as soon as I got out of sight in the air shot of the town, the jungle seemed a lot more intimidating.
I'm someone who spends a lot of time in the mountains and I grew up playing in the woods.
I'm comfortable outdoors and I frequently camp and hike for days on my own.
I like it better that way.
And I'm honestly more comfortable 40 feet under the sea freediving or three hours from the nearest road than I am in a busy city sometimes.
But in the jungle, after all the stories I'd heard that week, I was afraid.
It gets scary.
I don't know why.
I mean, everything's new to me.
I'm, you know, relatively comfortable in the outdoors, but fucking.
There's new animals, there's new plants.
I don't know what's poisonous.
I don't know what's going to kill me.
I don't know who's going to try and hurt me.
Got another fucking horse.
Jesus wept.
I'm jumping out my skin everything now.
It's funny, I'm in a place that's beautiful, you know, like these bird of paradise plants are just growing here.
It's gorgeous, and there's horses that belong to people of the Embara community, I suppose.
Just having snacks, you know, eating jungle horse food.
And here I am at the river.
It's wide here.
It's sort of shallow and it's been dammed up a little bit with rubbish.
It's like flops and jets and kind of stuff.
And then this is where people cross because of that little dam, but it's still got some force to it.
Like, you wouldn't want to fall and crack your head.
Or, you know, a lot of these folks can't swim.
Even without the fear, it's hard going.
If you've only hiked on trails, you perhaps don't realize how much work goes into making that surface passable.
There are no trail crews in the Darien.
And as a result, every step has the potential to result in a sprained ankle or another injury, which might sound trivial, but can be fatal in such a remote and challenging place.
Trail is all rocks, like maybe rocks the size of a fist.
And then there are sort of in this area we only have the lower canopy, so we have ferns, we have reeds, bamboo plants growing really tall and straight.
That's what they use for the poles for the piraguas.
And then sort of low, grassy kind of plants.
And then where the migrants walk is just this muddy trail that every time it rains just turns into like ankle to knee deep mud.
I could see them making pretty slow progress along the trail towards me.
At the end of the day, as I took a piragua back to Maraganti, where I would be staying the night, I reflected again on this and the incredible tenacity it took for people with little outdoor experience and terrible equipment to pass through the jungle.
You know, I'm a fit person.
I run ultra-marathons.
I used to exercise for a living and it's fucking hard.
It's wet.
Everything's wet all the time.
If you're wet from the rain, then you're wet.
If you're wet from the sweat, then you're wet.
If you cross rivers, you get wet.
You just can't stay dry.
And everyone's feet are just fucked when they get into town.
Like the size of the blisters I've seen.
Like one lady had a cramp today where like it just locked up her whole leg.
Like I grabbed her as she was falling down and I was able to like hold her up.
But people are really pushing themselves physically as well as psychologically.
That river crossing south of Baha Chiquito was as far south as I was going to be able to get without being forcibly adjacent from Panama.
And my request to take a boat or walk further south was denied by the Panamanian Ministry of Security.
So, the only part of the migrant's journey I would share with them was the last kilometer or so of their walk.
Even then, I wasn't really supposed to be leaving town at all.
So, several times over the days I spent in Bajo Chiquito, I would look over my shoulder, hop down the riverbank, jump across a stream, and likely jog out of town.
Once on the trail, I'd start to walk slowly and try and wave at groups of upcoming migrants.
I didn't want to scare them.
I offered to carry their bags and lent any help I could supporting them as they walked towards their first meal and clean drink of water in up to a week.
Just getting to Bajo Chiquito was a journey in itself for me.
I took two flights, a five-hour drive, which was evenly split between paved roads, roads that aspired to pavement, and dirt roads.
At the end of our road journey, the Pan American Highway that links Alaska to Argentina seems to give up on fighting the jungle and Peters out.
Asphalt turned to worse asphalt, which turned to dirt, which turned to mud, which led us to a river.
Our driver, however, was prepared for this.
The drive here was mad, like that road was fucked.
We're in this tiny little car.
The driver took off his shoes and socks to conduct the more technical section of the drive, which I thought was quite amusing.
And yeah, really steep, lots of holes, lots of potholes, you know, just really rutted out, kind of dirt road.
And then we got here and talked to some guys, negotiated a price and told them where we wanted to go.
And they said, yeah, sure, buy some water.
You know, there's no water on the way.
About three hours.
And so we bought some water right there.
And yeah, here we are on the boat now.
As you can hear, I recorded this on a piragua.
It's a kind of dugout canoe with the hull made out of a single tree and a two-stroke motor bolted on the back.
It's the only way to travel here other than on your feet.
And it's the only way the embarrass can get the produce they grow to market.
The skill of the piragueros, the people who drive the piraguas, is incredible.
They navigate parts of the river so shallow that they have to pull up the two-stroke motor.
And I noticed all the motors have propellers that are covered in chips and bashes from smacking into the rocks at the bottom.
In the bow of the boat, I sat on top of my giant rucksack, marveling at the birds, insects, and foliage of the jungle.
And occasionally I jumped up to make fairly useless contributions with the boat's bamboo pole under the close supervision of Marcelino, our driver and our soon-to-be host, who mostly just laughed at me as I leaned my whole weight into the pole, which notably slipped and I tried to avoid falling face first into the chocolate brown water.
On the way to Bajo Chiquito, we passed several small embarrass villages.
Little children waved at us from the banks or from the shallows of the river where they washed and played.
Adults looked on and doubtless wondered what a nurse a 6'3 white dude was doing going the wrong way on the river for a migrant.
But they smiled and waved back anyway.
After an overnight flight, a five-hour drive and three hours in a dugout canoe, we rounded a corner in the river and Bajo Chiquito came into view.
Over the last few years, it's reoriented itself from a tiny indigenous village to an unofficial reception center for migrants.
On my hopelessly outdated Topo map, the area has nothing but contours and green shading.
No roads, no trails, no markers of human existence at all.
And perhaps that's how the state sees this place.
The Dadien is as real to most Panamanians as Sesame Street or Jurassic Park.
But for the Emperor, this has been their home since long before Panama and Colombia and even maps existed.
The few dozen houses in the village, mostly built on stilts to avoid the seasonal floods, now offer up their rooms as hostels for the migrants.
Some of them have enclosed their bottom floor using plywood or cinder blocks.
Others have strung hammocks from their support posts.
For four or five bucks, migrants can get their first good night's sleep since they left Necoque in Colombia as much as a week before.
Along the main street, which is really just a raised concrete footpath about a meter across, you can buy a meal at any of half a dozen places for five bucks.
You can get an hour of Wi-Fi for a dollar or charge your phone for the same price.
Cold drinks for a dollar as well are one of the many front rooms that have turned into small kiosks.
And that's where the migrants I've been sitting down with at the river went when they arrived into town.
I let them be for a while and went off to interview more migrants.
About a thousand of them arrive in this village every day.
Each year since a pandemic has seen record numbers arrive.
And the little village on the side of a hill, surrounded by palm trees and full of smiling children in their traditional brightly coloured Palumas, chasing chickens and dogs, has welcomed every single one of them.
About a thousand of them arrive in this town every day.
To get here, they also take a boat.
From Necoqui, across the Gulf of the Darien, they cross on small motorboats to Capogana or Candil.
Those are both towns on the western side of the Gulf of the Darien.
From there, they begin their walk.
Even though they're now north of the Gulf, they're still in Colombia.
And on the Colombian side of the border, they're guided by guides to whom they pay several hundred dollars and in return receive protection and a wristband that ensures they can walk without being robbed.
Nobody I spoke to had made it this far without paying a guide.
The area is largely under the control of the Gulf Cartel, several members of which were sanctioned by the USA while I was in the jungle.
The migrants I spoke to didn't really have much bad to say about this part of their experience, but universally acknowledged that the next part was where they really confronted their fears and nightmares about the Darien.
Here's one Venezuelan migrant sharing his experience.
That's nothing compared to what comes from the border to here.
Yes, the road is better.
And I say that the danger is less too.
And they have everything you need there.
You come prepared, you have, you come with water.
And there are also many ravines where you can drink water.
Well, there are springs.
I come from the mountains.
But from the border on, it's pretty ugly.
It's a stretch from the Colombian-Panamanian border, at a place that they call Las Banderas, which means the flags, to Bajo Chiquito, where migrants suffer the most.
There, they can't drink from the river because the human waste and human remains that constantly fill it make the water deadly.
They must walk on unmaintained trails that often turn into deep mud.
They only have the supplies they carry, which often run out or they jettison to stay away on the incredibly steep mountain path.
They climb and descend those mountains and cross rivers, often without eating or drinking for days at a time.
On the trail, they pass by the bodies of their fellow travellers as a constant reminder of the risk they're taking.
If you ask people in Panama City, they'll tell you the Darien is closed now.
New President José Raúl Molino was elected on a promise to shut down the gap, end the humanitarian crisis, and deport more migrants with US funding.
And that funding has certainly arrived, with more than 6 million already spent since he took office in July.
Since then, Panama has deported more than 1,100 people to Venezuela, Cuba, Colombia, and India.
Each of these has been funded by US taxpayers.
Obviously, the jungle isn't closed and it can't really be closed.
But in an interview before he was elected, Molino said that the border of the United States, instead of being in Texas, has moved to Panama.
And that is something he can do with US support.
I spoke to some Venezuelan ladies who helped them carry their bags because it's a steep hill and they were saying that no one had seen any barriers, they don't know anything about any barriers or any fences in a Darien and that, like, they hadn't heard it was closed.
Evidently, it's not.
I'm standing in front of 100 people who just got off a boat from the Darien.
Hubris aside, the rhetoric of closing the Darien signals a turn not just in Panamanian politics, but in the way the world sees and handles migration.
The US has always sought to externalize its borders.
From US-trained border patrol officers in the Dominican Republic along the border with Haiti, to DHS agents deploying to Iraq and Afghanistan.
As migration has become more politicized, the US has sought to move its enforcement away from prying eyes and from compassion, and instead brought more trauma to a place that is already so hard.
I've spent much of the last decade of my life watching the state try to bring the mountains and desert close to where I live under its control.
I've stood with Kumeya people as the government dynamited their graveyards.
I've found border war contractors lost deep in the mountains.
I've driven the impossibly steep concrete roads that they built, worried about my truck turning end on end.
I've seen billions of dollars thrown at these mountains.
And I've seen people with $20 angle grinders or ladders made of old pallets defeat the wall in moments.
Trying to close borders doesn't work at home, and it won't work in the Dadien Gap either.
Just building the roads to get the construction equipment into the gap is a gargantuan task.
And any attempt to create a barrier across a 60-kilometer-wide wilderness area will simply push migrants onto other, more dangerous routes, into places where you can't build, and the places where nobody can rescue you if you fall down or break your leg.
That doesn't mean there's nothing the US can do.
I saw firsthand the impact of American spending here.
Dangerous Routes Ahead00:09:25
As migrants at a reception center called Las Blancas had their families torn apart, and men, women, and children cried as their parents and partners were taken away for a flight back to Colombia, Cuba, or Venezuela, that my taxes helped to pay for.
I consoled the children with toys and stickers and something to eat as their dads were loaded into a flatbed truck.
Our government didn't send money to feed these children, but it seemed to have the funds to fund their parents' deportation.
By deporting people from Panama, the US effectively deprives them of much of the due process they should, in theory, have the right to in the United States.
And the US can easily deport them back to places like Cuba and Venezuela, which it considers to be dictatorial regimes.
The US does not and cannot stop migration.
People have always moved, and people will always want a better future for their children.
What it can do is make it as painful and dangerous as possible.
But the razor wire barriers in the Dadien Gap, which I've seen posted on social media, didn't exist for the hundreds of migrants I spoke to.
No one I asked had even seen them.
But what they had seen was far worse.
There are many rivers that you're forced into all the time.
You're putting your life and everything else on the line there.
I was worried that the indigenous people would come out and do something to us.
In the nights, I was worried that any of the children, God forbid, would have an accident.
The same for me.
It's horrible to think about it now.
This mother had crossed with a five, six, and sixteen-year-old child, a baby of six months.
They'd all made it in one piece, but the journey clearly had its impact on the children.
There are many people who are left out there without food and do not have anything to give to their children.
We had food until last night, nothing left now.
And we had to, each one had to just eat a little bit because we had nothing else to give them.
You can't find anything there.
It's in the middle of nowhere.
People died right now, along with those who came with us yesterday.
How many died yesterday?
Three?
I think three died yesterday.
One drowned in the river.
Yeah, it's really tough, this.
No, no.
Nobody should do this.
Nobody.
We do this out of pure physical necessity to look for a better future for our kids.
We can't stay in our country.
We couldn't stay any longer there.
Here are a couple of the kids I spoke to, or in some cases, the kids who took my regard and conducted interviews with each other.
The mountains.
I was so tired and I couldn't climb anymore.
And when I fell in the river, I was really scared.
Apparently, the whole thing was like an adventure she'd seen Peppa Pig having, which at once made me giggle.
And also, one reflection is one of the saddest things I've ever had to record.
I'm sure her mom told her that to make it easier for her to pass through a terrible place.
But really, she ought to be at home watching Peppa Pig and playing with her friends.
Not walking past three dead bodies, which are currently decomposing on the trail.
She seemed remarkably resilient.
She said the long bus rides she'd taken to get there weren't boring because she enjoyed looking out the window.
And the whole journey was, well, I'll let her say it.
Her mom gave us a different account.
I didn't want to cry because I didn't want her to see me crying.
But sometimes I would explode because it's hard for your child to ask you for water, to ask you for food, and you don't have any.
To be in a place where you walk.
You walk from five in the morning, it's five in the afternoon.
You're walking, you don't know what to do.
Going through more than a hundred rivers and asking God not to rain and not wanting it to get worse.
It rained and the girl got a fever.
She got a fever.
But well, God is good that we pray a lot.
I say that we don't know God so much in the church and the process and the process that we are in.
And we don't know we can be so strong until we go through that storm.
And we see that he protects us.
He knows that he was always there watching over us, taking care of us at all times.
Parents being amazed at their children and drawing strength from them and their faith was a common message I heard from migrants.
Here's a migrant from Zimbabwe telling me how her daughter inspired her to keep going when she felt like she couldn't walk anymore.
My daughter, she was strong.
She was strong, but she was crying also, but she has got wounds all over the body.
Even me, I was crying myself.
I was like, I want to just put myself in the water, then I can just go.
Because the chain was tough.
Really, really tough.
The mountain, the stones, the river.
It's not easy at all.
It's not very.
I don't even recommend someone to say, yeah, lose daddy and gave.
No.
And even myself, I did know about it.
I was regretting myself.
I was crying.
I was like, God, I don't know my family and my family, they don't know where I am right now.
But like so many other migrants, when the government of the world abandoned her, she found strength in the strangers along the road who wouldn't abandon her.
We didn't even eat anything.
We just asked people, can I have a piece of biscuit?
They just help us.
That's nice.
The other migrants helped you?
Yeah, the others.
Yeah.
Do you think that they treat African people differently?
Very nice.
Especially these Spanish people, they are very nice.
I don't want to lie.
Because if you need help, you call them for help.
The other ones, they might run away, but the other ones, they just come for help.
They even give us tablets on the road, give us energy drinks, give my daughter sweets for energy.
They push us like, let's go, guys, let's go, let's go, you'll make it.
And we really make it.
The journey over the mountains to Panama has become more and more popular in recent years, as other routes have become more dangerous or closed themselves off to migrants entirely.
It's a route, the Emperor, tell me, that started with people leaving India and then Haiti.
It grew as conditions in Venezuela became more unsustainable and people found themselves too poor to stay home and too poor to travel north by any other means.
And so they chose a deadly jungle over a future in a country where their votes don't matter.
Last year, as many as half a million people crossed the jungle.
This year we might see more.
Migrants arriving in Baojiquito spend the day in the village before taking off in a Piragua of their own up to La Has Blancas, the migrant reception center I mentioned earlier.
They register with Panamanian Border Patrol, known by the acronym Senafront, and they call their families to say they survived.
Then they dry out their blistered feet, enjoy the cooking of several of the families who have turned their homes into sort of Ursat's restaurants.
They sleep on the floors of the houses or underneath them, charge their phones for a dollar a time.
Certainly, migration has changed this town, and I want to talk about that more in tomorrow's episode.
But despite more than a million people passing through this route, you don't find anti-migrant sentiment here.
Right now, despite the gap being a deadly deterrent, numbers are expected to reach a record again this year.
Maybe 700,000 people will walk the gap, but despite these numbers, which may seem high for a small country, I didn't really find much anti-migrant sentiment in Panama as a whole.
There's plenty of it in the US, though.
And as the United States winds down its war on terror, it needs a new nebulous enemy to justify its military spending and to keep the security and surveillance companies donating to politicians in their millions.
In part, it has found that by simply opening a floodgate of weapons and funding, it can spew forth genocide and death in Palestine and keep some of its income streams.
But it needs a more long-term solution.
There are only so many Palestinian babies it can bomb and will run out of Palestinians long before we run out of bombs.
The USA's new enemy, one it must seek out all over the world, is some migrant.
It's a woman I met carrying her child across the mountains.
The little Venezuelan girl throwing bottle caps into a cinder block with me to pass the time as she asked me questions about America.
It's a 21-year-old man whose remains my friends found at the border on a hot day this September.
The US will stop at nothing in finding and destroying the migrant.
And just as it did in the war on terror, it will find fast friends in states desperate to avail themselves of the seemingly unlimited flow of resources the US dedicates to keeping its conflicts out of the sights and the minds of its citizens.
Dreams Worth the Journey00:02:02
The USA's open hostility to migrants isn't something that's unknown here.
Everyone I met knew about it.
Several of them had watched with horror as Kamala Harris and Donald Trump argued not about how to treat migrants, but about who could turn more of them away in a recent presidential debate.
Every migrant I met had questions about CBP1, about US asylum policy, and about how they could get to the US before a second Trump administration.
Despite this, they all clung to their versions of the American dream.
They wanted to work and be paid a fair wage, to send their kids to school and maybe to college, to feel safe in their homes, and to be able to speak and dress if they wished without fearing consequences.
All of those things are in peril in this country too, and they know that.
But they still feel their dreams are worth the journey.
For Noemi, a little girl who took the daddy in in her stride, the American dream was pretty simple.
She wanted two things: to see Minnie Mouse and to see her aunt.
There's two golden rules that any man should live by.
Rule one, never mess with a country girl.
If you play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.
And rule two, never mess with her friends either.
We always say, trust your girlfriends.
