The Journalist and the Photo

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Author’s Note

This is the official transcript from The Journalist and the Photo podcast. It has been formatted for readability while preserving the original spoken-word structure. Every moment, detail, and exchange remain exactly as they were told. This is not a reimagined version or a dramatization—this is the story as it happened.

For those who prefer to listen, the full podcast episode is available in English and Spanish on Spotify and Apple Podcasts.

Prologue: The Morning Before

The name’s Mica Treviño—that’s how people know me when I write.

By day, I work in corporate America.

By night, I’m an independent journalist.

Nobody funds this. Nobody pays me.

I take time off from my job, cover my own expenses, and do this on my own terms.

I don’t do this for fame.

I don’t do this for glory.

I do this because I love Mexico—its culture, its food, its people.

And I want Americans to understand what’s really happening there.

This is not a story about the cartel.

This is a story about my journey visiting the cartel.

Chapter 1: Arrival in Culiacán

The journey started in Texas.

A flight to Mexico City for a layover.

Then another plane—Mexico City to Culiacán.

Each leg bringing me closer to something few outsiders ever experience.

Now, here I am.

The airport in Culiacán is small—just a corridor leading straight to baggage claim.

No distractions. No wasted space.

Get in, get your bag, and get out.

I don’t need a mirror to know I stand out.

I’m an American in a city that doesn’t see many outsiders.

Someone who clearly doesn’t belong.

But I’m not here to blend in.

As I wait by the carousel, I scan the crowd.

Not looking for anyone specific—just watching who’s watching me.

Do they wonder what I’m doing here?

Does this guy not realize there’s a war going on?

I push that aside.

This is happening.

The carousel hums to life.

Bags start circulating.

I step up, grab mine, and send a quick message to my wife and parents—

Landed safe.

The plan is simple:

Take a cab. And that’s it.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But nothing about today is simple.

Chapter 2: Checking In at the Hotel

Before we pull in, a large military convoy rumbles past—dust swirling in its wake.

A few trucks have .50-caliber machine guns mounted, while others are packed with troops standing in the back, rifles slung across their chests.

It’s nothing new in Mexico. The military is always present.

But these soldiers aren’t relaxed. They’re watching.

Most of them wear balaclavas or face coverings, concealing everything but their eyes.

I glance out the window, phone in hand, and snap a few quick pictures.

The driver freezes.

His expression tightens.

Without a word, he motions with his hand—lower the phone.

I don’t argue. I slip it into my pocket.

The taxi slows to a stop.

The trunk pops open.

He steps out first, grabs my suitcase.

I pay him, nod, and step onto the curb.

I push through the rotating glass doors.

Inside, the automatic doors slide open, blasting cool air as I step into the lobby.

It’s modern but unremarkable—built for business travelers, not tourists.

To my right, an empty bar and restaurant.

Chairs neatly tucked in, the bar fully stocked, but no guests.

The front desk clerk greets me with a polite smile—mid-20s, professional.

“Welcome.”

I slide my passport and credit card across the counter.

She copies the passport, processes the payment, then hands them back.

My key follows, her smile staying in place.

“Enjoy your stay,” she says, like this is just any other city.

She gestures toward the elevators.

No small talk. No questions.

I nod, take the key, and head that way.

The elevator doors close.

I ride up in silence.

Finally, I’m here.

Chapter 3: The Room

The room is clean. Functional. Nothing special.

A bed. A desk. A balcony overlooking the city.

I drop my bag, unzip it—cameras, recorders, notebooks. Everything I need.

I check the locks. The exits. The view.

Then, I pull out my phone and type a quick message.

“I’m here.”

Seconds pass. Then a minute.

A response arrives:

“We know. Tomorrow at 9:30. Be ready.”

I exhale, locking the screen. That’s it. My confirmation. This is happening.

I step onto the balcony.

The sun is dipping low, casting long shadows over Culiacán.

The city hums below me—cars moving, life going on like any other place.

But this isn’t just any city.

I know that.

I lean on the railing, scanning the streets, the buildings, the river cutting through the heart of it all.

A thought creeps in.

Is someone watching me?

Do they already know I’m here?

I’d be stupid to think otherwise.

I slide my phone into my pocket.

The room behind me suddenly feels smaller.

I step back inside, sliding the balcony door shut.

The TV plays, but I’m not watching.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my mind already on tomorrow.

The hot water from the shower helps, but not enough.

I dry off, shut off the lights, and lie down.

Whether I sleep or not—tomorrow is coming. 

Chapter 4: The Pickup

I wake up hours before the alarm.

