The War Next Door

Tamazula boasts a new school and condo developments, signs of the prosperity brought by narcotics. In the middle of the village, on a hill overlooking the valley, a mansion stands behind large black steel gates. The house belongs to one of Chapo's allies, Julio says, and the narcos stay there when they come down from the mountains, looking for the comforts of civilization. Those comforts are considerable: In one narco residence in Mexico City, the police seized $205 million — in cash. Here, at the foot of the hill, an army outpost sits directly under the gaze of the narco mansion — the kind of contradiction common in the Sierra Madres, where the fortunes of the law and outlaws are inextricably entwined.

Julio ducks into a tiny office to collect the monthly subsidy he receives from the government for not growing illegal drugs — despite the fact he grows opium and pot. He has five acres of poppy, a crop he hopes will yield 10 kilograms of heroin, which he can sell for $20,000. "Chapo came to my village in a helicopter and gave out money to plant marijuana," Julio says. "He did this for the whole town. If I wanted to start a business of some kind in the city, he would provide me the money to start. He uses his money for his people, to help us progress."

On the outskirts of town, however, Julio suddenly decides that we should turn around. It is unsafe to go any further, he insists. Chapo's men will kidnap us or kill us. Or we will be intercepted by gatilleros — triggermen — from the Beltrán Leyva cartel. Or Zetas. Or bandits.

"If you want to find Chapo, you should look near the village of La Tuna," he tells me. "I know people who can take you there."

The next day, while I wait for Julio to set up the trip, I drive with my translator, Sara, to the beaches of Sinaloa, about an hour from Culiacán. Developers are hoping, bizarrely, to turn the coast here into the next Acapulco. When we stop at a restaurant, the owner boasts that Chapo visits the area often. "Chapo swims at the beach," the man says. "We protect him and make sure it is quiet for him. Here Chapo is adored. He falls in love easily. He has eyes for the women. Like with Emma, his new wife. It was love at first sight."

The problem, the man says, is not Chapo, but those who emulate him. As more drugs pass through Mexico, the rate of addiction has skyrocketed, further fueling the violence. "The worse thing is the young people who try to imitate the narcos. It used to be only Americans took drugs. But now kids are stoned. For 200 pesos, a girl will fuck. The boys are copycats, and they get killed in the street. Not Chapo. Not any asshole can be Chapo. You have to be clever. As a leader, he's like Pancho Villa."

"Do you know where Chapo is?" I ask.

The man turns to Sara and speaks rapid-fire Spanish. They begin to argue. I ask what the disagreement is about. The man grows angrier. "Why does he come and ask questions about Chapo?" he demands.

Sara explains that I am a journalist.

"How do you know he's not DEA or Interpol?" the man asks. "Or even the CIA?" He demands that I leave at once.

That night, I drive with Sara to meet Julio again, hoping to connect with his friend who has offered to take me up into the mountains to meet Chapo. According to Julio, the man is a sheriff who is "with" Chapo. After Mexico's ruling political party, the PRI, lost its grip on power in 2000, the drug cartels have scrambled to ensure their control by bribing corrupt cops and politicians. "It used to be expensive but clear who the drug traffickers had to pay off," says Astorga, the sociologist who studies the drug trade. "Now it's cheaper but more fractured. It's not always clear who is in charge."

It is dark as we pull up to the compound where Julio has told me to meet him — a classic narco fortress with high walls and a massive steel door. Pulling onto the dirt track next to the gates, we are suddenly blinded by lights. Two Humvees filled with Mexican soldiers, weapons trained on us, flash their high beams. They are followed by two pickup trucks filled with federales, who pull up in a cloud of dust. Sara and I are ordered out of the car at gunpoint.

"Who are you?" an officer demands.

"What are you doing here?" says another, brandishing his gun.

Another SUV full of federales arrives. Looking for drugs or weapons, they order us to open the trunk. The air bristles with the holy trinity of war: fear, violence and stupidity. It is hot and humid, and everyone is sweating heavily. Sara fast-talks the soldiers, explaining that I am a journalist, not a drug dealer. She is careful not to mention that we are here to see Julio — a fact that could get him in serious trouble.

Finally, after I show them my identification, the soldiers relent. As we drive away, Sara explains why the standoff terrified her. "You never know who you're dealing with in Culiacán," she says. "You never know what their motives are. But what was very dangerous was not the soldiers but the narcos. They could see us with the army and decide to throw some bullets at us. This could easily happen."