I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of The Girlfriends, oh my god, this is the same man.
A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.
I felt like I got hit by a truck.
Trust Your Girlfriends00:03:50
I thought, how could this happen to me?
The cops didn't seem to care.
So they take matters into their own hands.
They said, oh, hell no.
I vowed I will be his last target.
He's going to get what he deserves.
Listen to the girlfriends.
Trust me, babe.
On the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Hey, I'm Nora Jones, and I love playing music with people so much that my podcast called Playing Along is back.
I sit down with musicians from all musical styles to play songs together in an intimate setting.
Every episode's a little different, but it all involves music and conversation with some of my favorite musicians.
Over the past two seasons, I've had special guests like Dave Grohl, Leve, Mavis Staples, Remy Wolf, Jeff Tweedy, really too many to name.
And this season, I've sat down with Alessia Cara, Sarah McLaughlin, John Legend, and more.
Check out my new episode with Josh Grobin.
You related to the Phantom at that point.
Yeah, I was definitely the Phantom in that.
That's so funny.
Share each day with me each night, each morning.
Say you love me.
You know I.
So come hang out with us in the studio and listen to Playing Along on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
In 2023, former bachelor star Clayton Eckard found himself at the center of a paternity scandal.
The family court hearings that followed revealed glaring inconsistencies in her story.
This began a years-long court battle to prove the truth.
You doctored this particular test twice and sells, correct?
I doctored the test once.
It took an army of internet detectives to crack the case.
I wanted people to be able to see what their tax dollars were being used for.
Sunlight's the greatest disinfected.
They would uncover a disturbing pattern.
Two more men who'd been through the same thing.
Greg Gillespie and Michael Marancini.
My mind was blown.
I'm Stephanie Young.
This is Love Trap.
Laura, Scottsdale Police.
As the season continues, Laura Owens finally faces consequences.
Ladies and gentlemen, breaking news at Americopa County as Laura Owens has been indicted on fraud charges.
This isn't over until justice is served in Arizona.
Listen to the Love Trapped podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
10-10 shots fired in the City Hall building.
A silver .40 caliber handgun was recovered at the scene.
From iHeart Podcasts and Best Case Studios, this is Rorschach, murder at City Hall.
How could this have happened in City Hall?
Somebody tell me that!
Jeffrey Hood did.
July 2003, Councilman James E. Davis arrives at New York City Hall with a guest.
Both men are carrying concealed weapons.
And in less than 30 minutes, both of them will be dead.
Everybody in the chamber's docks.
A shocking public murder.
I scream, get down, get down.
Those are shots.
Those are shots.
Get down.
A charismatic politician.
You know, you just bent the rules all the time, man.
I still have a weapon.
And I could shoot you.
And an outsider with a secret.
He alleged he was a victim of flat down.
That may or may not have been political.
That may have been about sex.
Listen to Rorschach, murder at City Hall on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Migration's Community Impact00:16:05
I'm Laurie Siegel, and on Mostly Human, I go beyond the headlines with the people building our future.
This week, an interview with one of the most influential figures in Silicon Valley, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman.
I think society is going to decide that creators of AI products bear a tremendous amount of responsibility to products we put out in the world.
From power to parenthood.
Kids, teenagers, I think they will need a lot of guardrails around AI.
This is such a powerful and such a new thing.
From addiction to acceleration.
The world we live in is a competitive world, and I don't think that's going to stop, even if you did a lot of redistribution.
You know, we have a deep desire to excel and be competitive and gain status and be useful to others.
And it's a multiplayer game.
What does the man who has extraordinary influence over our lives have to say about the weight of that responsibility?
Find out on Mostly Human.
My highest order bit is to not destroy the world with AI.
Listen to Mostly Human on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.
Every day for the past two years, the population of Bajo Chiquito has more than tripled.
At six in the morning, Piraguas come from other Embra villages along the river, dozens of them, all filled with orange life jackets.
Migrants form a line so long that it stretches from the beach north of town, all the way through the village and out the other side.
And in groups of 15, they hand over their $25 each and get onto the Piraguas.
Each one puts on their bright orange life jacket, sits with their legs around the person in front, and they take off for the first official migrant reception center in Las Blancas.
As the last boat leaves, those who can't afford the trip begin a walk which could take eight hours.
I couldn't walk with them, but I handed the group my water filter and one of those overpriced energy bars that are basically trail mix in a rectangular format and wished them the best of luck.
As they forced their tired legs and sore feet to walk again, the population of Bajo Chiquito dropped back to 500 or so indigenous people who live here.
And the usual background noise of chatter in dozens of languages gave way to crowing chickens and barking dogs.
By the next morning, as migrants came walking in from the south, it would grow again to 1500.
For the last 10 years or so, fewer than 2,000 people crossed in a year.
But numbers have been steadily increasing.
And now, the residents of Baho Chiquito see the numbers that they saw in a year in a single weekend.
While you listen to this series, thousands of people will take their lives into their hands as they leap into mud-coloured rivers, ascend towering mountains in the pouring rain, and desperately fight the urge to drink from a river polluted with human waste decaying corpses.
All of those who survive will walk out of that jungle, up the riverbank, along a muddy path, and into Bahojiquito, where they'll buy themselves a cold drink and enjoy the hospitality of the locals for a night, before leaving to head north.
At first, the locals told me didn't charge people at all.
They were shocked to see the migrants and wanted to help them.
But as numbers grew, they had to start asking for money as they couldn't afford to feed and house all the migrants arriving.
Over time, they said, the costs rose, and now a bed costs about $5 for a night, and a meal's about the same.
As they pointed out, that's less than half what I paid in Metati, the nearest town.
And Metate doesn't have to haul its supplies up a river in a canoe using $7 per gallon fuel.
In Bahojiquito, I sat down with an older man whose front room I just had lunch in.
I wanted to get a sense of the change he'd seen over his lifetime in his community and how he felt about it.
We saw how they arrived.
Injured, sick with vomiting, diarrhea.
Then there was no healthcare here.
What did we do?
We had to speak for the government.
It wasn't easy.
It was not easy.
We told them that we needed a doctor, and finally now, thank God, we have doctors here.
The community, which has long been socially and economically marginalised and acutely underprovided with government services, had built a house themselves for the doctors and another house for migration officials.
It was the only way to help migrants access services, which in turn allowed them to move on with their journeys quicker, he said.
However, like almost every other Embera person I spoke with, he felt that the government should be doing more here.
Even after all these years, serving as the first Panamanian village many thousands of people enter every year, they still don't have electricity or a road that's accessible year-round, both of which would make their lives and the transit of the migrants much safer.
But that doesn't mean the state's totally absent here.
It used to be possible for migrants to take a piragua from Come Galena, a little further south upriver, and avoid some of the most dangerous river crossings.
Bonillo told me that authorities in the Comarca, which is like a state in the USA, have prohibited this.
I wanted to see more of what was going on further south and what made it so dangerous, but I wasn't permitted to join a center front patrol going out that way despite my request.
I asked Bonillo what made things more dangerous in that part of the river.
First, he explained that the wide and low-lying beaches often seemed like good points for migrants to sleep, but that any rain in the mountains above would result in a rapid increase of the water level, turning those beaches into rapids in minutes.
He told me, looking down at the table, that not so long ago a storm had washed away sleeping migrants, drowning them in their sleep and washing their remains towards his village.
But, terrible as it is, that isn't the only risk.
You know very well that there's not a single country that does not have criminals.
In every country there are criminals, yeah?
So what happens at that point in the river?
As I was saying, at that point, and clearly it is not everyone, but there are some certain young men who engage in robbery and even rape.
So that's why in this community, in this village, in coordination with the community And the leaders, we, well, the leader spoke to the national government to ask for a chance to transport people from Comegaina so that nothing would happen to them.
The government talked and talked, and for a while it was possible, and it was safe, and nobody died, nobody robbed.
It was all going well.
But what happened?
We have a leader, a cacique.
I don't know if you've heard about it, but the regional leader put a barrier.
He stopped it.
Look, to be honest, these people with their degrees, this class of person, they're not humanitarians.
Despite the struggles and the relative absence of the government, overall he felt that the migration had been a positive for his community.
He'd learned a lot from the migrants, he said, and enjoyed learning about their cuisines in particular.
There's a common narrative in media that mentions Bajojiquito that this village has been somehow stripped of its culture or ruined by migration, but the locals don't seem to agree with this.
I also spoke to a village's leader.
She's the first woman in the whole Comarca to hold such a position.
I'm chief of the community police and leader of the community.
She explained to me that Bajiquito was just one of several communities along the river, each with its own leader.
Those leaders meet in a council and answer to a cacique of the Comarca.
She also explained that, as the first woman in the position, she'd made sure to advance the cause of women in her community.
Since I've had my administration, which has been seven months as NOCO or leader, I have put some women to work.
They're waiting for the migrants there.
After that, I asked her to explain to listeners what exactly a migrant encounters when they first set foot in her village and the various steps that they might go through before leaving the next morning.
There is a check-in at first, verification of whether they have a crime in their country.
From there, they go to immigration.
Their documents are checked, and then they are free to choose where they're going to wait and rest for the next part of their journey.
On behalf of UNICEF, we have free toilets.
From the community, we also have a free place where they can camp or rest.
That's theirs now.
If they want better things, better rest, they can find accommodation available in almost every house here.
The next day, we prepare everything together with the Center Front Security.
We go to the beach there, and at the beach, we also coordinate with a coordinator from each village.
I also want to make it clear as well that the boat driver must have their ID and be of legal age.
From there, the migrants pay $25 a head and take the five-hour boat trip north to La Has Blancas, which is the UN and government-run camp and the first official migrant welcome center outside the Darien.
Having boat drivers who are of age is important.
Migrants who can't swim trust their lives to these boat drivers in high water.
Once they're at La Has Blancas, they're close to the Pan American highway and the beginning of the rest of their journey north.
They don't have to walk any further, unless they run out of money for buses.
I asked what happened when someone couldn't afford the ride to La Has Blancas.
What does the community do?
The community takes responsibility for sending them, not the state.
The state, migration, center front.
They don't pay for the fuel or the transport of these people.
Specifically, she told me, the community sends three free boats a day.
Mostly these are filled with women and children.
And in my time there, it seemed that these people paid whatever they could.
Those left over, usually men, would have to make the walk on their blistered feet and tired legs and risk further sickness, robbery, and heat exhaustion.
I also wanted to ask the leader about the problems with theft and sexual assault that the migrants encountered on their walk into Bajo Chiquito.
And she was pretty forthright this was an issue for the state, not for her community to fix.
But then, where is Centerfront?
Aren't Centerfront supposed to be on all the banks of the river?
Yes, so where are those thefts?
Despite being able to prevent the Embera from using their boats on their river to transport migrants, the government at any level above the village isn't really present in Bajo Chiquito.
Centerfront, Panama's combined border patrol and military receive migrants and register them there.
But all the services provided to the migrants come either from the Embarrass or from non-governmental organizations.
This pattern of the state failing to provide basic services, Bonil told me, is one that goes back a long time before the migrants began arriving here.
So now, before the migrants began arriving here, we had a town.
A town that the government is supposed to give what it has to give us as Panamanians, but it doesn't.
It was a town without anything.
All we did was sell our products and sell stuff here for us.
We grow rice, corn, plantains, everything.
Well, it was a lot, but products that we grow are not enough to get by.
Even today, in late 2024, the village doesn't have mains electricity, nor does it have a connection to telephone networks, or a road that it can take year-round to connect it to the rest of the country.
And the few clean water taps in the town come from UNICEF, not Panama City.
Doctors here come from European NGOs, and even the policing of the community is largely done by the community via a group called the Zara.
In an effort to better understand Ember communities, both with and without migrants, I wanted to visit another Embera village.
And after the break, we'll hear about that.
Alright, so I'm just in my hammock now, kind of the end of the day.
We were staying in another Ember village today, just probably, I mean, I bet it's a kilometer or two or kilometers away.
You know, probably a decent walk, but it was pretty fast in the Interagua.
It's a little more peaceful here, and our boat driver asked us to stay at his house, so we said we would.
You can probably hear like...
I don't know how much of this is getting picked up.
It's a nice little village.
You know, the...
Oh, fucking way till the dogs have stopped, I guess.
When I wasn't in Bajo Chiquito, I took a boat every evening to Mariganti.
Maragante is only a couple of kilometers away on a different branch of the river, but the walk might take hours through the thick jungle.
Aperaguero had invited us to stay with his family and to see another Embara village.
I'm always down to sleep outside, so I gladly accepted his invitation and slung my hammock across his front porch after a long discussion on whether the dynamic cordage I was using would actually hold my weight and on my part a probably ill-advised free solo onto the roof of his house to find a good anchor point for my hammock.
In my time in Maraganti, I found myself growing fonder and fonder of this little community.
Everyone's doors were open and the village's children enjoyed unsupervised playtime everywhere.
There was never not a pick-up game going on at the concrete football and basketball court, and despite the fact that they were on average several feet shorter than me and playing on concrete without shoes, local kids humiliated me at a wide variety of sports.
With no electricity other than generators, one Wi-Fi connection in the whole village as far as I can tell, and a few hours to myself in the evening, I happily settled into a routine of washing in a river along with everyone else in the hour before sunset, walking around town, chatting with the inhabitants, who seemed surprised but happy to see a gangly British man ambling around their neighbourhood and petting their dogs.
Once it got dark, I'd spend my evening sitting in my hammock as the grandchildren of our host asked me how to say various things in English, and played with the little toys I always bring along in case I run into children on my work trips.
Being in Maraganti made me think a lot about my own life and the US in general.
I certainly have a lot more possessions here, but my neighbours don't let their kids run around in the streets, and cars would hit them if they did.
People in my community, if the next door app is anything to go by, spend seemingly countless hours bitching about the unhoused and other people's children.
But here everyone had a roof over their heads, and other people's children ran in and out of my host's kitchen without anyone batting an eyelid.
Aside from laughing at my paleness when I was washing in the river, nobody here seemed that concerned that I was different.
They let me hold their babies while they cooked.
They didn't overcharge me for the bottles of water or snacks that I bought from their front-room convenience stores, or seemed that bothered about sharing their meals and their homes with me.
At night, we sat on tiny plastic chairs and talked about our shared interest in woodwork and what they wanted for their children.
We talked about their boats and the river and about how terrible things must be for migrants to risk their lives and abandon their homes making the journey across these mountains that the Embarrass and their Kuna neighbours call home.
Ever since I left their village, I've been thinking a lot about the part of the dawn of everything, in which Graeber and Wengro detail how many indigenous people were adopted into colonial society, but chose to return to their communities.
Settlers and Shared Meals00:15:24
However, settlers in Indigenous communities often chose to remain among the indigenous communities.
I don't wish to romanticise the very real struggles the Embera have with their economic marginalisation and lack of access to basic services compared to other Panamanians.
But I just want to reflect on the fact that there was something really special about the little river community where dogs and chickens and ducks woke me up in the morning.
Little children welcomed me back every evening.
They told me what they did at school or tossed a little ball back and forth and seemed entirely comfortable chatting to an adult from across the world.
The people of Bajo Chiquito have shown that same hospitality to migrants and indeed to me.
And so I wanted to ask the village leader how migration had changed her community.
Like everyone else I spoke to, she insisted that they had held on to important parts of their culture, which she illustrated by giving me a history lesson.
The town of Bajo Chiquito was founded in 1965.
At first, there were three families: the Vaparizo, the Rosales, the Chagos.
They came here for education reasons.
Before everyone lived on their own, the education came, and that is why we grew this town.
It was the education, she said, that had changed town, not the migrants.
They have night school now for adults and a school for all the children with seven teachers.
The children speak Embarrass and Spanish and have a chance to get more education in Metati or even in Panama City.
Yes, it's due to education, not because the migrants travel through here.
Let this be clear, that is not because the migrants came here.
Clearly, though, the perception of change in their community is a concern.
She told me that if a local woman marries what she called a Latino man, they can't live together in the village, and she wanted to make sure I knew that the children learn in Embara as well as Spanish.
They also still knew dances and ceremonies, Bunyola told me.
But some of the changes, she said, were positive, including one in gender relations.
It's an ongoing struggle, I'll say, to show that we women have the same capacity for thought and creativity as men.
We are fighting every day, and as you will see, it's not easy.
One thing that surprised me was that the Emberao would always remind me that they themselves had been migrants.
They migrated to Panama City sometimes, they said, and they have little choice if they want post-secondary education or higher-level medical attention.
Some of their kids even make the journey to the USA to study.
What kind of hypocrites would they be, they said, if they looked down on people making the same journey?
I'm going to tell you that before the immigrants arrived here within this community, we lived in the same way.
I mean, we came from the countryside, we worked in agriculture, and we still continue working in the agriculture stuff, fishing, hunting, so on.
We liked it a lot.
Now, after the immigrants started to come, we are still the same, and it doesn't affect us having them within our community because they are people.
They're humans.
The journey that the immigrants make is out of need.
It is a need.
So, really, we too, for example, if we were to deal with problems like them, since we are just like them, we also have the right to emigrate as well.
This is not the first influx of migration into Embera and Guna land.
In 1501, a wave of undocumented immigration from Spain, in the form of settler colonialists like Francisco Balboa, arrived in the Guna and Embera territories.
Ever since these Europeans first saw for themselves what the Ember already knew, that this area was part of a narrow strip of land between two great oceans, people from around the world have been coming to what is now Panama as part of their journeys from north to south or east to west.
The thin strip of land that joins the two American continents has been at the crossroads of the world for half a millennium.
Archaeological digs in a region show that there were once roads and that gold and jade came here from afar.
This rich civilization is one that Vasco Núñez de Balboa first encountered, and it was they who first told him that their land lay between two oceans.
It was somewhere just to the south of where I was staying that exactly 511 years ago to the day, Balboa became the first European to set eyes upon the Pacific.
Since Balboa, many other colonizers have come to Dalien to pit their notions of superiority against the might of the rainforest.
The Kingdom of Scotland sent a group of settlers here in the 17th century.
Mounted aside, this isn't a place with any similarity to Scotland, and it's easy enough to see why the plan failed, killed three out of four colonists, and essentially bankrupted an entire nation in two years, forcing it into a colonial relationship of its own with its neighbour to the south.
After the Scots left, having failed to create what they'd hoped would be a, quote, Scottish Amsterdam of the Indies, and the Spanish found a flatter and easier connection between the Pacific and Caribbean, the Darien region returned to its indigenous people, whose home it remains.
But over the course of several hundred years, many empires have come to the Darien to die.
