Live and die in Tijuana
First World: The intersection of three worlds in the new fentanyl capital of Mexico, where violence and synthetic drugs converge dangerously. Addicts, journalists, and police navigate a city in chaos.
A dry canal runs through the heart of Tijuana, a strip of emptiness in a city where it seems every square foot has been exploited. The canal, which people refer to as “canalizacion,” is now a place symbolizing the city’s problems, an underground world in plain sight. The daily headlines repeat: “Another murder in the canalizacion,” “Impoverished boy in the canalizacion, in front of Costco,” “More than a thousand people living in the canalizacion.” Chaos has spread throughout Tijuana. There have been 1,900 homicides there this year so far, making it the deadliest city in Mexico. It’s a place where language has adapted to new forms of violence, ominous and overly specific. For example, the word “incubihado,” a murder victim wrapped in a blanket.
The Cartel
The Washington Post traced the fentanyl epidemic from Mexican labs to American streets.
Overview: From Mexican labs to American streets, a killer pipeline
Washington stumbled as fentanyl swept America
The Investigators
A text message came in from a source in the local police: a car was burning along a Tijuana road that runs along the Pacific Ocean. There was a body in the backseat – another apparent murder. Ines Garcia Ramos received tips multiple times a day as the editor of Punto Norte, one of the few independent newspapers in the city. She had recorded violent crimes committed not just for murder, but to create an impression and intimidate people. It was as if Tijuana’s killers were competing against each other to see who could commit the most gruesome acts.
The Federal Agents
The drugs arrived at a garage in an upscale neighborhood in Tijuana, where large quantities of methamphetamine were wrapped in plastic in the bed of a pickup truck, and kitchen containers of fentanyl were in the backseat. “Where are these things going?” asked one mover, clutching a tower of plastic containers with “fentanyl” scrawled in black pen on the side. He was an agent from the Mexican Attorney General’s Office, responsible for seizing and detaining drugs.
Jose’s Choice
It was late afternoon when Jose returned to downtown Tijuana, with more things to sell. He started again, hoping to make 100 pesos. He added some new products to his mat: plastic bags of granola, a few DVDs, a couple of pairs of shoes, a red hat. He carefully displayed them on Calle Articulo 123, which had turned into an open market. He knew his prospects were still grim. The sun was setting, and tourists were beginning to flood into Tijuana from the border. But they weren’t interested in what he was selling. They mainly came for cheap cocktails, tacos, and nightclubs. Jose sat by the car and watched the crowds go by. Other addicts were offering their drugs to a largely indifferent audience. Jose’s approach was quieter. If they wanted it, he believed they would come. Every sale would tip the scale toward his next dose of fentanyl. Or he might fail.
Luck began to show up. A man bought a black tank top for 20 pesos. A woman approached and bought two bags of granola for 20 pesos each. Jose looked at them in astonishment. “You usually sell things you don’t expect to sell,” he said after they walked away.
Suddenly, he had 60 pesos.
Then another man bought another two bags of granola. A woman bought a light key.
110
He needs just five minutes.
He felt that luck was unbelievable.
“Enough for healing,” he said, and began to roll up the carpet. He turned left into a grocery store and met one of his dealers outside a house. He walked away with two small bags: one of fentanyl and one of methamphetamine. It’s his favorite mix, which he believes mitigates the effects.
He needed someone to help him with the injection. Usually, he offers the volunteer a taste of his supply in exchange for assistance. But when he headed to his camp, the men were either half-conscious or unwilling to help.
“You can’t rely on anyone in this place,” he said.
The sky was darkening, and the neighborhood looked more somber. Police cars raced by with sirens blaring.
José wandered toward another heap of garbage next to the alley. There was an older man, also thirsty, rummaging through the trash. José tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he would help him with the needle.
Across the street, a church service was starting outside. Families in folding chairs prayed for addicts. The pastor’s voice echoed through the speakers.
“God loves you,” he said. “You are children of God.”
José knelt down, staring intently.
The needle went in, above the collar of his shirt. The dose was more than he could handle. He clutched his knees as if he had just finished a race. “My heart,” he said to the old man.
“You ruined the dose,” he said.
He was usually cautious. He had only overdosed once, which doesn’t compare to other addicts.
He took a few deep breaths and swallowed hard.
“I’m fine now,” he said, his eyes wide. He didn’t seem fine.
He threw his backpack over his shoulder. He headed back toward the lights of downtown. He needed to find a way to earn another 100 pesos.
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