It Could Happen Here - The Green Hell: Migration Through the Darién Gap

Episode Date: October 28, 2024

In the first of 5 episodes, James describes his journey to the Darién gap in Southern Panama, and the journeys that thousands of migrants take each week on one of the most dangerous land migration routes on earth. Sources: https://www.notiparole.com https://www.instagram.com/p/DAaDkSwh1Jk/?igsh=bmgyanBteW10czd5 https://www.nytimes.com/1964/09/20/archives/a-new-canaldug-by-atom-bombs-nuclear-energy-is-the-key-to-replacing.html https://www.themanual.com/outdoors/darien-gap-feature/ https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2024/apr/18/panama-darien-gap-jose-raul-mulino https://americasquarterly.org/article/the-darien-gaps-fearsome-reputation-has-been-centuries-in-the-making/ https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2022/10/27/the-darien-gap-a-deadly-extension-of-the-us-border https://www.hrw.org/sites/default/files/supporting_resources/jmhs.pdf https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2022/06/20/snakes-swamps-whisky-british-explorers-went-ultimate-boys-adventure/ https://www.strausscenter.org/publications/asylum-processing-at-the-u-s-mexico-border-august-2024/ https://www.gob.mx/inm/prensa/el-gobierno-mexicano-y-el-inm-articulan-corredor-emergente-de-movilidad-segura-para-el-traslado-de-personas-extranjeras-con-cita-cbp-one https://english.elpais.com/international/2024-03-23/kidnapping-and-escape-of-95-ecuadorian-migrants-in-chiapas-if-you-continue-informing-we-will-return-them-in-bags.html https://humanrightsfirst.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/Asylum-Policies-Harm-Black-Asylum-Seekers-FACTSHEET-formatted.pdf https://respondcrisistranslation.org/en/newsb/cbp-ones-obscene-language-errors-create-more-barriers-for-asylum-seekers https://www.msf.org/lack-action-sees-sharp-rise-sexual-violence-people-transiting-darien-gap-panamaSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Calls on Media The most difficult part of the journey is when you are trekking 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're crying just to have a sip of water. It is not easy. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting beside the Tuka 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 Dariangab, it's hard to open up your mind to experience joy.

I'd only been in the tiny Embara 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 ranges down out of the mountains and 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 Dallian 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. They share the boat with an Embará 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 Embará people are indigenous to the area that's commonly known as the Darién Gap, or at least to this part of it, and the tiny Embaral village of Bajo Chiquito,

it's 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. uniforms that reflects a slogan in a government messaging campaign. Darienno es una ruta, es una jungla, 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 godforsaken 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 president, President Pompeo, has been in power for over 42 years.

So all the Anglophone, we started revolting for him to step down because he doesn't develop the Southern American, sorry, the English section of Cameroon. Yeah, the Anglophone. Yeah, the Anglophone section. So we revolt. Instead, he was sending the military

and he was killing the citizens of our country. There's a lot of hardship, a lot of debt. I, for one, I've lost everybody. I lost all 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 tall. days. Migrants trek through waist-high mud and rivers deeper than they are tall. They must climb giant boulders, cross perilous ravines and traverse sheer cliff faces. All of this with barely any water other 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's 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, how can I put it very very

very very difficult especially in the Anglophone part of the country because for about five to six years there's a war ongoing war

in the Anglophone crisis so there has been fighting, there has been shooting, killings. I myself speaking to you here, I've been targeted. My cousin was shot and 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. Yeah. It's very, very tense.

When you see most of Cameroonians traveling, taking the rigged 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, right? 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 walk is nothing out of the ordinary in Bajo Chiquito. The Embaratao, 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 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 daddy end gap and the people who risk their lives crossing it for a

shot at the american dream and at this point i do want to acknowledge i'm incredibly grateful to the people i work with for trusting me when i ask them to pay for me to disappear in a dog-out canoe into the jungle and come back two weeks later with a story. The Daddy and Looms in the stories of migrants I meet at the US border is 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 the editors to send me to the tiny Embraer 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 Derry and 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 u.s 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 Dalian, 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 Okumba 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 um and i think they do that for americans too yeah so brazil is has sort of uh 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 so you know where i'm, they don't have a visa as far as for Brazilians. 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 taking place in Colombia. So we had to go to Colombia as football fans. That's why they had to give us our visa. 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 Somayeh. I'm from Iran. My name is Mohadeseh from Iran. My name is Ali and I'm from Iran. They told me why they left Iran, but I'm sure many of you can work that one out for yourself, so we won't include it here. How did you come from Iran to here? Did you go through Turkey? It was so difficult and we came from Iran, Tehran to Dubai, after that Sao Paulo, Brazil. And after that, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, Nacocli, 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. Yeah. And it was so hard for us. father it was so emotional yeah and it was so hard for us but because of the freedom because we can speak in our country you know if you speak in your street something like this they will arrest you yeah in the 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 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 ask 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 to you love this yes that's hard yeah no i think that's very good it will be our next home and we should be proud of that we should be work for that we should be be a real American for the country yeah they know Roman are very bad situation have a bad situation in Iran yes yeah for all people that is same but for woman it's very very very hard I think American people know about Mahsa Amini 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 Las Blancas Migrant Reception Center that migrants travel to after they arrive in Bajo Chiquito.

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 13 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 of them. 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 they told me not to do and walking along the migrant trail. Lots of like vines and creepers. Oh, fucking hell. That's me nearly eating shit. There's little bits of tape marking a 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 uh 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 near 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 free diving 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. I get 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 I've got another fucking horse, Jesus, wept I'm jumping out of my skin, everything now um 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 Embraer community I suppose 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 just like flops and jetsome 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. 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 realise how much work goes into making that surface possible. 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 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'd 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. I'm a fit person, I run ultramarathons, 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.