The French tried to build a sea-level canal not so far from here, a canal without locks, but they ultimately failed.
The US tried in the 1850s and 1870s to forge a route to build a canal to get East Coast banks access to West Coast gold, before eventually finding an easier route further north.
A century later, the US and Panama openly discussed dropping nuclear bombs on the jungle to make it possible and to allow the construction of a road.
The US offered to shoulder two-thirds of the cost of building such a road and hoped to have the Pan American Highway completed in time for its 1976 bicentennial.
But the Gap's hostility and the growing environmental movement, as well as a desire to protect US livestock from the foot and mouth disease that's endemic in South America, won the day.
The gap remained a gap, largely without the influence of the state.
In the 1970s, a British Army expedition traversed the Dadien in two range rovers, assisted by horses, parachute drop resupplies, and a team of engineers.
They crossed the jungle in 96 days.
They had to make their own bugnets for their horses out of the parachutes that were used to drop corn cobs for the animals and rice for the humans.
Expedition leader and seasoned explorer, as well as possibly the most British man in history, Lieutenant Colonel John Blashford Snell, wrote, Without doubt, it was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, calling the Darien a god-forsaken place.
The Darien is one of the wettest places on the planet, a particularly cruel twist for the would-be colonisers from Scotland.
In the months before I came here, I spent hours trying to work out how to waterproof my podcast equipment, and most of what you're hearing is recorded on a voice recorder that I sealed up with Gasket Maker, shoved inside a condom, inside a dry bag, inside a pelican case.
This rain causes flash flooding, the kind which sweeps whole villages away.
The rivers in the gap aren't bridged largely because they simply wash away bridges after a storm.
On our journey to Bajo Chiquito, I saw the remains of bridges that had dared to try.
That's why my hosts built their houses on stilts, and it's on those stilts that I slung my hammock in Maraganti.
Ever since the failed Darien scheme, the Gap has been constructed in the Western imagination as the deepest and darkest jungle.
The Gap today is home to every type of malaria and numerous other diseases.
There are deadly vipers, deadly spiders, big cats, and as if the natural threats were not enough, the US dropped bombs here in the Cold War to test its destructive might against one of the few areas of the planet that hadn't been made amenable to capitalism.
Many of them remain unexploded in the mountains.
Certainly, the physical geography of the Darien poses a challenge, but I would argue that it's the imaginative geography of the gap which is a greater impediment to travellers.
In Spanish, they call it the Tapon, the stopper.
Local legend has it that a Spanish conquistador, one of the first to take his last breaths in the waters of Darien's rivers, carved a phrase into the rock which has endured long after he expired.
When you go to the Darien, entrust yourself to Mary, for in her hands is the entrance, and in God's the exit.
It doesn't sound that different to the things I heard from migrants, and in the modern day they'll tell you about the horrific TikToks they saw before they entered the gap, and the decaying remains of fellow travellers they saw as they passed through.
Media reports on the gap consistently refer to it as a no-man's land, but of course it's very much someone's land.
The land of the indigenous people who have been here long before countries, borders or reporters.
While it may have remained hostile to capitalism and the state, and it can be deadly for unexperienced travellers, it's supported life for thousands of years.
On our way to Bajo Chiquito, I was reminded of just how comfortable my hosts were in a place where I felt so out of place.
So as we were coming, we got caught in a huge rainstorm, just absolutely bucketing it down suddenly and pulled in to a little sort of flat area of Mudarili.
I hopped out, tied out the boat, and next thing I know our boat guy ran into jungle, chopped some huge palm leaves down and brought them back to me to cover me in my bag.
While the Embra might have preserved their comfort and culture, it's undeniable that migration has made a huge economic impact.
959 migrants left on one of the days I was able to get numbers from Senaflunt.
Each of them paid $25 for a piragua, about $10 for food and lodging and maybe Wi-Fi, and perhaps a few bucks more for clean clothes or a pair of off-brand crocs to let their feet heal from three days of being constantly wet.
At a conservative estimate, that's a little more than 33,000 per day, roughly the GDP per capita of Panama.
That's a lot of money down here, especially for a community which has been alienated and exploited for so long.
Using this money, people have been closed the bottom floors of their homes to provide more space to house migrants.
All around the village, they're building better homes.
Some of them have satellite internet now, or Starlink, or bigger and more reliable generators.
This money's been spread around the Embara communities in the area, and every morning, each of them sends paraguas to transport the migrants, as almost 60 are needed every day.
Rolling out of Maraganti at 5 in the morning, as almost the entire adult male population of the village joined us in a huge flotilla of two-stroke smoke and dug-out canoes, and the morning mist still sat in the river was an incredible experience, and this is doubtless an industry for the whole area now.
If Molino or Majorcas ever successfully stops migration here, it will be a massive economic detriment to the people already marginalised for centuries.
But despite the economic benefits, the people of Maraganti don't seem to want to become like Bahuchikito.
On our last day there, as we set off back towards the dirt road to the borders here, we saw that they were building little cabins outside of town.
These, they said, were for the migrants.
They wanted the migrants to be safe, and their community to stay the same.
They might not be able to sell meals to the migrants this way or charge them for Wi-Fi or phone charging, but they will be able to live a little more peacefully.
The Embara have gone out of their way to ensure migrants' safety.
They're the ones who mandate life jackets, and the ones who build a house for doctors.
And they're the ones who send free boats for women and children.
Of course, they have an economic incentive to do this.
But in nearly a week living with them, I didn't hear them badmouth the migrants, and nor did I hear the migrants complain about the way they were treated in the village of Bajo Chiquito.
But before they get to the village of Bajochikito, migrants aren't safe.
And if you ask them, they'll tell you it's indigenous people who are robbing and threatening them deeper into the jungle.
Undoubtedly, robbery, sexual assault, and murder are not uncommon in the Darien Gap.
You can hear anecdotes of these on a daily basis in Bajo Chiquito.
And some of the stories I heard and things I saw are among the most horrific experiences I've had in years of reporting on pretty terrible things.
I haven't included a great many of them here because I think it's hard for people to meaningfully consent in those kinds of circumstances.
But yesterday you heard about the human remains that almost everyone featured in this series had to walk past.
This is a problem that's getting worse, not better.
In just one week in February, Médon Saint-Frontière, the NGO that Americans call Doctors Without Borders, treated 113 people, including nine children, after they were sexually assaulted by criminal groups in the Darien.
This number is close to the 120 people treated during the whole of January.
These figures are double the monthly average treated in 2023 when 676 people were treated for the whole year.
As you heard before, this is a problem that people in the community sometimes acknowledge.
And as the village leader mentioned, it's one that could be solved if the state would live up to its obligation to protect migrants within its borders.
The leader also shared with me that the community has its own punishment mechanisms.
The place of punishment is the stocks.
Three days ago, someone behaved very badly and we had to put them in the stocks.
The man who mistreats women, we also put in the stocks.
The woman who gossips, we also put her in the stocks.
What she's talking about here are stocks in the old-fashioned sense, not in the Wall Street bet sense.
We actually saw someone chatting them one day with their ankles locked in place.
We didn't ask what they did or how long they were there, as it seems difficult again to consent to an interview when you're literally pinned in place.
But this kind of punishment comes from the community, not the state.
Aside from these punishments, the community hasn't done much to stop the things happening in the jungle, and I'm not sure if it's really able to.
They're Panamanian, they say, and the state's responsible for the safety of migrants within its borders.
And while it does send Senafront patrols into jungle, the state doesn't appear to be doing much to protect migrants from sexual assault, robbery, or murder.
Earlier this year, the state did take decisive action to eject Médon Saint-Frontière after not reviewing their permission to work in the Darien.
This is quite a challenging permission to obtain.
Even as a solo journalist, it took months for me to get mine, forcing me to rebook my flight several times.
I heard various explanations for why MSF were not allowed to keep working.
I couldn't get an official response, but it's probably worth noting that they published a report headlined, Lack of Action She's Sharp Rise in Sexual Violence on People Transiting the Darien Gap on the 29th of February, and they refused permission to remain in the region in the first week of March.
MSF was allowed to return in October of this year and wouldn't comment further than the following statement, which they emailed me in mid-October.
In October of 2024, MSF resumed medical and humanitarian activities at La Has Blancas Migration Reception Center, located at the edge of the Darien jungle, after Panamanian authorities approved a three-month medical intervention.
MSF welcomes its decision and advocates to collaborate closely with Panama's Ministry of Health to provide comprehensive medical care to migrants crossing this route, as well as to the local population of the area.
Right now, UNICEF Medicines Du Monde, Corporación Española and the Red Cross are helping migrants in Bajo Chiquito.
UNICEF installed showers and toilets.
Global Brigades and UNIFEF provided taps and drinking water.
And the medical NGOs provide healthcare, which is fighting, saving lives and providing survivors of sexual assault with medical care in a 72-hour window where it can be most beneficial.
It's worth noting that most migrants who are sexually assaulted won't stay to press charges.
I know of one case of sexual assault of a child while I was there, but the family wanted to continue their journey and so the charges won't be pressed.
This makes it very hard to ascertain how many cases of sexual assault there are in a Darien every year, aside from few medical reports from NGOs, and those only include the people who make it to Bajo Chiquito or La Has Blancas.
Uncovered Disturbing Patterns00:06:03
The numbers are clearly high, and it's a fear that many migrants articulated to me.
In the jungle, they're at their most vulnerable, they said.
Most people robbed, they tell me, are held by armed attackers, carrying guns and machetes.
But once a migrant set foot in Bajojiquito, they're momentarily safe from Rory and assault.
For the first time in days, they can sleep without worry of being attacked or washed away.
And the rest of their journeys north, they'll face that threat again.
But that's not what's on their mind when they enter town.
All they want is a cold drink and a warm meal, and a chance to rest their aching feet.
It's a chance that they have thanks to the Embara people, who received them there.
And I want to end with Bunillo and his reflection on the suffering people endure on their way to eat rice and plantain in his little front room cafe.
Truly, the migrants on this route are not here because they want to be.
They are here because the economy and their countries is terrible or something.
Everything is going badly on their countries.
How could we mistreat them knowing that?
We won't.
Not us.
Never.
This is a belief that we have.
We are all children of God.
God made the world and humanity, and we are not that different.
We are all brothers.
There's two golden rules that any man should live by.
Rule one, never mess with a country girl.
You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.
And rule two, never mess with her friends either.
We always say, trust your girlfriends.
I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of The Girlfriends, oh my god, this is the same man.
A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.
I felt like I got hit by a truck.
I thought, how could this happen to me?
The cops didn't seem to care.
So they take matters into their own hands.
I said, oh, hell no.
I vowed I will be his last target.
He's gonna get what he deserves.
Listen to the girlfriends.
Trust me, babe.
On the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Hey, I'm Nora Jones, and I love playing music with people so much that my podcast called Playing Along is back.
I sit down with musicians from all musical styles to play songs together in an intimate setting.
Every episode's a little different, but it all involves music and conversation with some of my favorite musicians.
Over the past two seasons, I've had special guests like Dave Grohl, Leve, Mavis Staples, Remy Wolf, Jeff Tweedy, really too many to name.
And this season, I've sat down with Alessia Cara, Sarah McLaughlin, John Legend, and more.
Check out my new episode with Josh Grobin.
He related to the Phantom at that point.
Yeah, I was definitely the Phantom in that.
That's so funny.
Sherry, stay with me each night, each morning.
Say you love me.
You know I.
So come hang out with us in the studio and listen to Playing Along on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
In 2023, former bachelor star Clayton Eckard found himself at the center of a paternity scandal.
The family court hearings that followed revealed glaring inconsistencies in her story.
This began a years-long court battle to prove the truth.
You doctored this particular test twice, Miss Owens, correct?
I doctored the test once.
It took an army of internet detectives to crack the case.
I wanted people to be able to see what their tax dollars were being used for.
Sunlight's the greatest disinfectant.
They would uncover a disturbing pattern.
Two more men who'd been through the same thing.
Greg Oespi and Michael Marancini.
My mind was blown.
I'm Stephanie Young.
This is Love Trap.
Laura, Scottsdale Police.
As the season continues, Laura Owens finally faces consequences.
Ladies and gentlemen, breaking news at Americopa County as Laura Owens has been indicted on fraud charges.
This isn't over until justice is served in Arizona.
Listen to Love Trapped podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
10-10 shots five, City Hall building.
A silver .40 caliber handgun was recovered at the scene.
From iHeart Podcasts and Best Case Studios, this is Rorschach, murder at City Hall.
How could this have happened in City Hall?
Somebody tell me that.
Jeffrey Hood did.
July 2003, Councilman James E. Davis arrives at New York City Hall with a guest.
Both men are carrying concealed weapons.
And in less than 30 minutes, both of them will be dead.
Everybody in the chamber's ducks.
A shocking public murder.
I screamed, get down, get down.
Those are shots.
Those are shots, get down.
A charismatic politician.
You know, he just bent the rules all the time.
I still have a weapon.
And I could shoot you.
And an outsider with a secret.
He alleged you.
That may or may not have been political.
That may have been about sex.
Listen to Rorschach, murder at City Hall on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Seeking a Better Future00:15:41
I'm Laurie Siegel, and on Mostly Human, I go beyond the headlines with the people building our future.
This week, an interview with one of the most influential figures in Silicon Valley, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman.
I think society is going to decide that creators of AI products bear a tremendous amount of responsibility to products we put out in the world.
From power to parenthood.
Kids, teenagers, I think they will need a lot of guardrails around AI.
This is such a powerful and such a new thing.
From addiction to acceleration.
The world we live in is a competitive world, and I don't think that's going to stop, even if you did a lot of redistribution.
You know, we have a deep desire to excel and be competitive and gain status and be useful to others.
And it's a multiplayer game.
What does the man who has extraordinary influence over our lives have to say about the weight of that responsibility?
Find out on Mostly Human.
My highest order bit is to not destroy the world of AI.
Listen to Mostly Human on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.
Yeah, the journey is dangerous, but what can we do?
We can't stay in a country where the economy is getting worse and worse.
With a salary of $3 a month, you can't survive.
Like my friend said, if you have a job in other countries, maybe you can invest some money, but where are you going to get the money to invest if before you had a salary that fed you, paid for your car, your house, and your children to enjoy it all with, and now you can't even afford to put gas in the car?
So it's true, yeah, the Darien is dangerous, but nothing is impossible.
We walk hand in hand with God and with the faith that we will get there.
But that doesn't mean it isn't difficult.
But I'll say it again, it's not impossible.
You suffer, you cry, you go hungry, cold, but thank God we made it through.
All around the Tuquesa River, the jungle rumbles quietly as you pass by on your boat.
Insects, frogs, and birds all combine to make a sort of deep throbbing that emanates from the darkness between the trees.
It seems at once to be calling you in and warning you to stay away.
I've been in the jungle before, in the Rwando-Congo borderlands and in Venezuela.
But I've never really felt the sense of foreboding I did as we rode down the river protected only by a hollow log, looking into the triple canopy forest and knowing that if I walked long enough in the shadows, I'd be confronted with the remains of people I might have interviewed if it hadn't been for a rolled ankle, a slippery rock, or a desperate sip of water.
To understand what drives people to enter the jungle, with their children and their dreams, I think we also have to understand what drives them to leave wherever they're living.
And that's what I want to talk about today.
The story of migrants crossing the Darien Gap is an American one.
It's impossible to disentangle the people making this dangerous journey from the history of support for dictatorship, sanctions, and imperial plunder that ties the United States to its American brothers and sisters in the South.
Sometimes, I play a game with myself at the border where I try and meet people from all the countries named in Washington bullets in a single day.
Since Biden bungled the Afghanistan withdrawal, it's become a lot easier.
But Tibet can be hard.
For 200 years since President Monroe gave his State of the Union address in December 1823, the US has seen the Western Hemisphere as its sphere of influence.
While it opposed old-fashioned colonialism, it has used less overt methods of control, as well as overt military force across the hemisphere.
For much of the last century, it supported and installed dictators who would prevent what it saw as a threat of state socialism in its sphere of influence and allowed them to create economic and political climates that were unsurvivable for the majority and extremely profitable for US-based corporations.
The direct result of this policy has been economic insecurity, political instability, and state violence across South and Central America, resulting in people making the very natural human decision to flee to somewhere safer.
As in so many other empires, they've made the choice to leave the destabilized colonial periphery and seek safety and stability in the Metropole.
For more than a century, money and goods have been able to travel seamlessly up and down the continent.
But people have not.
The banana I ate for breakfast this morning made the journey in a few days.
But people take months, if not years, pay thousands of dollars, climb mountains, ford rivers and risk their lives on trains and buses that cost a lot more than the flights I took to Panama, but offer considerably less comfort and safety.
As climate change has ever greater impacts, more and more people are forced to leave their homes as their livelihoods become less sustainable.
The Guna, the indigenous people of the Panamanian coast in an area called Gunayala, are having to withdraw from some of their islands because of sea level rise right now.
Agriculture across the world is increasingly threatened by extreme weather and rising temperatures, and our oceans are less able to sustain life than they once were due to pollution and overfishing.
Forced to leave their homes, as people have been for millennia by weather patterns changing, people head to places that have once caused much of the issue and try to insulate themselves from its consequences.
Their American dreams are modest.
To overcome the crippling low pay they received at home, to bring their children up in a place where they have a good chance of surviving their 20s, to work and get paid enough to get by.
They want to be able to protest and not get shot, and to look forward to the future, not fear it.
These aren't guaranteed in the USA.
And as many of you listening will know, it can be hard for us to make ends meet here as well.
But despite what you see on social and legacy media, things are unlikely to become as bad here as they are in Venezuela, Cameroon or Iran anytime soon.
I've lived in Venezuela, specifically in the formerly Javista neighborhood of La Pastora in Caracas, and I've seen how hard it is for my friends who still live there.
Even for people with no other disadvantages, making rent and feeding your family can be a challenge.
And that's part of why Venezuelan people make up the majority of the folks I met in the Dadien.
So much so that I slipped back into using Venezuelan slang in Spanish, and after a few days of seeing the same people, engaging in the kind of friendly mockery and banter that I remember well from Caracas.
Mostly, the super form of asking them why they crossed a Darien Gap in Man-United shirts, or worse yet, in a Chelsea shirt.
It's important to steal moments of humor in these difficult times, to laugh a little among all the suffering.
And that's something people in Venezuela have done very well for a very long time.
But despite their humour, I could tell the journey had a serious impact on the people I spoke to.
You have to go through a lot, a lot of jungle, a lot of hills.
There are people, there are dead people on the road.
