The other day, I got a call from a photojournalist friend in Culiacán, who wryly asked me about the ongoing narco war in the city: “How was your first shoot-out in Mazatlán?”
The night before, there had been a car chase that ended in the murder of a man in the city where I live; afterward, more than 2,000 bullet casings were found in the area. It had been two months since an internal conflict between drug traffickers in the state of Sinaloa turned into a war that today has the state’s residents caught in the crossfire.
Mayos and Chapitos
In late September I traveled to Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa, to finish the final cut of my first movie, which follows Mexico’s first amputee soccer team, the Zorros of Sinaloa. At the time, the conflict in Culiacán between the rival Chapitos and Mayos factions of the Sinaloa Cartel had been going on for a month: shootouts, kidnappings, dead bodies, stolen cars and the absence of police and transit officials, who just seven days before my arrival had been disarmed by the Mexican Army for a “special review” of municipal police weapons, according to the state Ministry of Public Security. Culichis, as residents of Culiacán are known, were alone with the narcos.
During my six-day stay in the city, Culiacán was full of punteros — motorcyclists circling the city to monitor the military’s presence — and sicarios, assassins working for the narco-traffickers or, as the government calls them, “armed civilians.” Without police or transit officials, the city was in anarchy.
During the day, the presence of military and National Guard troops was impressive, with caravans of heavily armed soldiers in the streets. But at night sicarios patrolled, just as heavily armed as the soldiers. City residents sheltered in their homes in a self-imposed curfew: online classes, closed businesses, a collapsed economy and as if that wasn’t enough, the government sent more troops.
Rubén Rocha Moya, governor of Sinaloa, minimized the conflict and for weeks insisted that Culiacán was calm. By late October, 3,300 soldiers and National Guardsmen had been sent to the state but it wasn’t enough to contain the violence unleashed after the July capture of Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada, the legendary leader of the Sinaloa Cartel. Five years ago, his colleague and friend Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán was sentenced to life in prison in the U.S. Today, the followers and children of both leaders, “los Mayos” and “los Chapitos,” fight to control the area and what they call “the company.”
A new lockdown
My stay was discreet: I devoted myself to my work, going out only when necessary. I stayed close to the studio where I worked and slept. I shared my live location and constantly skimmed local news, joining the collective fear of the population: ever-attentive to my surroundings, suspicious of everyone.
During my stay I was able to see some friends; brief visits in which the topic of discussion was the “narco-pandemic,” as some called the mandatory lockdown period, in reference to the COVID-19 lockdown.
On Friday, Sept. 27, in the early hours of the morning, a small plane flew over the city dropping flyers from the Mayos. The leaflets contained the names and faces of people accused of working with the Chapitos, including Sinaloa governor Rocha Moya and Senator Enrique Inzunza. That same day, at the end of his term, then-President López Obrador and president-elect Claudia Sheinbaum visited Sinaloa to inaugurate the new Santa María reservoir irrigation system. At night, a white van was abandoned at the southern edge of the city. Inside there were eight bodies and the exterior was spray-painted with a message: “Welcome to Culiacán.”
The next morning, one of the criminal groups created a “narco-blockade” to close the Culiacán-Mazatlán highway, burning five or so cargo trailers to block traffic for several hours. Monday, Sept. 30, a nostalgic López Obrador said goodbye in his last televised morning press conference. That same morning at 9 a.m. Faustino Hernánedez, president of the Sinaloa Livestock Union, was assassinated by firearm. López Obrador’s administration ended with 199,619 homicides, one of the most violent presidential terms in the history of Mexico.
“It’s a wrap!”
Finally, editing is complete. I save the session to the hard drive, pack my suitcase and a friend gives me a lift to the bus station to return to Mazatlán. We say goodbye, wishing each other luck.
I’m constantly checking the news: it appears that the highways are clear. Ahead of me are 233 kilometers and 2.5 hours of travel. The bus is full and the sunset is spectacular. The Costa Rica tollbooth just outside the city, is semi-abandoned: only military and National Guard troops are present. The bus passes through without stopping to pay the toll.
We drive on. It gets dark. The highway is completely deserted. At the Marmól tollbooth, near Mazatlán, I’m even more surprised: it’s completely empty, without workers, military or National Guard troops. Once again, the bus passes through without stopping.
I get into Mazatlán at 8 p.m. The city looks the same as ever: hot, humid weather and steady traffic. My friends and family update me on the situation in Mazatlán: a few isolated kidnappings and murders, the police and National Guard constantly patrolling. The war, little by little, spreads through Sinaloa.
On Oct. 1, Mexico welcomes its first female president, Dr. Claudia Sheinbaum. A new security strategy emerges with the new government: now, there are security forces on the highways. The Army and National Guard circulate in caravans to monitor and control the violence. Two months from the start of the war, the new government faces a difficult challenge: bring peace to Sinaloa and keep control of the country.
Today, I write this chronicle from the comfort of my home. It’s a cool night. Outside, an ambulance siren wails in the distance. As residents of Sinaloa, we live with the fear that violence could occur at any moment. It’s not a new fear: since the start of Felipe Calderón’s so-called war on drug traffickers, violence has become normalized in Sinaloa. When negative thoughts consume me, I feel powerless thinking how much longer the situation will last. No one wants to be a superhero in this absurd war.
Eduardo Esparza is a professor, filmmaker and professional photographer from Mazatlán, Sinaloa. His first feature film, “Con un pie en la gloria,” will premiere in summer 2025.