One lady had a cramp today where it just locked up a hole. I grabbed her as she was falling down, and I was able to hold her up. But people are really pushing themselves physically as well as psychologically. That river crossing south of Baja Chiquitú was as far south as I was going to be able to get without being forcibly ejected 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 journey I would share with them was the last kilometre 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 Baja Chiquito, I would look over my shoulder, hop down the riverbank, jump across a stream, and lightly 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. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm

Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of black writers

and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how Tex Elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search,

better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology.

I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities,

artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral.

Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami.

Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Gianna Parente.

And I'm Jimei Jackson-Gadsden. We're the hosts of Let's Talk Offline, the early career podcast from LinkedIn News and iHeart Podcasts. One of the most exciting things about having your first real job is that first real paycheck. You're probably thinking, yay, I can finally buy a new phone. But you also have a lot of questions like, how should I be investing this money? I mean, how much do I save? And what about my 401k? Well, we're talking with finance expert Vivian Tu, aka Your Rich BFF, to break it all down. I always get roasted on the internet when I say this out loud, but I'm like, every single year, you need to be asking for a raise of somewhere between 10 to 15%. I'm not saying you're going to get 15% every single year, but if you ask for

10 to 15 and you end up getting eight, that is actually a true raise. Listen to this week's episode of Let's Talk Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just getting to Bajo Chiquita 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 driver 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 but 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. 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 travel here other than on your feet. And it's the only way the Embarra can get the produce they grow to market. The skill of the piragüeros, 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, marvelling 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 nosebleed slipped and I tried to avoid falling face first into the chocolate brown water. On the way to Bar Chiquiton we passed several small Embarar 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 six foot three 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 reorientated 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 Darien is as real to most Panamanians as Sesame Street or Jurassic Park. But for the Embarrá, this has been their home since long before Panama and Colombia and even maps existed. A 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 Necocli 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. I went

off to interview more migrants. About a thousand of them arrive in this village every day. Each year since the 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 Necocli, 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 of 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. Oh, there are springs that come from the mountain. 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 Baja 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 stave weight on the incredibly steep mountain path. They climb and descend those mountains, across rivers, often without eating or drinking for days at a time. On the trail they pass by the bodies

of their fellow travelers as a constant reminder of the risk they're taking. If you ask people in Panama City, they'll tell you that Dalian 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 U.S. 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 Venezuela ladies that helped me 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 the Darien. And 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 externalise its borders, from US-trained Border Patrol officers in 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 have 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 Kumeyaay people as the government dynamited their graveyards. I've found border wall 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 Dalian 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, as migrants at a reception center called Las Blancas had their families torn apart, 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 Dalian 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 5-, 6-, and 16-year-old child,

the 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 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 recorder 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.

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 on reflection is one of the saddest things I've ever had to record. I'm sure her mum 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.

No 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 mum 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. We pray a lot. I say that we don't know God so much in the church. In the process, in 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 had 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. Both the journey 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, use daddy and give.

No. And even myself, I did know about it. Yeah. 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 governments 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 helped us. That's nice. The other migrants helped you?

Yeah, the others. 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. 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 make it. And we really make it. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas,

and I'm inviting you to join me in a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture.

Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Black Lit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Black Lit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline

is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge

and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts.

Check out betteroffline.com. Hola mi gente, it's Honey German and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations

with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love.

Each week, we'll explore everything, from music and pop culture, to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere.

Elian Gonzalez. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Gianna Parenti.

And I'm Jimei Jackson-Gadsden. We're the hosts of Let's Talk Offline, the early career podcast from LinkedIn News and iHeart Podcasts. One of the most exciting things about having your first real job is that first real paycheck. You're probably thinking, yay, I can finally buy a new phone. But you also have a lot of questions like, how should I be investing this money? I mean, how much do I save? And what about my 401k? Well, we're talking with finance expert Vivian Toot, aka Your Rich BFF, to break it all down. I always get roasted on the internet when I say this out loud, but I'm like, every single year, you need to be asking for a raise of somewhere between 10 to 15%. I'm not saying you're going to get 15% every single year, but if you ask for 10 to 15 and you end up getting eight, that is actually a true raise.

Listen to this week's episode of Let's Talk Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. 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 emperors 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 Barra de Jiquito spend the day in the village, before taking off in a piragua of their own, up to Lajas Blancas, the migrant reception centre I

mentioned earlier. They register with Panamanian Border Patrol, known by the acronym CENAFRONT, 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 ersatz 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 is found that by simply opening a floodgate of weapons and funding, they 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 we'll 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 confining 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 to the seemingly unlimited flow of resources the US dedicates to keeping its conflicts out of the sights and the minds of its citizens. 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 CBP-1, 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 as 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. I'm going to see Minnie. And what do you want to do in the United States? Study? Minnie Mouse, and to see Harant. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can now find sources for It Could Happen Here

listed directly in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening. Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast episode descriptions. Thanks for listening. Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into Tex Elite and how they've turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search,

Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from. The 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. This is the chance to nominate your podcast for the industry's biggest award. Submit your podcast for nomination now at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. But hurry, submissions close on December 8th. Hey, you've been doing all that talking. It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards.

That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking music, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my culture. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers. Each week, we get deep and raw life stories, combos on the issues that matter to us, and it's all packed with gems, fun, straight-up comedy,

and that's a song that only Nuestra Gente can sprinkle. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story,

on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.