So it's something you cannot really explain.
It's complicated because everything can be explained in a fashion, but it's not the same as living it.
It's insanity.
Three, four days without food and nothing.
One thing is to live it.
Explaining it, talking about it.
That's different.
It's hard to put into words.
This interview is one I conducted with one group of Venezuelan migrants, with my voice recorder in the chest pocket of my shirt and whatever bags they'd let me carry in my hands.
We walked along the last part of the trail, discussing what they'd seen.
For a while, we joked a little.
One guy had crossed in a Man-United shirt.
I talked to him about the team and the universal dislike non-Manu fans have for Manu fans.
Then after a while they opened up more about their experiences.
They had, they said, seen dead bodies, and they couldn't stop thinking about what happened if they'd fallen.
And they wanted to know how or when or if the dead people's family would ever find out.
The family waits for that person to come out, to hear that they made it.
Because if not, who's going to let you know?
There's no signal.
And nobody's going to grab the body and you're not going to carry them out.
The person stays there and eventually years and years go by and the family won't know where they are or how they died.
Those are the sort of things that one doesn't expect to see.
And it makes you just want to hurry past.
Not that you wouldn't want to get the documentation from the body and deliver it and tell them how this person had passed away, but how dare you just go grabbing a dead body?
Venezuelan elections were held on the 28th of July this year.
Venezuelan presidents have a six-year term, and the incumbent, Nicolas Maduro, has been in office since 2013.
I let the Venezuelan people I met introduce themselves and explain the result of the election.
Now, there's a bit of background noise here, but that's because we're walking on the trails and it's hard to avoid.
I am coming from Venezuela, migrating through the jungle for a better future for me and my children.
I'll tell you it's hard, but it's not impossible.
No, that was electoral fraud.
And I tell you what, one day you just have to leave.
Maduro was opposed by Eduardo Gonzalez, an opposite candidate who represented a wide coalition, including groups on the left and right.
While Maduro might have support among Western socialists and even communists, the actual Venezuelan Communist Party's youth organization formed part of the Popular Democratic Front that opposed him.
Despite poll watchers tallying a massive victory for the opposition, Maduro controls the National Election Council and proclaimed himself the victor.
People protested, and Maduro responded with bullets.
Gonzalez fled to the Dutch and then the Spanish embassy and later claimed asylum in Spain where his family live.
But for regular working-class Venezuelans, there's no option to hop on a flight to safety.
Instead, they have to begin the long walk north.
As many Venezuelans I spoke to told me, in addition to the electoral fraud, Venezuela is undergoing an economic collapse.
At least under Chavez, they said, most people could eat.
When I lived in La Pastora, I was able to access medical care from Cuban doctors.
Now, they say, things have become unsurvivable.
My name is Cristian Galindo, I'm from Venezuela.
As the colleague said, I'm looking for a better future.
Everything is very strong, there are a lot of dangers, but it can be, it can be, it can be.
For the strength.
Well, I would say that Venezuela, you know, yeah, you can live, but not on a minimum wage.
I would say that, for example, working independently in an independent business, maybe you can live.
Good.
But working and surviving for a minimum wage, the truth is that it doesn't work.
And that's serious.
Things are still bad with the new elections and the new government.
Everything is ugly, yeah?
The streets of Caracas are full of protests every day.
People went out to protests.
Sometimes they shoot people.
The government mistreats people, but if you can live with it, you can live with it.
It's ugly.
Well, that is why we left there for a better future.
We will keep moving onward.
Onward.
This group were young men, traveling in advance with their families, hoping to earn some money, save it up, and send it home.
They knew what they were getting into when they got to the USA, that migrants were often underpaid and might struggle to make ends meet.
But they still thought it was better than staying home and watching your children's future disappear.
If you don't have papers, you don't have a work permit.
You have to work for what they want to pay you, not for what you demand or anything.
I met lots of Venezuelan families with children who had different illnesses or disabilities.
Things they couldn't obtain or afford treatment for in Venezuela.
They were traveling to the US in the hopes of finding a better future for their kids, or any future at all.
I met young men who left their children behind, but carried the children of strangers, even those with whom they didn't share a language.
Christian, who he heard from earlier, showed me how he'd carried someone else's child on his shoulders until he fell and hurt his knee.
We all help.
I put little children up here on my shoulders to carry them, but it isn't easy.
In the jungle, they'd formed chains using their arms to cross rivers and carried little children on those who couldn't swim.
In Bajiquito, I saw a group of men from Angola receiving hugs from Venezuelan women they'd helped in the jungle.
Without the help of the Angolans, they said, their children wouldn't have made it.
One slip or a loss of grip, they told me, would be fatal.
And the remains of those who had done just that served as a grisly reminder.
Later, little boys, maybe eight or ten years old, gleefully recounted seeing a dead body on which the head had, quote, exploded, while their parents winced in recollection.
I wanted to understand a bit more of what they were fleeing that made it worth going through all this.
Well, I left Venezuela because I worked in fishing, but right now in Venezuela, despite the fact that it is a country rich in oil, there's not enough gasoline for the fishermen to go fishing.
And since I did not have the ability to even buy basic things such as food, the situation was, well, it was a little complicated.
I had to immigrate.
I had nothing else to do.
They didn't rob me.
Well, they were going to rob me because I didn't have anything to steal.
We passed by and the group that was behind us got robbed.
They raped women in that group.
Almost every Venezuelan migrant I spoke to shared a similar story.
One said he'd installed security cameras, but nobody could afford them now, as they had to choose between rent and groceries or medical procedures that they needed but couldn't afford.
Overwhelmingly, they said the same thing.
No aifuturo.
There's no future.
One group said to me that they couldn't wait for their country to become like Cuba as decades of embargoes took their toll on the population.
But others reminded me and them that at least the Cubans seemed to have doctors.
Venezuela has an 80% poverty rate now.
And though it sits on one of the largest oil reserves of any country on earth, it's been plagued by plummeting oil prices and years of hyperinflation, which got so bad at one point the shops stopped putting price tags on things and relied on staff to give up to the minute prices.
Today, alongside a regime that lacks legitimacy, a state that readily uses horrific violence against its people, an election that was essentially ignored, Venezuelans must also deal with shortages of basic goods, poverty, and malnutrition.
Unlike Cubans, who have a relatively good political lobby in the USA, Venezuelans coming to the USA do not benefit from special laws.
Cubans under the Cuban Adjustment Act have a path to citizenship and permanence once they set foot on US soil.
Venezuelans do not.
They're covered by something called a temporary protected status, but this does not afford them much in the way of stability, protection, or a secure future.
Jesera Capinhairo of Alo Torlado, an incredible organization, does valuable work with migrant legal aid advocacy and humanitarian relief, explaining just how temporary a TPS is.
So temporary protected status is basically a form of protecting individuals who are already in the United States when their countries have experienced a natural disaster.
If they are in war, there's some kind of situation going on that makes it difficult for them to return.
And so temporary protected status was first created in 1990.
And the first individuals who received the status were from El Salvador.
And since then, I think there's been a few dozen countries that have been designated.
But basically the way it works is they designate a country.
And so if you were in the United States before that designation date, you can apply for temporary protected status within a designated time period.
Impossible Visa Paths00:05:52
And you get a work permit.
It's valid for 6, 12, or 18 months.
And then two months before it expires, the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security has to say whether or not they're going to reauthorize TPS.
So there's like 860,000 people in the US who have temporary protected status.
And it's not a path to citizenship.
So basically people are just in limbo, sometimes for decades.
You know, they just have to reapply for this work permit every 18 months.
So I have quite a few Salvadoran friends who've been in the United States since the 90s.
They have kids, some of them have grandkids who are U.S. citizens, and they can't become permanent residents or have a path to citizenship unless they leave the country.
and either come back with another type of parole or apply through a consulate, which many of them are just not willing to take that risk.
What makes things even more complicated for the Venezuelans is that many of them are traveling without documents.
It costs 300 bucks to get a passport, they told me, and the wait's considerable.
This makes their journeys even harder, as every country they enter has to approve them to enter without a passport.
Getting a visa, they said, would be nearly impossible, and just trying might result in the government coming after them.
Such things, they said, are reserved for the wealthier citizens.
People like Gonzalez, whose asylum claim and stays at the Dutch and Spanish embassies, and whose right to join his family in exile are all luxuries that most of his country people can't expect.
Instead, most Venezuelans must ride buses through Colombia, then walk north through the jungle, then ride buses, stir away on trains, or walk again all the way to the border.
They all lamented the Darien crossing and said they wouldn't advise it.
Without other options, they all made it anyway.
Because unfortunately, we don't have much in our country.
You don't have another option when you're dying of hunger and you don't have a future.
You can't even study.
So yeah, it's worth it.
The economic situation is dire in Venezuela.
Many families can't make ends meet.
Their currency is almost worthless, and the Madru government seems to have successfully installed itself for the foreseeable future.
This will mean a continuation of embargoes and sanctions, which will harm the people more than the regime.
Sadly, though, economic hardship is not a criteria for which one could be granted asylum in the USA.
Here's Erica again.
So severe economic deprivation can be persecution if it's linked to one of the other protected grounds.
So race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group.
So for example, if someone participated in anti-Maduro political activity and then were blocked from getting a job or just denied economic opportunities to the point where they're starving, the economic deprivation could count as persecution, but it's a very difficult case to make in the United States.
In Mexico, you can get protection based on generalized conditions in your country.
And so, you know, Venezuelans fleeing economic collapse or even Central Americans fleeing extreme violence have a much easier time gaining protection in Mexico than they would in the United States because of that kind of extra category of protection in Mexico.
The issue with Mexico is just the very limited capacity of the asylum system overall and the very dangerous conditions in which people are forced to wait while their cases are adjudicated.
Going forward from the Darien, they'll face an enormously difficult journey.
The U.S. does have a program for Cubans, Venezuelans, Haitians, and Nicaraguans that in theory allows them to apply, be pre-approved, and fly straight to the USA.
But it's so delayed and broken, it's just not an option for people who barely have enough money for food, let alone a plane ticket.
The CHMB program is for Cubans, Haitians, Nicaraguans, Venezuelans who have not crossed into Panama or Mexico in the past few years.
do not qualify if you've done that or have not been interdicted at sea if they're Haitian or Cuban.
You have to have a sponsor in the United States who has some kind of legal status.
You have to be able to pay for the flight.
You have to have a passport and you have to be able to wait for however long it takes for your application to be approved.
And the Department of Homeland Security just announced that they are not renewing parole for people who are already in the United States.
So people from those four countries who were in the U.S. had up to two years of humanitarian parole, which is not being renewed.
So they either would need to apply for something else or go back to their country or just, I guess, stay in the United States undocumented until they're caught.
I heard the same story hundreds of times that week, sometimes off mic and sometimes on mic, sometimes holding my voice recorder and notebook, sometimes just sitting on the ground or walking on the trail or enjoying a bottle of cold water in Bajo Chiquito.
Risks for Children's Futures00:15:07
Crippling poverty and bad governance in their country made it difficult to see a future there.
They wanted better for their children, so they brought them across the mountains and risked their lives in the jungle to give them a chance in life.
I prepared a lot for this trip and I tried to search for everything I might experience on the internet.
But one thing I really didn't expect to learn in the jungle is just how much it's possible for parents to love their kids.
I watched exhausted mothers hoist their babies onto their shoulders to keep walking and somehow come up with a story that made the whole thing an adventure, not a tragedy.
And then do the same thing again the next day without sleeping or eating.
I watched fathers carefully lay out their sleeping mats so their children could rest while they tried to do the same on the dirt or hardwood floors.
Every day, as their savings grew lower and their outlook more bleak, I watched parents try to smile for their kids.
The sacrifices I saw them make, starving for days to give their kids something to eat, or spending their last remaining dollar on clean clothes for their kids while they walked barefoot and couldn't afford shoes, really brought home for me the desire these families have for a better future and the sacrifices they're willing to make for one another.
Weeks later, it's still hard for me to accept that I'm home safely, and they're still in as much danger, if not more.
Our walk lasted five days.
Thank God I was always strong enough and able to get back up when I fell, because if I fell and my children had to see me fall and not get up, imagine how bad that would be.
My children want more in the future, but they despaired in the jungle.
They said, tell me, mommy, when are we going to get there, mommy?
What could I say to them?
My dear, we have to have patience because we have to make the crossing.
We have to move forward.
If not, we can't get out of here.
Even among such difficult times, the Venezuelans always greeted me with a laugh and a smile, especially after a few days of running into each other.
When I used Venezuelan slang or my accent slowly reverted to the Spanish I learned in Caracas nearly two decades ago, they'd laugh at me.
As I noted, at that time Caracas had attracted plenty of migrants to its own.
Some of them, like me, didn't stay, but we came because we wanted to see a revolution in the flesh, and they welcomed us.
For a while in Caracas, I lived in a social center in La Pastora.
I didn't pay rent, but there was a small empty room and no one seemed to mind.
Every day I talked to strangers, big friends, and try and learn something new.
The situation there wasn't ideal.
For one thing, we didn't really have showers.
And also, I got robbed at gunpoint.
So, for most of my time in the country, I stayed with the Chilean family I'd met.
They welcomed me, a more or less total stranger, into their homes and lives.
In the evenings, we'd spent hours talking, and they'd tell me stories about how they'd suffered under Pinochet, the hopes they'd had for their country, and how they'd had to flee to Caracas like tens of thousands of their fellow Chileans.
They introduced me to Victor Hara and Jori Pan.
I introduced them to Chambawamba, and we shared an affection for George Orwell.
The song you heard after the adverts was not in fact Chambo Wamba, but Chilean leftist folk musician Victor Hara.
He's playing El Derecho de Vivirenpaz, The Right to Live in Peace in English.
It's one of his most famous songs.
It confronts the US war in Vietnam.
Later, after Hara was tortured and murdered by the Pinochet regime, it became an anthem of protest in the country.
Hara and her friend Paba Naruda were both symbols of the cultural power of the Chilean people and the brutality of the Pinochet regime, who broke the hands he used to play his guitar before they killed him.
Hara and Naruda both moved in the same revolutionary artistic circles as my Chilean hosts in Venezuela.
At night, they'd tell me stories about the time they spent together.
We'd have to speak loudly, as the man who'd adopted me as a sort of surrogate grandson had permanent hearing damage from the torture he'd endured under the same regime.
Luckily, he'd been able to flee with his wife to Venezuela, where they were welcomed.
They never returned to Chile and happily lived out the rest of their lives listening to their Victor Hara records in Caracas and living the ideals that had seen them persecuted.
Their kindness to me, a 19-year-old stranger with terrible Spanish and nowhere to sleep at night, reflected the kindness they'd received, and I've tried to reflect it in turn ever since.
I never once heard any children crying in Las Blancas or Barchiquito.
Well, not until the deportations took their parents away on my last day there.
Most of the time, the kids entertained themselves.
One day in Las Blancas, where migrants couldn't wait and spend weeks or months they don't have the funds to move forward with their journey, I left my fixture while she made a call and bumped into some little children playing a game where they'd throw water bottle caps into half a breeze block from various distances, each of them counting how many they could land.
I sat down next to them, put my recorder on the ground, and asked nicely if I could join them.
Like a tiny pit boss, one of the kids bought me a pile of bottle tops, and I chatted with them as we threw our bottle caps at a broken piece of concrete.
What's it like in America? They asked.
They also had a lot of questions about Africa, having probably met African kids in the casita just across the way.
Do they have big buildings in Africa?
Does it rain there?
How long does it take to get there in a bus?
Then they tested my Venezuelan legitimacy by drawing me in a repo in my notebook and asking if I knew what it was.
Once I passed a test, they asked me how to say some things in English, and they showed me the toys they bought with them, which were very few.
One of them had a small plastic cow of which she was very proud.
After a while, they asked what I was doing, and I showed them how I record interviews.
At which point, they began recording themselves and each other, and wildly stabbing at the buttons on my recorder, which I will admit scared the crap out of me.
But I didn't have the heart to take it off them.
They stroked the fluffy wind protector I use on my microphone and told me it was like a tiny teddy bear.
Eventually, I was able to trade my recorder for several small wooden animals I'd bought with me as gifts, which seemed to be a deal that left all of us feeling as if we'd come out ahead.
They seemed unbothered by the suffering around them, but Las Blancas is no place for children.
They should be in school learning the English phrases they kept repeating to me every time I saw them.
But for a chance to use their English, they first had to endure months more danger and deprivation.
Some slightly older children made the journey alone, or almost alone.
They were accompanied by a Spaniel called Chanel.
I saw a few chihuahuas people are carried with them through the Darien Gap, but to my knowledge, this is the first Spaniel that has made the treacherous crossing.
Like everyone else, they had terrible memories from the jungle.
The truth is, you have to fight a lot to be able to get out of there, because not everyone gets out of that jungle.
And it's even more difficult with small children.
There are times when one goes without food and it's very stressful because all around us, all we saw was the jungle, and we never saw the way out.
But it is complicated.
The truth is that it is very hard.
The jungle.
Well, I would really recommend that people never go there.
All our feet are hurting.
We can't walk properly.
Our whole bodies hurt.
We went days without eating.
They were traveling, they said, to join their parents.
And because in Venezuela, they told me they were always hungry.
They saw people sleeping on the streets and worried that would be their only option one day if they didn't leave.
I want to see mom.
I haven't seen her in three years and I want to have my American dream too.
I want to see my dad, my aunt, and my uncle.
I haven't seen them for three years either.
Despite the hardship, they didn't blame their parents for leaving.
We know that we made it because of them.
They are the ones who sent us money for the things we need.
We were able to get a few things, not everything we needed, but it's all thanks to them.
The end of their interview, as I always do, I asked them if there's anything else that they wanted to share.
I don't know.
For our parents, we love them a lot and hope we can see them soon.
Like many of the Venezuelans I spoke to, their American dreams were pretty modest.
For most of them, though, they'll be unachievable in the current immigration system.
They'll end up stuck in Mexico, in Mexico City, perhaps, or further south, or Juarez waiting across the border if they're lucky.
But if they try to cross between ports of entry or get caught traveling without registering in Mexico, they'll risk being deported or relocated back to southern Mexico.
Here's Elika explaining that process.
The Mexican National Guard has been detaining people who are trying to cross the U.S.-Mexico border, and they had been sending them south to Mexico City and Chiapas to Tapachula.
Now there's been this huge effort to stop people from waiting not only at the U.S.-Mexico border, but even in Mexico City.
So we're seeing Mexican immigration and National Guard doing sweeps of migrant camps, of apartment buildings.
Doesn't matter if the person has a CBP1 appointment.
Sometimes they'll just send them south to either Chiapas and increasingly Tabasco.
So Lilla Mosa, which is where people are arriving in Tabasco, has one shelter.
And I think the capacity is around 250,300 people.
And earlier this year, they were sending 20,000 migrants a month there.
And then they posted the military so that people can't leave.
And it's very dangerous there.
It's a drug trafficking area.
So it's, you know, not only are people sleeping in the streets, but they're sleeping on the streets of some of the most dangerous cities in Mexico with very few services there to help them even get their next meal.
This, of course, didn't happen without the influence of the United States.
In many ways, Joe Biden has done exactly what Donald Trump promised to do.
Not only has he built more walls, he's also forced Mexico to pay for a significant amount of the US's immigration enforcement.
But when people are sent back to the south of Mexico, they'll just make their way north again, only this time with fewer resources and even greater risk.
They're all proud of where they're from.
About half the groups I saw had Venezuelan flags on their caps or backpacks.
But they're also very aware of the portrayal they get as Venezuelans in the US media.
And many of them made the very valid point that if Americans are afraid of Venezuela gangs, they ought to consider how much more afraid people are in a country where they actually exist.
I'm 13.
Please don't believe that because one person from Venezuela does crime, that all Venezuelans do crime.
But at least they get a portrayal in the US media.
Many African migrants don't even get that.
Of course, that doesn't mean they don't know about the USA.
His powers and her Anglophone Cameroonian group again, talking about their impressions of America, where they'd like to live when they arrive here.
America is a very beautiful country and America has human rights.
They care about the citizens.
In fact, they care about humanity.
I, for one, have a friend that I'm gonna stay with for the main time then and get that helps a lot.
Do you know which city your friend lives in?
She's in Maryland.
Oh, Maryland, okay.
Yeah.
So if I may ask, if you don't mind me asking, of course.
What do Americans, how do they treat or how do they see immigrants?
Well, my friend, it's changing a lot.
African migrants in particular will struggle with a lack of resources, the absence of solidarity structures, and obvious anti-blackness along the journey.
Along with this, people they meet along the way simply lack context of their journeys and why they're leaving and what they're fleeing.
Language barriers may exclude many of them from using CBP1, which is only offered in English, Spanish, and Haitian Creole.
Less than 15% of asylum cases are conducted in English, but the app ignores huge swaths of the world outside the Western Hemisphere.
In Bajiquito, I use French to speak to migrants who didn't speak English and began to notice the complete absence of signage and anything other than Spanish and sometimes English and Creole.
This is likely an issue throughout their long journeys.
Here's one migrant from Angola.
And I should probably note at this point that Angolan people tend to speak Portuguese as their national language.
But French was the language I shared with some of them as I don't speak Portuguese.
It was too much, very complicated.
Like me, I did a week in Brazil.
I left Brazil and for Peru.
Peru to Nicocli, then here.
We did four days, four days walking.
There are many mountains, many risks.
There are many animals along the route.
You have to follow the path for four days and there's no food.
But we were glad to arrive today.
This is the first group.
There's the second, third, fourth, fifth group.
They're still on the road.
I'm very proud of the fact that we made it, despite the suffering.
But God was with us.
That is what is important.
There are numerous instances of French-speaking migrants trying to approach the border near me in San Isidro and being turned away for not having an appointment on an app that's not available in a language they can understand.
These language barriers might stop the migrants getting information, but they don't stop them helping one another.
His powers group describing the isolation they felt, but also the kindness they experienced.
Do you think people on the trip treat African people differently?
Yes, they do.
They treat differently.
They don't even communicate.
They are just by themselves.
They don't associate.
They look at us differently.
I had someone who supported me.
I saw how kind the person was.
Because of their obvious foreignness and perceived inability to communicate, African migrants are often targeted for crime in Mexico.
Since leaving Panama, I've heard from migrants who were raped, kidnapped, ransomed, and I even heard about one who was killed.
Because of their difficulties accessing the CBP1 app, many face longer waits in Mexico, which may in turn leave them open to extortion or see them decide to cross the border between ports of entry.
I've met hundreds of migrants, mainly Mauritanians and Ghanaians, who have made this difficult choice since Biden's asylum ban came into force.
Due to the distance, African migrants also face a longer, more expensive and more dangerous journey.
African Migrants Targeted00:04:09
Here's Primrose from Zimbabwe describing her journey just to get to Bajo Chiquito.
The situation for me, it was tough.
I just ran away to South Africa and South Africa was not safe, xolophobia.
And they almost kill me and my boyfriend.
And even my bedfather, he was abusive too much because of the politics.
I'm an opposition party, so it was difficult for me to leave.
So that's why I ran out.
Even in South Africa, I was not safe at all.
Was those people, they were like following me and my daughter.
So I spent three months on the road coming here.
I leave South Africa, I think, 4th of July till now.
I'm in Panama.
I'm still walking using buses.
Jesus.
How did you get from Africa to America?
Did you fly or take a boat?
The thing is, I fly from Joan Spec to Brazil.
Then I seek asylum in Brazil.
Then I wanted to stay in Brazil.
So people said, no, you're in Brazil, you can't because of language.
Yeah, Portuguese.
Yeah, Portuguese.
So I start also using people's route like you must take this bus from point A to point B.
So we take a bus from Brazil to Bolivia, then from Bolivia to Peru, to Ecuador, Ecuador to Colombia.
Then we start walking using Darwin Gape to here in Panama.
African migrants will end up in different shelters that are more remote or have less connectivity, again making their asylum process harder.
Unlike migrants from the Western Hemisphere, they might struggle to find solidarity networks even inside the USA.
Without a significant diaspora, many of the migrants I met in the jungle have struggled to find sponsors.
Lots of the people I spoke to here, including Primrose and her daughter, are still looking for someone to give them a helping hand as they start their new life.
We spoke a lot over the week I was there, and we've spoken most days since.
It's heartbreaking for me to see her daughter going for months without education or even a safe place to sleep.
I've seen photos of them sleeping on the street.
They've ridden crowded buses north.
And I've heard their frustrated attempts to comply with the arcane and complicated restrictions on their right to come here and ask for help.
And it's been really hard since I got home to reconcile this with a national discussion that seems to see migration as a number that we have to decrease.
And migrants are something other than people who want to come here for all the same reasons I do and live happily and peaceably as our neighbours.
Now that they've come this far, migrants from outside the Western Hemisphere have to keep going.
They can't even file their claims on CBP1 until they make it to Tapachula, which is hundreds of dollars and thousands of kilometers from Panama.
They likely don't have the funds to go back home even if they want to.
And they are far more likely to be robbed or kidnapped along the way.
However, their stories often aren't told.
Reporting on the border still largely focuses on Spanish-speaking migrants, with some space for Chinese or Haitians.
But migrants from Africa rarely get much care or attention in the media.
In part, this has helped them avoid the demonization that Venezuelan migrants are all too aware of.
But in part, it also leads to a lack of concern for their needs.
I want to end today with Gabriel from Equatorial Guinea, sharing his message for Americans.
Yeah, a lot of people get this confused.
Africa is not a country.
A lot of them think when they see you and your black person, they say, are you African?
And it's like, there are lots of countries in Africa.
Ghana, Nigeria.
You got Guinea, you got the Mauritanian people.
There are loads of countries.
I wish people would know, how do I say this?
I wish they'd take us into account because really they don't consider us when they say Africa is a country.
Africa Is Not One Country00:06:50
They don't care about us the way we care about them.
And this is the way of seeing things which doesn't consider us as human, not the same as them.
Do you understand?
They see us as Africans or animals, something like that.
There's two golden rules that any man should live by.
Rule one, never mess with a country girl.
You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.
And rule two, never mess with her friends either.
We always say, trust your girlfriends.
I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of The Girlfriends...
Oh my god, this is the same man.
A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.
I felt like I got hit by a truck.
I thought, how could this happen to me?
The cops didn't seem to care.
So they take matters into their own hands.
I said, oh, hell no.
I vowed I will be his last target.
He's going to get what he deserves.
Listen to the girlfriends.
Trust me, babe.
On the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Hey, I'm Nora Jones, and I love playing music with people so much that my podcast called Playing Along is back.
I sit down with musicians from all musical styles to play songs together in an intimate setting.
Every episode's a little different, but it all involves music and conversation with some of my favorite musicians.
Over the past two seasons, I've had special guests like Dave Grohl, Leve, Mavis Staples, Remy Wolf, Jeff Tweedy, really too many to name.
And this season, I've sat down with Alessia Cara, Sarah McLaughlin, John Legend, and more.
Check out my new episode with Josh Grobin.
You related to the Phantom at that point.
Yeah, I was definitely the Phantom in that.
That's so funny.
Sherry, stay with me each night, each morning.
Say you love me.
You know I.
So come hang out with us in the studio and listen to Playing Along on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
In 2023, former bachelor star Clayton Eckard found himself at the center of a paternity scandal.
The family court hearings that followed revealed glaring inconsistencies in her story.
This began a years-long court battle to prove the truth.
You doctored this particular test twice in sellings, correct?
I doctored the test once.
It took an army of internet detectives to crack the case.
I wanted people to be able to see what their tax dollars were being used for.
Sunlight's the greatest disinfectant.
They would uncover a disturbing pattern.
Two more men who'd been through the same thing.
Greg Oespi and Michael Marancini.
My mind was blown.
I'm Stephanie Young.
This is Love Trap.
Laura, Scottsdale Police.
As the season continues, Laura Owens finally faces consequences.
Ladies and gentlemen, breaking news at Americopa County as Laura Owens has been indicted on fraud charges.
This isn't over until justice is served in Arizona.
Listen to Love Trapped podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
10-10 shots fired, City Hall building.
A silver .40 caliber handgun was recovered at the scene.
From iHeart Podcasts and Best Case Studios, this is Rorschach, murder at City Hall.
How could this have happened in City Hall?
Somebody tell me that!
Jeffrey Hood did.
July 2003, Councilman James E. Davis arrives at New York City Hall with a guest.
Both men are carrying concealed weapons.
And in less than 30 minutes, both of them will be dead.
Everybody in the chamber's ducks.
A shocking public murder.
I scream, get down, get down.
Those are shots.
Those are shots.
Get down.
A charismatic politician.
You know, he just bent the rules all the time, man.
I still have a weapon.
And I could shoot you.
And an outsider with a secret.
He alleged he was a victim of flat down.
That may or may not have been political.
That may have been about sex.
Listen to Rorschach, murder at City Hall on the iHeartRadio app.
Apple Podcasts are wherever you get your podcasts.
I'm Laurie Siegel, and on Mostly Human, I go beyond the headlines with the people building our future.
This week, an interview with one of the most influential figures in Silicon Valley, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman.
I think society is going to decide that creators of AI products bear a tremendous amount of responsibility to products we put out in the world.
From power to parenthood.
Kids, teenagers, I think they will need a lot of guardrails around AI.
This is such a powerful and such a new thing.
From addiction to acceleration.
The world we live in is a competitive world, and I don't think that's going to stop, even if you did a lot of redistribution.
You know, we have a deep desire to excel and be competitive and gain status and be useful to others.
And it's a multiplayer game.
What does the man who has extraordinary influence over our lives have to say about the weight of that responsibility?
Find out on Mostly Human.
My highest order bit is to not destroy the world with AI.
Listen to Mostly Human on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.
Money Moves Freely00:14:53
Some of you recognize the audio that we opened this show with.
Many of you won't.
It's a sample from the Fourth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle that Manny Chow used to open his shows with.
It's a piece of music that's very emotive for me.
Obviously, I'm a white leftist guy in my 30s who learned Spanish and decided to live in Barcelona, so I have a story about running into Manu Chow once while he was busking.
But that's not what I want to share today.
Because I'm technologically challenged, I can't seem to get my phone to download songs, but I've managed to download the same Manu Chow playlist that I ripped off a rewritable CD when I was in high school and put it on the various headphones and garmin watches that I've had over the last two decades or so.
When I'm away for work, I like to run whenever I can.
Obviously, I wasn't just going to go for a jog straight into the Darien Gap, but once we were out of Bajo Chiquito, it gave me some time to run and think and process the things that I've seen.
And while I do that, I listen to the same dozen or so MP3 files.
I was listening to this song one day after I got back from La Has Blancas as I sweated my way up a hill in the rainforest, hoping to see a sloth.
I didn't see a sloth, but it seemed like an appropriate soundtrack.
Manu Chow himself is a child of refugees from Francoist Spain.
He sings in French and Spanish, Walloff and Galician and Portuguese among other languages, often several of them in the same song.
The product of growing up among other migrants of diverse backgrounds.
I like the way he plays with language because it reminds me of the way I so often speak to my friends.
Spanglish, for example, or franglais.
It's the way people talk in border regions and refugee camps.
Languages that don't have the support of a state or the academy, but nonetheless convey so much meaning for so many people.
That song, in particular, reminds me of my first time reading about Zapatismo in a tiny anarchist cafe in the West Midlands.
I remember being struck as a kid from Europe who would frequently drive to France or Belgium to race bikes and buy cheap beer, that the USA still maintained a fortified border with Mexico.
People couldn't travel freely, but money could.
It was this realization, and the writings in particular of Sulcomarante Marcos, along with my talks in Spain to older anarchists, that encouraged me to learn Spanish, which I pursued by spending months in Spain and Venezuela and learning thanks to the patience of the people around me.
It was a new anarchism, which came from the periphery, not the neoliberal core, which gave me my first serious politics.
I travelled to Venezuela to understand the revolution there.
I did a PhD to try and understand the revolution in Spain.
It's all very well understanding things, but I think it's much more important to do things.
And I tried to practice mutual aid as much as I can.
Since I got back from the Dalien, I've loaded up a heavy backpack and carried water into the desert and spent hours trying to connect the friends I made in the jungle with services along the way.
In the face of so much cruelty, it feels good to be doing something to help.
And carrying the water is aware I can make a material difference in a terrible situation.
But in all my time reporting, I've really never felt as disempowered and helpless as I did in La Has Blancas.
Here, at the first official migrant reception center after Darien, the Panamanian government registers migrants.
NGOs offer a few services, and the US-funded process of deportation for migrants from Colombia, Cuba, Venezuela, and India begins.
Some of those sent to India might well be Nepalese who often travel on fake Indian passports.
This little cluster of cheap tents, shipping container offices, UN shelters and barbed wire fences is where the rubber meets a road for the USA's border and migration policy.
And it's heartbreaking to witness.
As migrants were called up to the security office to begin the deportation process, I tried to narrate the scene into my voice recorder.
But I struggled, in part because their family members asked me questions, hoping I could help.
But in larger part, this was also difficult because I couldn't help, and I deeply wanted to.
The best I could offer was an arm around someone's shoulder and a promise to email anyone who I could think of and ask what was going on.
Some people's parents, some people's partners, some people...
I'll explain exactly what was happening in a moment, but first I want to explain how I got here.
On the day we left Maraganti, we set off at the same time as the migrants who were making their own journey to Las Blancas.
Our Piragua was carrying only myself and my fixer daddy and our Piraguero.
So we're moving a lot faster than the boat full of migrants.
On the way north, we passed them.
They smiled and waved as we rode by.
Many of them had met me the day before.
All of them were ecstatic to have survived the Darien and be heading north.
It's a pretty busy stretch of river.
There's probably three or four Piraguas full of migrants.
Hello!
There are kids shouting at me because I taught them some English words yesterday and they're shouting them back to me today, which is nice.
We got it.
Family from Panama.
They might be NGO people or something.
They looked a little shocked at the whole scene.
Here we are passing another Piragua now.
They're all waving at me.
It's got to be uncomfortable packing that densely into a Piragua.
Once their boat arrive, they disembark in La Has Blancas.
The next day I was there to meet them.
We're just walking into La Has Blancas.
It's hectic here.
So it's a new shop here and outside the shop they've made like a line of outlets to charge people.
It's a dollar an hour to charge your telephone.
As we go in there are a row of like kind of sheds which represent shops and then further in every NGO has its own little kind of shed.
They're all covered in tarps.
They're like canvas and tarp tents.
I see here so I see Unicef, I see OIM.
Yeah they have their sort of little tent office here I guess.
Sijias for example has route information, psychological support, safe space for women.
Unicef has some workshops for children and then in their hours I guess.
Nice little chairs in there and yeah see a palados niños.
You can't take photographs in there which is good.
Yeah and then it's just crowds of people coming out.
Oh and there's also a Mormon.
Little little Mormon situation.
See Oiami.
I guess the OIM are supported by Church of Jesus Christ and Latter-day Saints.
And the Red Cross has got a shipping container.
I've been hoping Las Blancas would be a better scene than Bajo Chiquito with more organized sleeping arrangements and hopefully basic necessities like clean water, food and Wi-Fi provided by their numerous NGOs who work there.
But if anything it was worse in Bajo Chiquito.
In Bajojiquito migrants were exhausted but also ecstatic to be out the jungle.
They knew they'd be moving forward the next day and for a few bucks they could get anything they needed in the village.
The locals told me that if kids didn't have the money to eat they fed them for free.
I didn't see this, but nobody seemed like they're having a very hard time in any of the days of visiting the village.
At least, not for financial reasons.
Migrants can get as far as Pajochiquito on a few hundred dollars in their tenacity.
They pay Colombian guides a few hundred bucks to bring them across the ocean from Necoquli and to walk them from the border.
And they paid Ember Piragueros $25 for the ride up the river.
But once they get to La Has Blancas, for a good number of migrants, their journey grinds to a halt.
Many of them told me they've been stuck in the camp for weeks or even months because they couldn't get that $60 that they needed to pay for their travel north.
There's no Western union in the camp, and the only way to transfer money is via a local intermediary, who charges between 20 and 25% of the sum being transferred as a fee.
In the morning, migrants arrive on their piraguas, just as we did.
I dropped down the boat ramp when I saw them to help with their bags and ask about their journey.
From there, they form two lines, one for men and one for women and children.
They have their bags searched and their passport checked.
They're given a welcome kit from the Red Cross with some basic necessities.
Toilet paper, a toothbrush, some soap, stuff like that.
Or some of them get a kid.
When the kids ran out, it was long before the line of people did.
By the time the men were finished, they were given little more than a shrug and good wishes by the Red Cross volunteers and allowed to head off into the camp.
Within the camp, there are a few rows of small casitas that are allocated to unaccompanied children and families.
They're little more than four walls and a roof, but they offer a bit of privacy.
For most migrants, though, there isn't space, and they have to search for a spot of empty ground in the crowded camp where they can pitch the same tents they bought in Necoqli.
The Wi-Fi, which the Red Cross usually provides, wasn't working when I arrived, so I had to let people hotspot off my phone all day.
At least the promised food really was free, but the migrants told me it was far from good.
Still, this is supposed to be a temporary camp.
People register here, get any medical attention they need, and then move forward to Costa Rica.
That's the theory anyway.
In practice, if you can't get the 60 bucks you need to move forward, or someone stole it from you in the jungle, or you were forced to walk to the camp because you didn't have 25 bucks for the boat and then someone robbed you, then you're stuck.
We have been here a month.
You have people who've been here a month and a half.
I've been 27 days here.
Well, I thank God because we have three meals a day, we have water, but it still hurts the girls.
The food and water always make me sick with diarrhea.
It bothers me.
I vomit and the heat is so desperate.
But we have to hold on because even though we don't have the resources, like we don't have enough to pay for a ticket, we have to hold on here a little longer.
We don't have any family members that can give us support either.
What's keeping the migrants here is money, or rather a lack of it.
They need 60 bucks to leave.
Buses used to take five free passengers per bus, but under Panama's new regime, it seems like they don't.
Instead, migrants just gradually amass in growing number of tents that populate the grassy areas of La Has Blancas.
They might try and do some informal work.
I saw one guy who was cutting hair for a dollar a time.
But I couldn't really get a satisfactory response to what they're expected to do if they don't have the money and can't get someone to send the $75 they'd need to cover their travel costs and the 25% transfer fee.
If you're short $10, they don't put you on the bus or anything.
So things are terrible here.
There should at least be support for migrants who at least come with few resources.
They don't have money or anything.
They can search your bags so they can see that you're not lying, that you don't have money, because nobody wants to be stuck here.
You have to move forward because nobody wants to be stuck here in Panama.
The idea is to move forward, to get further ahead.
We brought our children to look for a future, not to be locked up here in Panama as if we've been imprisoned.
The group even tried to leave on foot, hoping to begin walking north in search of a better future and a way to make money on their way.
But they were caught, they say, and returned to the camp.
And they beat me hard.
I gave myself up because they had caught her, a grandmother with my other daughter.
I returned myself voluntarily, and they beat me up anyway.
And from there, we lost the desire to walk back there.
What can we do?
Rights?
They don't care about them.
We are human beings, but we don't have rights here in Panama.
If they do have the money, migrants could take a bus to the Costa Rican border.
When the buses first arrived, I tried to describe the scene as migrants rush to buy food, not only for this journey, but also for their journey through Costa Rica, where food and other basics are much more expensive.
I'm just here in La Ha Blancas when the first buses have arrived.
It's about noon.
The first bus is going to be full of people who had been waiting in line for hours already.
So they're kind of lining up by the bus.
And then the next buses, people seem to be kind of rushing to get to them.
They're rushing to buy food.
I can just see this guy has like an entire carrier bag full of pink wafer biscuits and Coke bottles.
That's going to be his food for the next 11 hours, I guess.
Other guys are seeing with bags of bread rolls and stuff.
And the first people are getting on the bus now.
These buses aren't entirely safe.
In 2023, 42 people died in a bus crash.
This year, 17 were injured in a crash in August.
Now, migration officers ride in each bus with the migrants to check on safety protocols and make sure they don't get off anywhere else in the country.
Just like everywhere else on their journey, people make money off the migrants.
In Las Blancas, a bus costs $60 a head and has 55 passengers, $3,300 a bus.
More than a dozen buses leave every day.
If even half of the thousand or so people who arrived use a transfer service to get their bus fare, that's $7,500 in transfer fees alone.
Of course, not everyone in the community is making thousands of dollars off the migrants.
I interviewed a local shopkeeper who still sits just outside the camp gates, and I asked him to explain his stock, which included the oddly popular I Back the Blue Thin Blue Line t-shirts.
I'd seen several people cross the Dallien Gap.
I asked him what was the most common shopping list for migrants.
Yes, almost all of them come and buy sets for $10, $15, $20.
It depends.
There are many who don't have them.
I have children's sets for $5.
I have sets for $5 that are pants and sweaters, which is what they were looking for the most.
Common Shopping Lists00:15:14
Those that are socks without underwear, backpacks for $15 because the backpack is so worn out and they need it so much that it carries their belongings.
Look, it's not really everyone who can buy.
There are certain people who buy, of course, if everyone bought, but there are very few who can buy something to leave here.
Almost 70% leave dirty because they don't have anywhere to get money.
And the little they can get often comes from selling their phones, their watch, a cap, or their sneakers to be able to get money to pay for their fare to keep going.
I asked him how the migration had impacted the community.
Were people making a lot of money?
I asked.
Were they mad about the trash and the pollution of the river?
These are legitimate concerns, even if they're used in bad faith against the migrants.
Nobody is perfect.
But I can tell you one thing.
Honestly, the migrants suffer a lot to be able to carry out this journey.
And there are many times when I've even had to give them clothes, some because they don't have any.
And well, when a father and family with children comes, what can I say?
Look, I have a family.
I have to do this, yeah?
I asked him what he felt the solution was to the suffering here.
The damage done both to people and planet.
I say that oppressing people so that they don't go through the Darien is not the solution.
Because if you put it to the point, even if they don't know an exact percentage, the immigrant gives the economy of the United States a balance.
Because the people born there, not to criticize them, people born there want a stable job.
And he doesn't want to feel like he's very, very low.
However, the immigrant is there and he's picking fruit, going to the fruit trees, going to the vegetable fields, going to the garbage dumps, going picking up things that many Americans who've lived there don't do, of course.
And so they need them to say that they don't go.
They need the support of the immigrant to be able to have the balance that they have today.
Like a lot of Panamanians I met, he was broadly in solidarity with the migrants.
I didn't really encounter anti-migrant sentiment at all in my time at Panama.
In the capital city, which locals just call Panama, but we can call Panama City, migrants are not really physically present, nor are they present in conversation.
I found the transition from the jungle and the refugee camps back to the bustling city pretty challenging in a lot of ways.
I find I'm oddly comfortable amidst the chaos and trauma of a refugee camp.
It's a familiar environment for me and I know how to conduct myself.
I feel safe with the migrants and I tend to find them very open and welcoming to me.
I can talk to anyone and they can talk to me.
I bring toys for children and try to bring resources for adults and sometimes I bring my harmonica if I'm being really cliché.
In a weird way, refugee camps are a little safe space for me.
And even though I know it's bad, I can console myself that I'm helping a little, or at least giving people some hope and some information.
And that made me feel a bit better.
But in the city, I found it hard knowing that people were in a terrible situation and that nobody here seemed to care.
I went for a run in the jungle near the city, trying to get some perspective and clear my head.
But I just ended up screaming at an inconsiderate driver.
I was angry at them for nearly hitting me, but I was just angry at everyone, all over the US and even here in Panama City for their indifference at so much human suffering.
The lack of concern about migrants in Panama City made what I saw next at Las Blancas even more surprising.
An announcement over the loudspeakers called several Colombian passport holders to the migration office.
At first, it seemed like they were just going to a little wooden shed with a couple of senafront officers in it to return their documents.
I'd already noticed that some migrants, and seemingly most of the African migrants, were being called to a different shed to do biometric scans.
I wondered if this was part of the same process.
But shortly thereafter, a truck rolled up and several of the Colombians were loaded in.
Apparently neither they nor their partners knew what was going on.
They're taking some of the Colombian guys away to deport them.
You can hear a little kid crying for his dad.
They've taken his brother and his brother's wife.
Taken some other lady's husband, some little kid's dad, and making them sit on the floor.
Yeah, I don't know what they're going to do now.
She's trying to give her husband the money and a SIM card so he can call her.
Other migrants approached me to ask if I knew, which I didn't.
But one lady who'd been there for weeks told me that people who leave this way never come back and that they end up being deported.
So we assume that's what was happening here.
Yeah, this really sucks now.
They're taking the deportation bus.
There's men crying because their wives are on there, women crying because their husbands are on there.
Kids are crying because their parents are on there.
And they've just done this crossing and now they're going to send them back.
By the time I got back to the city, I was getting texts from migrants with photos of them in handcuffs.
More and more of them were being deported, particularly the Colombians.
One of them, texting me after being returned to Colombia on a flight, gave the following account of detention.
We all had to do our business in the same cell, and they threw food on the floor for us to eat as we were all in handcuffs.
They told us that a Venezuelan had burned down the migrant detention center in San Vincente and that we would all pay for it and that the Colombians didn't need to leave the country because the president there said it was doing well and there's plenty of work.
None of that is true.
The migrant facility in San Vicente was burned down and the people working there told me it was a Venezuelan migrant who did that.
But none of that excuses any of this.
We weren't able to access that facility as the people who are detained there can't really consent meaningfully to an interview.
That's a fair enough objection.
But the migrant who was deported also alleged that they received no hearings or a chance to appeal their deportation.
Instead, they were detained for eight days, spent their last US dollars, and were then kicked out of the country.
They were not detained or arrested upon reaching Colombia, which makes it a little more difficult for me to believe the claim that only people with outstanding warrants in Colombia were being deported.
These weren't the only allegations of mistreatment I heard.
Migrants came to me and whispered about the abuse of black migrants who were forced to walk to La Has Blancas because they couldn't afford the boat ride.
I should note that it wasn't the migrants who had been robbed or abused that came to me.
It was other migrants.
It was a group of guys I'd given a water filter to while they were leaving to walk from La Has Blancas.
I hadn't been able to join them.
But when they got there, we ran into each other again and they came up to me to share their concerns for the black men who had walked with them.
In one instance, one migrant told me he was robbed by what he called, quote, police dressed as thieves.
The deportations, which seem to be increasingly commonplace, are being funded by US taxpayer dollars.
The same day that Molino took office in July, Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mallorcas, himself the child of migrants, visited Panama.
Panama is a relatively young country and one which the US-occupied part of for much of the last century.
But despite a real struggle for independence, the Panamanian government didn't seem concerned that the US Secretary of Homeland Security was present at the inauguration of a president in a country that is decidedly not the US homeland.
The official DHS readout of his trip notes that the US has enjoyed a flourishing strategic relationship with Panama for over 100 years, which is certainly one way to sum up decades of occupation, violence, and profit from the Panama Canal, and one of the more brutal dictatorships in the long list of authoritarian regimes that the US preferred to communist or even socialist governments in the Western Hemisphere.
They also announced that the US government would, quote, help the Panamanian government to remove foreign nationals who do not have a legal basis to remain in Panama.
Obviously, I should take this moment to note that under the United Nations Refugee Convention, refugees do have a legal right to travel through a country en route to another.
Here's Erica describing that right.
The Refugee Convention is complex and does afford a lot of rights to people who have fled their countries based on persecution.
You know, you're supposed to be able to pass through whichever country you want, go to whichever country you want, not be criminally prosecuted for crossing the border between ports of entry and not be turned back to a country where you face harm.
The US allocated $6 million for a six-month pilot program of repatriations.
If the program meets the USA's goals, they might consider expanding it to other countries along the migrant route, according to reporting in Reuters.
As of early October, they've deported 530 people to Colombia.
That's half of the people I saw arriving in a single day in Bajo Chiquito.
Because Panama's government and Venezuela's government have ceased relations after the election, Panama is now struggling to deport Venezuelans back to Venezuela and is actively searching for a third country into which to deport them.
But even if the program resulted in one plane load a day, which it hasn't yet, that would be roughly 10% of the total Dalian traffic, and far fewer planes are traveling.
What it will do, like so many other DHS policies, is play into the hands of smugglers.
Already new ocean routes are being used, which see migrants, many of whom cannot swim, taking long journeys around Panama on ill-equipped boats.
This doesn't help anyone, apart from the DHS contractors and staff equipping and training Panamanian personnel and the human traffickers making more and more money from migration.
I asked a shopkeeper his opinion on this.
Look, I'll tell you, I think that instead of giving them a reward for deportation, they should give them support, a lot of support, because it is a huge sacrifice to leave your country where you were born, your children, your family, leave it to be able to have a future, and you go with your mentality that your future is the United States.
That will give you an opportunity to get ahead and give well-being to your children.
Now, 10% of those who go are going to destroy the good name of the migrants.
But what 90% of people really want to do is help their family.
And this balance unbalances everything that is being done by good people because there are many good people who want to get ahead.
And I think that the United States should support, give support to people who really want to fight and move forward, as I just told you.
They give a lot of benefit.
contribute to the country.
After leaving Las Blancas, I felt pretty down about the fact that people were just hitting a wall that they couldn't overcome.
Since then, I've stayed in touch with many of them.
For some, a friend or family member was able to send the money and they made it to Costa Rica on the bus.
From there, they crossed quickly into Nicaragua and Guatemala before arriving in the Mexican border city of Tapachula in the state of Chiapas, and ironically not so very far from where the Zapatistas made their revolution 30 years ago.
Once they cross the southern border of Mexico, migrants can begin their application for asylum using the CBP1 app that we've talked about so much on this show before.
They can use it in Tabasco and Chiapas, the southern border states, and then once again, when they're north of Mexico City.
To recap very briefly, the app is terrible in almost every way, including its inability to recognize blackfaces, its limited functionality on Android phones, which are the vast majority of devices used by migrants, its constant crashing, and an eight to nine month wait time for asylum appointments.
Here's Erica explaining some of those problems.
You have to have a relatively new smartphone.
You have to have an address.
All the people you're traveling with have to be with you, right?
And you have to first get through the initial kind of registration phase, which doesn't always work.
The program is very glitchy.
You have to take a live photo and you have to wait essentially.
So, you know, it's kind of random too.
Some people will get an appointment within three months, but I would say most people are waiting nine to 12 at this point.
You don't have any legal status in Mexico while you're waiting unless you can apply for some other status in Mexico independently.
Not only is the app very poorly designed, it's also a de facto metering system on asylum.
Here's Erica explaining that.
We've been litigating against the use of CBP1 for a few years now.
My organization, Alo Tolabo, and Haitian Bridge Alliance.
And the reason why we are fighting against the required use of CBP1 is first because it is an illegal metering system.
So we've already litigated the fact that there is no number limit on the amount of individuals who can seek asylum at the U.S.-Mexico border, and customs and border protection legally does not have the right to turn people away.
And CBP-1 essentially allows them to do that.
You know, there were physical metering lists at ports of entry before CBP1 was implemented as essentially the only way to access the U.S. asylum system at ports of entry.
And now it's a digital metering list and it's very limited.
Recently, the Department of Homeland Security lost a court case which forced them to release records.
In there were some of the app logs and data regarding CBP1.
I'm still in the phase of combing through that and asking my friends who know more about technology than I do to explain exactly what the limitations with the app are.
But it doesn't really matter.
DHS is well aware of the app's flaws and it doesn't really seem to see them as flaws at all.
The goal of the app is to make it harder for people, even those with very legitimate asylum claims, to obtain asylum in the USA.
As we heard yesterday, the CHNV program is no better.
Refusing Dignified Entry00:10:17
I recently read a Reddit thread of applicants who've been waiting nearly two years.
What I didn't mention yesterday is a parallel program for another group of migrants, which I'll let Erica explain.
I want to mention the fact that there is a cap, right?
I think it's 30,000 a month or something like that for those four countries, but it's almost identical to the Ukrainian United for Ukraine program, which doesn't have a cap, right?
So there's no limit to how many Ukrainians can get the same benefit.
And they are renewing the humanitarian parole for Ukrainians, which I believe was just announced almost within weeks of them announcing that they're not renewing for the other four countries.
So it's really a very stark demonstration of how the US immigration system, even when it's a relatively meager benefit, is based on race, is based on which country you're from.
What this means is that in practice, the migrants I spoke to face a long and dangerous wait in Mexico, while others skip ahead.
I've got nothing against the Ukrainians, and I don't think many of them do either.
I tried to go to Ukraine and report, but the visas ended up taking so long that I missed the flights that I'd booked.
I have, however, a serious problem with the Biden administration, which left people who fought alongside its own US troops to die in Afghanistan and turned away migrants from all over the world, but then opened its arms to a country that just happens to have the majority of its citizens be the same race as the president.
It's cruel and it's wrong and it's barely ever even mentioned in national media coverage.
For those not fortunate enough to be Ukrainian, here's what waiting in Mexico looks like.
The incidence of crime directed at migrants is horrifyingly high.
We had done an electronic survey a few years ago and this was during Title 42 when people were just being expelled to Mexico.
And if I remember correctly, it was like around 25 to 30% of people had been either raped, sex trafficked, assaulted, kidnapped.
I mean, the list goes on and on.
We've seen a lot of people lose their lives just due to violence.
I mean, the kidnapping rates are through the roof.
Almost everyone you've heard from in this series is now stuck in Mexico.
Some of them have been kidnapped, paid ransomed and released.
Some of them have been sexually assaulted.
Many of them have been robbed.
Some of them have, after surviving one of the most deadly land migration routes on earth, been killed while waiting in Mexico for an app to stop crashing on their phones.
Over the weeks since I got home, I've seen them grow gradually more desperate and afraid.
Just to get to Mexico, many of them have spent several thousand dollars.
Once they're in Tapachula, they're faced with the astronomical cost for the trip north, often several thousand dollars more, and many of them, their phones exhausted, have slept on the streets.
Those who didn't speak Spanish struggled to find refuge.
Those who did wanted to move quickly north, but struggled to find the money.
Here are the Iranian migrants you heard earlier in the series explaining what they'd already heard about CBP-1.
It's so tough because the some policies in their way, they took our money that we came from Iran.
It was so difficult for us and resumed the way so Mexico.
Mexico is so difficult for us.
And something is CBP-1 is not working for us, for Iranian people.
Our world, frankly.
Yeah, I know the people who are in Mexico City for about three months.
For three months.
Yeah, CBP-1 is.
Because of that, Iranian people go to the wall and it's not our choice.
We have to do this.
We don't want them, but we have to do this.
Yeah, it's good to explain.
According to a study conducted at University of Texas, wait times are as high as eight or nine months on average now.
Mexico announced on the 31st of August that it will provide security and food for migrants who have an appointment to travel north from the south of the country to the place where they have a CBP-1 appointment.
Migrants absolutely have been robbed or kidnapped on their way to their appointment and missed it as a result.
But they are just as vulnerable in the eight or nine months that they have to wait for one.
Migrants in Tapachula are at a very high risk for kidnapping and are often held until their families pay ransoms.
But without money or an appointment, they have little means of leaving the city.
Some choose to travel a little further north and then hop on a freight train known as La Bestia, the beast, an extraordinarily risky endeavor that several of the people I spoke to for this series have undertaken.
The only place to ride on these trains is on top of carriages, exposing migrants to freezing temperatures in the desert night.
Even on the train, they're not safe from kidnapping.
Like many migrants, the Iranian group were well informed about domestic politics in the US, and they said that when they made their journey north, they wanted to be sure to avoid the states where local law enforcement was likely to turn them over for deportation.
In reality, that could be any of the states, but they're probably right that their life would be a little easier on the West Coast.
I heard it's so difficult and about three months, four months, more than seven months, they will arrest us in the US.
I heard in Mississippi, in Texas, in the middle of the country.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I think that California is a little, little, little better.
Our money is very, excuse me, shit money in the world.
And we have to pay a lot of money for this way because our one dollar is 60,000.
Some, of course, will choose to cross the border between ports of entry as they become desperate to see their families or afraid of remaining in Mexico.
Since President Biden's executive audio earlier this summer, doing this can result in expedited removal proceedings.
And effectively, Biden's new ruling denies asylum by default to anyone crossing the border when daily crossings surpass 2,500.
In fact, this is a continuation of extremely punitive and cruel politics that have been in place since he was finally forced to stop using Title 42, which, if you're not aware, is a public health law used by the Trump administration and embraced by the Biden administration as an asylum law.
It has already resulted in the deportations of people back to places where they have extremely credible fears of harm and created a system whereby migrants have no idea how they will be treated on any given day.
Again, it's played into the hands of anyone seeking to smuggle migrants into the country undetected, while also harming innocent people coming to this country to ask for protection.
Here's Erica's short history of Biden's asylum policy since last year.
So when the Biden administration lifted Title 42, they essentially imposed what I call a transit ban.
So there's a couple components to it.
One is if you do not enter the United States at a port of entry with a CDP-1 appointment, you are presumed ineligible for asylum unless you fall under a few narrow exceptions, which are not consistently applied.
So the exceptions are things like you were having a medical emergency, you were running for your life, you know, you couldn't access the app for some reason.
But in practice, those exceptions are almost never applied at ports.
There's been a few kind of alternative programs run by shelters or local governments where people with extreme medical vulnerabilities, for example, can be let in without an appointment, but we don't know whether the ban applies to them once they enter without that appointment, right?
So it's, like I said, inconsistently applied exceptions.
If you enter between a port of entry, you're presumed ineligible for asylum again, unless you meet some narrow exceptions.
And what that means is you can still apply for other types of protection in the United States.
So there's two principal types of protection.
One is called withholding of removal, which is like asylum, but with a higher standard.
And then the other is convention against torture, which you just have to prove it's more likely than not that your own government will torture you, which is more extreme than persecution, but isn't necessarily based on a protected ground.
So the torture could be for any reason.
But it's a high hurdle.
But the most important thing is those two types of protection are not path to citizenship and they do not allow you to petition for your family.
So for example, if you get asylum in the US and then you want to ask for your wife and children to join you, there is an avenue for that.
And all of you can eventually become citizens.
With withholding of removal and convention against torture, you basically get a work permit.
If conditions in your country change, they can deport you.
And you could never leave the United States and you can never reunify with your family and you could never become a citizen.
This won't deter people.
I speak to people every day who cross to Darien, were kidnapped, robbed, and sometimes raped on their way here.
They're going through all of that because we refuse to give people a dignified or safe way to come here.
They know it's a risk and they continue to come because they think it's the only option.
His powers from Cameroon explaining that.
It's deadly.
I won't lie to you.
It's 50-50 live on it, honestly speaking.
But we had to take the rigs because I think that was the only awesome gun we had.
If you can't imagine taking those risks, it's likely because you can't imagine the things these people are leaving behind either.
As a conflict reporter, I've been able to see a small amount of what they're fleeing.
War, death, poverty, state violence.
I don't know if I'd be brave or strong enough to do the same, but I have a lot of respect for people who can.
Tomorrow, we're going to talk about the people who helped them along the way and what you can do to support them when the state works.
Fleeing War and Death00:04:33
There's two golden rules that any man should live by.
Rule one, never mess with a country girl.
You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.
And rule two, never mess with her friends either.
We always say, trust your girlfriends.
I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of The Girlfriends.
Oh my God, this is the same man.
A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.
I felt like I got hit by a truck.
I thought, how could this happen to me?
The cops didn't seem to care.
So they take matters into their own hands.
I said, oh, hell no.
I vowed I will be his last target.
He's going to get what he deserves.
Listen to the girlfriends.
Trust me, babe.
On the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
Hey, I'm Nora Jones, and I love playing music with people so much that my podcast called Playing Along is back.
I sit down with musicians from all musical styles to play songs together in an intimate setting.
Every episode's a little different, but it all involves music and conversation with some of my favorite musicians.
Over the past two seasons, I've had special guests like Dave Grohl, Leve, Mavis Staples, Remy Wolf, Jeff Tweedy, really too many to name.
And this season, I've sat down with Alessia Cara, Sarah McLaughlin, John Legend, and more.
Check out my new episode with Josh Grobin.
You related to the Phantom at that point.
Yeah, I was definitely the Phantom in that.
That's so funny.
Sherry, stay with me each night, each morning.
Say you love me.
You know I.
So come hang out with us in the studio and listen to Playing Along on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
In 2023, former bachelor star Clayton Eckard found himself at the center of a paternity scandal.
The family court hearings that followed revealed glaring inconsistencies in her story.
This began a years-long court battle to prove the truth.
You doctored this particular test twice, Miss Owens, correct?
I doctored the test once.
It took an army of internet detectives to crack the case.
I wanted people to be able to see what their tax dollars were being used for.
Sunlight's the greatest disinfectant.
They would uncover a disturbing pattern.
Two more men who'd been through the same thing.
Greg Owespi and Michael Maracini.
My mind was blown.
I'm Stephanie Young.
This is Love Trap.
Laura, Scottsdale Police.
As the season continues, Laura Owens finally faces consequences.
Ladies and gentlemen, breaking news at Americopa County as Laura Owens has been indicted on fraud charges.
This isn't over until justice is served in Arizona.
Listen to Love Trapped podcast on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
10-10 shots fired, City Hall building.
A silver .40 caliber handgun was recovered at the scene.
From iHeart Podcasts and Best Case Studios, this is Rorschach, murder at City Hall.
How could this have happened in City Hall?
Somebody tell me that!
Jeffrey, who did it?
July 2003, Councilman James E. Davis arrives at New York City Hall with a guest.
Both men are carrying concealed weapons.
And in less than 30 minutes, both of them will be dead.
Everybody in the chamber's ducks.
A shocking public murder.
I screamed, get down, get down.
Those are shots.
Those are shots.
Get down.
A charismatic politician.
You know, he just bent the rules all the time, man.
I still have a weapon.
And I could shoot you.
And an outsider with a secret.
He alleged he was a victim of flat down.
That may or may not have been political.
That may have been about sex.
Listen to Rorschach, murder at City Hall on the iHeartRadio app.
Apple Podcasts are wherever you get your podcasts.
I'm Laurie Siegel, and on Mostly Human, I go beyond the headlines with the people building our future.
This week, an interview with one of the most influential figures in Silicon Valley, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman.
Solidarity With Strangers00:15:12
I think society is going to decide that creators of AI products bear a tremendous amount of responsibility to products we put out in the world.
From power to parenthood.
Kids, teenagers, I think they will need a lot of guardrails around AI.
This is such a powerful and such a new thing.
From addiction to acceleration.
The world we live in is a competitive world, and I don't think that's going to stop, even if you did a lot of redistribution.
You know, we have a deep desire to excel and be competitive and gain status and be useful to others.
And it's a multiplayer game.
What does the man who has extraordinary influence over our lives have to say about the weight of that responsibility?
Find out on Mostly Human.
My highest order bit is to not destroy the world with AI.
Listen to Mostly Human on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.
Just you finding yourself there and seeing how the environment looks like, you feel like you should give up.
I cried.
It takes the grace of God for you to actually stand by and say, no, I'll keep on struggling.
There are a lot of people who gave up.
There are a lot of people who suffer.
Someone died.
There were people who were crying.
Yeah, yesterday.
We met people who were crying.
They didn't know how they could continue.
It's not an easy situation.
It's not really an easy situation.
It's just the grace of God for us surviving.
Because I can't say it's by my strength.
It's actually the grace of God.
Because what we actually went through, we met people who have been collapsed.
We had to help them.
You meet your brother, you give a lifting hand.
It's not really an easy thing.
It's not something that if we are fine tomorrow, we can advise any of our family members to go through because it's so deadly.
It's risky.
If your family member is in there and it's not out, it takes the grace of God for you to even lie on your bed and close all your eyes.
I was once I survived by the grace of God.
I almost drowned.
It's so far.
I was drowning.
By the grace of God, I was rescued.
Yeah, we rescued you.
All throughout their journey north, migrants have little choice but to rely on one another and the solidarity of strangers.
I heard dozens of stories like the one you've just heard in my time in the Darien.
Total strangers who saved each other's lives and risked their own in the process.
Rivers that could only be crossed if people from three different continents joined arms to form a human chain that children and smaller people could hold onto to avoid being swept downstream.
Not everyone can help.
Just surviving the Darien takes all of what many people have.
But for the people who are in a position to, even in desperate times, there's mutual support among the migrants.
There are very few people who are able to help you.
There are very few people, only people who are kind can actually help.
There are people who pass you by, and there are people who, if you have lost your strength, it's not easy for another person to actually help, but though, we can really appreciate those who help because having your strength is another.
You must help yourself before you can help another person.
So if you can't really have the strength, it will be difficult for you to help another.
So we don't really condemn them, but at least we are praying, we are pleading on our brothers who are still behind that.
If they meet people, if they have the ability to help, they should do so because it's not really an easy something.
People gave up.
Sometimes reporting on these places could paint them as bleak, unwelcoming, or just miserable.
And certainly very sad things happen in the jungle and in the camps.
Inhuman things.
But just like war or a natural disaster, sometimes the horrible circumstances of the migration trail bring out the best in people.
As I've said before in this series, I'm comfortable in the refugee camps, at least in part because people there are looking out for one another.
Kids don't stop playing the moment they become refugees, nor do adults stop laughing.
In fact, these things become even more important.
They're how we keep our humanity in a system that's inherently dehumanizing.
And people don't stop organizing or caring about one another either.
It's not just the migrants, of course.
One of the families who've been stuck in Bajoji Guito for almost a month was given some money by a local center front member to take a bus.
In Mexico, those who don't have enough money to take buses will hop onto freight trains.
And as they speed through towns and rail yards at night, local people will throw plastic bags of food, water, and clothing to them.
In Panama City, I visited a Jesuit-run shelter for migrants called Fe y Aregria.
Alberto went down to Darien recently, and we know from first-hand experience that the difficulty they have is moving.
So some don't go through the stations, but they stay.
So they appear here in the city.
And so they arrive here, and some decide to stay and forego all the difficulty of moving forward.
Despite having been set up as a refuge, recent changes to Panamanian law had made that work difficult.
We had to stop that service because the state literally prohibited us as agencies from providing shelter.
And under the premise that if we gave them shelter without them asking for it, they could consider us as human traffickers.
So what we do now is we give them food.
If they decide to stay, well, we help them with certain processes that we can call humanitarian aid for sustainability.
I've seen a wide variety of faith-based aid in my time at the border, and much of it has been fantastic.
But with more than a decade of refugee camps and resource-poor settings, I've also learned to be a bit wary of faith-based charity.
But something Goliath said early in our talk gave me a great deal of respect for him.
It's not just that he said it, but he took the time to address his comments to me as a journalist because he saw this as a problem in part created by the media.
And for what it's worth, I think he's right.
It's something that, as we try and help migrants on a difficult journey, we must always keep in mind.
He might come from a very different background than my mutual aid group, but we do seem to share the same belief in solidarity with the migrants.
Unfortunately, much of the media narrative, what they do is they victimize and ridicule people in family groups and turn them into pariahs and beggars.
Then that is insulting to the dignity of the person.
So the way they portray migration is shameful in some cases.
And this is very difficult.
Well, for this, yes, I think that's very important.
After this, I figured I'd address the issue head on.
I'm asking about the many churches and Christians I see preaching hate against people coming to the southern border of the U.S. There is a sector in the Catholic Church and the Evangelical Church that opposes it and is more closely linked.
And they are, in fact, they are benefactors of Trump's campaign.
So this one and this one are there.
Well, those are like groups that are rejecting, let's say, the basic principle of the church, which is that we must welcome migrants and refugees.
So they fundamentally reject it.
So they invent all these narratives that Haitians practice voodoo and they eat pets and this and that or that.
And it's shameful.
I mean, or like the Venezuelans, that the majority of them are from Trien de Aragua gang, or that they come from areas that are what you call problematic or chovanista and that they are infuriating or that or that all the same narrative that was created when the Maritos left Cuba and it's not that the Cuban government is sending all the prisoners on the Mariel boats to invade the United States.
It's the same narrative.
Then I asked what he thought of the government's plans to close the Darien and if they could even do that.
People ask me, do you think the Darien Gap is going to close and that migration is going to disappear?
And I say, ask the Mexicans and the North Americans if the Sonora Desert has stopped being a corridor for people after Trump.
Because there was a time when all the media was focused on the migration that passed through the Sonora and everything continues to happen.
But then it became invisible and ceased to exist for them.
But people continue to pass through and people continue to die.
So as you say this, this is going to continue.
Maybe not a half a million people, but the flow is going to continue.
It's going to continue.
And then the question we should ask ourselves is, what are we going to do or how are we going to accompany this flow?
How are we going to accompany these lives and in what way can let these people's lives impact us?
But like so many of us who work along the border, he says he's constantly fighting against negative messaging that encourages people not to follow their natural impulse to help and take care of one another.
So it's not a question of how, I always say.
And sometimes they tell me, oh, that you always speak so badly of Panama.
But it's not speaking badly of Panama.
I love my country.
And I feel that we in general, the Panamania communities are very welcoming and very affectionate with the migrants.
The problem is the narrative that is created and then it generates the stimuli that end up with a situation where are not seen so positively.
And consequently, last week, we had a meeting, perhaps on national reality, and we touched on the subject of immigrants.
And the first reaction was, no, it's not the state that pays the fare of the migrants.
It's not that.
I mean, they pay their own fare.
After a week of my interview requests being declined by NGOs and government offices, I found my talk with Father Elias refreshing.
It's nice to know that you're not the only one who sees a system as it is, which is fundamentally flawed and entirely propped up by misinformation, hatred, and ignorance.
But I don't want to get bogged down on that.
Father Elias told me that when he sees migrants, he sees God in them, and that he experiences his faith by helping others.
My early experience of religion came in high school, from a priest who was a teacher who had been part of the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa.
I'm not a religious person in myself, but I can understand how seeing God and other people is not that far from my own politics.
And if it's seeing God and other people that impels people to stand up against apartheid or to dedicate their lives to helping migrants, then I respect that.
So after we come back, I want to try and answer the question that Padre Elias asked.
What can you do?
After getting back from the Darién and hearing the migrants share their struggles as they waited in Mexico for an outmust design to delay and discourage them, I really struggled to come to terms with everything I'd seen and was hearing.
I've been to plenty of dangerous places and seen war, state violence and terrorism.
I know the tragedy of death and violence, but the slow and deliberate suffering inflicted on migrants by people who lie to us every day on television is particularly hard to bear for me.
As I mentioned at the start of this series, I've seen the grim reality of our migration system on my first day in Bajo Chiquito.
Little girl's head hanging limply from a makeshift stretcher as strangers carried her into town.
It's all so cruel, so deliberate and so unnecessary.
And it felt so disempowering.
But that doesn't mean there's nothing you can do.
It doesn't mean there's nothing I can do.
Basically, what we're going to be doing is we're going to go this way.
I mean, we're going to start when we go down into this, but we're going to go that way and see where the light break is on the hill.
In between those hills, we're going to cut up.
That's James Cordero of Border Kindness, sitting at the roof of a group of five of us set out on a water drop in the mountains east of Ocumba.
It's an area called Valley of the Moon, where boulders the size of trucks stack up against each other, and where people have been crossing the border for decades.
This is a remote area, and not unlike the Darien, much of it is nearly impossible to access in a car.
To get water out here, we have to walk.
And if you run out of water or injure yourself so you can't walk out of here, it's possible you'll die just like the migrants do in the jungle.
People get robbed here, just like in the Darien.
And if it wasn't for the five of us with our backpacks full of water, people could die of thirst here, just like they do in the jungle.
As I was packing water bottles into my frame pack, I thought about little kids I'd met in Bajo Chiquito.
This isn't a place for children either.
But over the last 18 months, I've met hundreds of them out here.
I've given them my jackets and hats, warmed up milk for babies in my camping stove, and even wrapped a little girl up in a Mylar blanket with me to warm her up last year.
Just like the Darien, the suffering here is out of sight and out of mind for most Americans.
And in a year where we're constantly being told democracy is under threat, I think it bears mentioning that migrants are treated as humans without rights even when they're inside this country, and that their lives are seen as dispensable so long as whoever is in office can look, quote, tough on migration and make TV pundits and big money donors happy.
There weren't any TV pundits or big money donors on our water drop, just a few of us everyday people.
Some people come out here because they're family members across the desert.
Some come out because everyone who crosses a desert is part of our family.
Like Bonio said in Bajoji Kito, all humans are brothers.
And none of us want our brothers or sisters to die in their mountains, whatever their passport might say.
And so, nearly every weekend, people all along the border load up heavy bags with supplies.
On this drop, each of us filled our packs with water, cans of tuna, pineapple, soup, some warm clothing, and in this case, an audio recorder.
And then I got a straight one in here.
Recording.
Recording in progress.
Border Family Bonds00:15:13
Of course, this gave me an opportunity to discuss my life's calling, ensuring the correct fit of backpack harness systems.
Yeah, you can release those.
It just doesn't wrap though, like the straps.
You either have to drop the waistband or like these have adjustable frames so you can make them fit.
With everyone suitably adjusted and ergonomically optimized, we switched on the audio recorders I'd attached to the straps of our packs and set off.
From the edge of the dirt road, we took our first steps into the desert.
You eat shit, it's okay, don't be embarrassed it happens.
This part of the border isn't that far from Akumba, where this time last year, James and I spent a freezing night trying to keep people alive, running our camping stoves on full blast, giving away our own jackets to people who needed them more than us.
At that time, I just returned from a trip to north and east Syria, which was stressful in its own way.
And seeing both what people are leaving and how we treat them when they arrive here really pissed me off.
A year later, with bags full of water, James and I spoke about things and how they got so much worse in the last two years.
But press coverage and more importantly donations have been way lower.
It's the same story up and down the border.
Record deaths, newer and harder migration routes, different migration patterns, and the people who cried outside ICE detention centers in Trump's first term cheering for more walls and bigger DHS budgets.
Meanwhile, unlike the Trump era, we don't have the support of thousands of liberal people in California's big cities.
After the Democrats cynically used migrant suffering in their 2020 campaign, they abandoned them upon acquiring power.
And their supporters have mostly followed them.
So, that left five of us this particular morning to load up bags and do the life-saving work of dropping water.
On top of all the state violence, there's been more and more interference with water drops.
And as we got further into our route, we made the increasingly common discovery that someone had taken it upon themselves to destroy our supplies.
These ones are slashed.
Slash?
Sorry about the person drinking a smirring office.
Yeah.
I mean, I'm assuming it's the person who brought the smirn off ice because it seems like a smirn off ice activity.
Yeah.
I don't see a BP agent rolling through with a smearing off ice.
This isn't unique to border kindness.
Someone has been shooting supplies left by Borderlands Relief Collective half an hour west of here recently.
Up and down the border, the combination of total liberal inattention and xenophobic right-wing hate whipped up by streamers who I won't name.
And pseudo-journalistic grifters who I will name, like Bill Malugan.
Malugan, of course, was previously famous for claiming that a cop had a tampon dropped in his coffee in 2020.
Spoiler alert, if you're not familiar, this wasn't true.
Beluga now works as a quote-unquote border reporter for Fox News.
Hey, Dana, good morning to you.
We are in San Isidro, a part of San Diego right now, where hundreds of illegal immigrants have just been mass street released from Border Patrol custody.
This bus you see right here is apparently an NGO or volunteer organization bus.
They've all just gotten off a border patrol bus.
Two of them actually, they're now waiting to board this bus.
I've talked to several of them from Peru, from India, from Colombia.
The group from Peru told me they are here to work.
They are going to Atlanta and Minneapolis.
Let's see if we can talk to some of them real quick.
Hola, Español, de dondezón.
Ecuador, adonde vas en los staros unidos.
Nevayo.
New York, going to New York.
De dondezón.
De don lesson.
Costa Rica, a donde vas en los taros unidos.
Atlanta.
Atlanta.
New Jersey.
Don't Jersey.
New Jersey.
Adonde vas en los Taros unidos.
Chicago.
Chicago.
Y uh, de dondezón.
Colombia.
Colombia.
¿Quier en trabajar?
No.
No?
Asilo?
Se ye.
They say they want asylum, they don't want to work.
De dondezón.
Hola, where are you from?
Senegal.
Senegal, Africa.
Senegal, from Senegal.
We saw a lot of Senegalese in Lukeville, Arizona.
Where in the U.S. do you want to go to?
What city?
Francis.
Franca.
Franca.
Where?
Franca, Francais.
Speak Franca.
Oh, he says he speaks French.
I obviously do not speak French.
Malugan's lack of language competency isn't the only issue here.
It's a whole ecosystem of media built up of voyagically filming migrants without giving them a chance to humanize themselves.
And it's not just a right-wing issue.
This week, each day has been marked by new daily records of migrants both crossing the southern border and landing in custody.
The federal government is struggling to keep up.
Three homeland security officials say customs and border protection is holding about 27,000 migrants in processing facilities as of yesterday.
President Biden spoke with Mexico's president about the issue earlier today.
And NBC News Homeland Security correspondent Julia Ainsley joins me now to dig into this trend.
So, Julia, first, just give us some perspective here.
How is customs and border protection operating right now?
And what are your sources saying about this historic rise in migrants at the border?
Well, in some ways, there's actually a small victory here, Zinclay.
When you look at the fact that CBP is seeing a record number of migrants, they've been at a record high now for three days in a row.
They broke the record of 12,000, maintained that.
And there are now almost 27,000 migrants in CBP custody.
When we got to just about 20,000 in 2019 under the Trump administration, there were migrants who were there for weeks and couldn't lie down to sleep because they were so overcrowded.
Now, because of the technology, they're actually able to not even hold people past 72 hours and very quickly release them.
But the tragedy comes after that.
There are a lot of migrants who are being released on the streets without being taken to nonprofits, and some of them don't exactly know where they're supposed to go, even though CBP does try to coordinate with the cities where they are released.
That's definitely happening in the Tucson, Arizona area.
And Eagle Pass, Texas, even though they are scrambling as fast as they can to release migrants, there are still thousands who remain in the field, a lot of them crowded under a bridge in Eagle Pass, just waiting for CBP to take them in.
The reason, a lot of people can give you different reasons.
One, perhaps Mexico isn't interdicting as many migrants as they were earlier in the year.
They're now lower on funds because of these record highs.
Another reason sometimes migrants will say that they're worried about a future Republican administration or a future Trump administration that might be harder and so they think now is the time to come.
Two minutes into this report, and we haven't actually heard from a single migrant.
All we hear is numbers.
We also haven't heard about outdoor detention, which at the time this was released was at its peak.
Again, it's just numbers.
and CBP statements.
I should also point out that lots of people are held for more than 72 hours or three days.
A Department of Homeland Security Office of Inspector General report published in November 2023, a month before the news segment that you just heard, said that 56% of people were held for longer than that, with some people being held for more than a month.
This information is publicly available.
It even had a press release.
I found it very quickly and I reported on it at the time, but NBC chose not to.
Seeing migrants as a quote, homeland security issue, not as people, is fundamentally the problem.
And the way we fix that is showing up as people to help.
Despite the massive media focus on the border in the last year, I very rarely see other journalists actually at the border.
To give him credit, Malugan does sometimes show up, but he doesn't stay long.
And he doesn't really have the capacity to interview migrants, even if he wanted to.
The border's vast and mostly empty.
It's a place I've come to know and come to love in my time dropping water and recreating and doing other mutual aid projects out here.
Now that I have a better understanding of the journeys people go through to get here, I'm even more determined to make this small part of their trip less dangerous.
And besides, I get to see cool rocks.
Oh, a sideways, Mr. Potato Head.
Oh, okay, God, no, I'm mad, mister.
No, I see that.
Now you should say it like that.
It looks very...
Yeah, the eyes are real close to each other.
Yeah.
It looks like a melting potato.
Among the cool rocks, last weekend, I found a mini mouse doll.
It reminded me of Noemi, the little girl I'd met in Bajo Chiquito.
I'd give my number to hundreds of people before leaving Panama and heard from dozens.
But up until then, I hadn't heard from Noemi and her mum.
I'd heard of people being kidnapped, robbed, raped, and ransomed.
In Mexico, some of them had been caught by authorities and pushed back to Chiapas.
And others had been unable to leave Tapachula after having all their money stolen.
I wondered which, if any, of these fates had befallen Noemi, and if she was still having a pepper pig adventure.
Sadly, between where I met her or where I found the mini mouse doll, there's nothing else I can do.
But here in the mountains outside San Diego, where the wind blows so strong sometimes you can barely stand up, I can do something.
Without the ability to do something.
Something which I know is meaningful.
I don't know how I'd manage to stay on this beat.
It's just too heartbreaking to meet good people, share meals and laughter and deep conversations with them, and then see them fed into a teeth of a machine that robs, brutalizes, and kills them so that Joe Biden can stand on a podium and say that border crossings are down this month.
They are down, and that's largely due to enforcement in Mexico.
But I want to make sure that everyone who does cross the border can do so safely, and they don't have to die on US soil after fighting so hard to make it here.
This hasn't been the case for everyone this year.
My friends up and down the border have carried far too many little memorial crosses into the mountains.
And depending on the election results next week, what we're doing might be illegal soon.
But that'll never make it wrong.
Since early September, nine people have died in a little part of Southern California alone.
My friends have searched for them, sometimes found their remains, and undertaken the thankless task of sharing the bad news with their families, then constructed memorials in their memory.
This is just one of the many dangerous parts of the migration route north.
But it's the one that I can help with.
If you're nearby or visiting for a while, there are several organisations dropping water on the border.
Border Angels, Border Kindness and Borderlands Relief Collective here in San Diego.
Ajo Samaritans, Nomas Muertes in Arizona.
Groups you search and rescue as well.
Obviously, not everyone lives here at the USA's southern border, but more than half of the population does live within 100 miles of a border.
Even if you don't live in the USA.
Or maybe you do, but you don't live anywhere near the border.
I guarantee there are migrants in your community.
In the last year, I've worked with migrant welcome committees in Maryland, church groups in the rural south, Sikhs on the west coast, and Kurds on the East Coast, to name just a few.
Without a tide of fanfare, people all over this country are making space in their homes and their hearts for strangers, feeding them, housing them, and helping them get set up in a new place.
For the most part, this doesn't get coverage, and under a democratic administration, it doesn't get much public support either.
But that doesn't mean it isn't necessary.
Aside from all the reasons it's important, dropping water on the border is also fun for me.
It's helped me learn more about where I live.
I appreciate the desert and make new friends who generally share my outlook on the world.
I love being outdoors, and I'd be outdoors anyway.
But this way, my haiku is about much more than myself.
Yeah, please, to all of you, please share it.
I'd like to follow your journey if that's okay.
And maybe we can talk again when you're in America.
I gave my number to hundreds of people in the Dallien, as well as some websites they might find useful.
Once our NGOs explained the CBP1 app, or the ones that might direct them to resources along their route.
Last Sunday night, as I was absent-mindedly thrumming through a shotgun reloading manual in my living room, as I love to do, my phone started buzzing.
It's done this so many times in the last months.
Mostly, it's a photo of someone I met updating me on their journey.
Or one of the little wooden animals that I give to children, which has made its way to Mexico and hopefully giving them some comfort along the way.
Often it's less positive news.
Someone's been robbed, or simply run out of money and they need help.
But I got two messages this Sunday, which lifted my spirits.
Noemi, the little girl who had an adventure like Peppa Pig in the jungle, wanted to know how I was doing, and she sent me a photo of the tiny stone bear that I'd given her.
She also wanted to know if we could still go to see Minnie Mouse if she came to America, which I assured her we could.
I think it'd be quite apt to visit a place which builds itself as the happiest place on earth with someone I met in one of the most desperate parts of the planet.
The second message was from one of the migrants I'd met in the jungle, telling me she'd made it to America.
Not just to America, but to a part of the border where I'd been dropping water with my friends just a few weeks before I left for Panama.
She sent me a photo of a rock with a message on it, one with which I'm very familiar.
She told me about her walk, one which I've made myself, and she told me how hard it was.
I said I knew, but really I don't know, because I wasn't carrying months of trauma with me on the mountain.
She's the only person out of hundreds that I met who's made it here.
Most of them are in Mexico now, and most of them will remain there, or maybe get sent back home.
Or maybe they'll make a desperate attempt to cross this week, as you hear this, before the election.
It made me so happy to see someone safely here.
One person out of hundreds.
For so many of the migrants I met, America was a dream and the journey was a nightmare.
Since this series began airing, I've seen videos of people I care about clinging to freight trains, their bruised bodies after being beaten.
I've helped them find healthcare after they were sexually assaulted and tried to find room at overcrowded shelters.
I've helped trans ladies navigate all of this and transphobia and misogyny and tried to find resources in French and English and Portuguese for non-Spanish speakers.
I'd hoped that I'd finish this series with a single good story.
A story of someone who made it, who is living the American dream that people died for in the jungle.
But I can't, because even the people who made it here are here temporarily, and broadcasting anything about their journey would put them at risk, whoever wins the election next week.
So instead, I want to end with how you can make a difference.
And I'll start with a story and how little things can make big differences.
Making a Difference Now00:07:57
One day in Bajojiquito, I was sitting around with a few Venezuelan kids, probably four to eight years old, ripping pages out of my Write in the Rain notebook to make paper aeroplanes before I interviewed their parents.
I asked them about the jungle.
They said it was scary and they had nightmares now.
I often find kids in these places get scared of the dark and I used to bring these crappy little electric lights for them, but they're bulky and they're not very good.
Recently, I've been carrying little packets of fishing glowsticks instead.
They cost about 10 bucks for maybe 100 of the little green lights.
So I pulled out my glow sticks, cut my hands, and snapped one.
The children were amazed at the little glowing rod, so I gave them the rest of the packet and told them they could keep them for any time they were scared of the dark.
Nearly a month later, I sometimes get a message on my phone with a photo of a little tiny glowstick and a note of thanks.
One thing that Father Elias said that really impacted me is that when he meets migrants, he asks what he sees of God in them, and his work for them is where he finds what there is of God in himself.
I think I've struggled so much with this series in part because I've seen so much of the best of other people, and indeed the best of myself in such hard places.
I always struggle a little to readjust after trips like this, but this one's been particularly hard.
In the jungle, I saw people helping, and in a sense, we were all in it together.
When it rained, we all got wet, and when it got hot, we all huddled together in the shade.
We shared bottles of water, we sat at the same tables and ate together.
I can't really begin to experience a full Variane experience because I've been lucky enough never to have anything that bad to run away from.
But I have experienced the incredible solidarity and kindness of the people who went through it.
I've also experienced the incredible indifference of people at home, and indeed of the states and governments of the world.
The Colombian friends, I bet in Las Has Blancas and Bajojiquito, who are handcuffs and deported and ripped from their families, have already invited me to come and stay in their homes in Colombia.
But if their families make it here, they won't encounter that kind of hospitality.
Just last week, I helped translate for a Venezuelan family living on the street in San Diego.
Some of my friends do sponsor migrants, and that's something anyone can do.
If you're able to, it's an incredible thing you can do to change someone's life, and I can't encourage you enough to do so.
I really do see the best of myself, of my friends, and of humanity in our work to help migrants.
I would say that on reflection, I wasn't really an anarchist until 2018, when I watched a state of the world abandon thousands of migrants in Tijuana, and climbed a fence with my friends to take care of them, and specifically to distribute three huge backpacks full of waffles that another friend had sent from his waffle factory.
I'd stopped believing in the benevolence of the state a long time before, but it wasn't really until then that I really understood the power of people organising horizontally to provide each other with dignity.
Ever since then, I've drawn a lot of hope for humanity in the same places I despair for people.
Maybe that's why I keep going back.
Since then, at the border, I've seen people die.
I've held crying babies and crying parents.
I've also shared meals with people from around the world, made friends for life, and learned Kurdish disco songs about killing people.
I've danced around campfires with people I couldn't have imagined meeting when I first made my own journey here.
Last Christmas, when I'd normally be at the bar with my friends, I sat on a rock in the desert, eating a cold vegan MRE with an Ecuadorian family and some of my friends.
In all the Christmases I can remember, I never felt so much like I was in the right place, doing the right thing with the right people.
Well, I've seen a lot of terrible things at the border in the jungle, and I'll never forget those.
More importantly, I've seen that together we can do incredible things, and we can make the state irrelevant, especially in the places it's chosen to be absent.
I don't think we should make demands of the state anymore.
It's simply not in its nature to care.
But I do think we should make demands of ourselves.
I don't believe in God, and I've written a whole dissertation about people who burn churches.
But I think I see something that's just as special to me in the experience of mutual aid.
And in a way, it fulfills not only people's material needs, but also our human desire for dignity and mutual respect.
When I drop water at the border, or carry someone's bags in the jungle, I see myself and them, and I hope they see themselves a little bit of me.
But right now, our asylum system is so broken that very few people even make it far enough to drink the water I live at the border.
And despite the border featuring heavily in this year's election, there seems to be no national concern about the way our tax dollars brutalize people across the continent.
So I want to end by asking you what you can do.
It might be coming down here to drop water.
It might be sending some money to one of the links I'll include in the description.
It might be offering to translate for asylum seekers.
It might just be talking to people and helping to change the narrative.
You can vote or not next week, but there isn't a box you can take that will change the things I saw in the jungle.
Trump wants to deport millions more people.
Harris wants to pass a bill that will kill more people.
You can't pass your commitments off to someone whose box you take every four years.
You have to take them on for yourself.
And the way we change things is in the way we do things every day, every week, not once every four years.
I want to end with Noemi's mum and her message to the American people.
I also want to ask if anyone knows how to get cheap tickets to Disneyland, because I have just looked that up and I cannot stress enough how unable I am to afford it.
Please excuse us because we know that we are knocking on that door.
There are a lot of us, but we are desperate because complaining about the president we have is not helping us.
No, he's doing almost nothing.
So our children have no future and our country won't support us.
It's not easy to leave our parents, our friends, our relatives, our grandparents, and we do not know if we will ever return or if we'll ever see them again.
It is not easy.
But we also think about a future for our children and I do not know what has happened, but we feel like living in a dictatorship.
We are living something very unpleasant and we do not get any help.
But those who help us, we want to say thank you.
They opened that door for us.
They have opened many doors for many Venezuelans and well, we hope and faith that they will open them for us.
I want to take this opportunity to thank a few people who made this possible.
Firstly, Darianela Bruce, my fixer.
She was incredible.
Secondly, I want to thank iHeart for paying for this.
Like I said, it's been nearly a decade that I've been asking to do this story, and I'm just really happy that they trusted me to do it.
Thirdly, I want to thank everyone who trusted me with their stories, everybody who stayed in touch as they've come north.
I want to thank Border Kindness and Borderlands Relief Collective, who have both welcomed me on their drops.
And it's not always easy to be around a journalist.
It's not easy to let someone record everything you're doing out there.
And there are inherent risks to that.
And I really appreciate them trusting me.
I want to thank Dutchware Hammocks, who rush-shipped me a hammock when my old one tore right before I left.
And I think, most of all, I want to thank all of you for listening, taking the time, and all the listeners who have reached out to say they're listening to the series.
People have reached out to ask how they can help.
I would love to organize a way to help the people I've spoken to.
I spoke to someone just this morning who's still stuck in Tapachula because she was robbed, and her and her daughter are 500 bucks short for the bus to ride north to Tijuana.
I don't have the capacity to organize that right now, but if someone else does, they should reach out to me because I would really like to help these people who have become my friends and who I care about and who are right now stuck in a very dangerous place because someone in Washington, D.C. has made a choice to treat them with cruelty and not kindness.
So if that's you, if you're the person who could administer that, please let me know.
Thanks.
And I hope you enjoyed the series.
Organizing Help for Friends00:03:13
Hey, we'll be back Monday with more episodes every week from now until the heat death of the universe.
It Could Happen Here is a production of CoolZone Media.
For more podcasts from CoolZone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
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