Excited. Focused. Ready.

Living in the moment.

I know I should be afraid, but I refuse to entertain that thought today.

For someone who reports on cartels, this is the Super Bowl, the World Cup, and Christmas rolled into one.

What I’m doing today?

Unheard of.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I know I won’t fall back asleep.

I need to clear my head.

I grab my shoes, throw on workout clothes, and head outside.

The city is waking up—early risers opening their shops, a few street vendors setting up.

The air is cool, the streets quiet. For now.

I have a good idea of what to expect today.

I start jogging, keeping my pace slow, letting my thoughts drift.

But knowing something and living it are two different things.

For a moment, I let myself question if this is real.

I remind myself—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I push through the last few blocks, breathing deep, feeling the energy settle in me.

Back at the hotel, I head upstairs, set my alarms. 1 hour. 30 minutes, 10 minutes.

Time to get my mind right.

I take a long shower, letting the heat loosen me up.

Stepping out, I check the time.

Still early, but the countdown has started.

I grab a black Hugo Boss shirt—not because of the brand, but you’ll see why later.

Dark jeans. Comfortable sneakers.

Structured, functional, but not flashy.

I take one last look in the mirror.

And I remind myself.

Live in the moment.

I grab my watch, phone, sunglasses, and room key.

It’s time.

Chapter 5: The Drive

The SUV pulls away, and I feel a shift.

I’m no longer just a curious outsider—I’m an investigative journalist stepping into cartel territory.

The voices on multiple radios crackle in Spanish, a constant hum of communication. I expected this.

But experiencing it firsthand?

Surreal.

The driver doesn’t speak English. I don’t press the issue. My bag, my devices—they’re staying put. Unspoken rules.

He checks his mirrors often. Subtle counter-surveillance moves. Not paranoid—cautious. Thorough.

I reach into my bag, pull out a protein bar. Without a word, I hold it out. He takes it with a small nod.

The air conditioning hums against the heat.

He’s young—maybe early 20s. Polite. No theatrics. No small talk. Just a job to do.

A song comes on.

El Gavilán II

by Peso Pluma.

Not random. Not an accident. A message.

El Gavilán is a key security figure for Los Chapitos—a man who enforces their will, protects their interests. A name that carries weight.

Iván. Archivaldo. Guzmán. Salazar.

Known as.

El Chapito.

Or by his initials.

I.A.G.

The eldest son of El Chapo. After his father’s extradition in 2017, he took control. The brothers—Ovidio, Joaquín, Alfredo make up Los Chapitos.

Ovidio and Joaquín? Gone. Arrested

Iván and Alfredo? Still standing. Still running the show.

A Fortune 500 of the cartel world.

Iván has outlasted rivals. Outsmarted enemies. Expanded operations into a more sophisticated empire.

Most cartel heirs fall apart. Iván didn’t.

I look at it like I analyze any power structure:

How strong is leadership? What’s the long-term vision? What’s the risk tolerance?

By those standards? Los Chapitos isn’t just surviving. They’re thriving.

The SUV glides through the streets.

The driver stays alert.

I glance out the window.

This is real now.

Chapter 6: The Journey to the Meet

The SUV slows as we turn onto a side road. Dust kicks up behind us.

We’re heading away from the city now. Away from surveillance, away from anything recognizable.

Finally, we pull off the road, tucking into the shadow of an overpass. Concrete pillars loom overhead, tagged with sun-faded graffiti.

Two vehicles sit waiting. Their engines are running.

The driver cuts the ignition. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn. Just waits.

I exhale, reach for the door handle, and step out.

Four men exit one of the waiting vehicles.

All masked. All armed.

They move with a controlled, effortless precision—not reckless, not amateur.

These aren’t low-level guys.

I don’t feel threatened, but I understand exactly what this is.

My eyes scan their weapons—high-end, well-maintained. Not beat-up AKs, but something else. Something that says money. Connections. Training.

These men are the real deal.

A fifth man steps forward. He’s different. Presence. Command. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

He signals for a search.

I nod and comply—I expected this. Nothing about today is casual.

I remove my watch. I don’t ask questions. I unclip my sunglasses. A pat-down, quick but thorough—TSA-level, maybe better.

Someone mumbles something about my shoes. I slip them off without a word, stepping onto warm dirt.

I step back, hands at my sides, giving them space to finish.

No hay problema.

No problem.

No need for small talk. This is procedure.

One of them lifts my shoes, inspects them, then sets them back down.

I slide them on, slow and deliberate.

Still no words. Just a nod.

Cleared.

I reach into my bag. A pause.

I don’t want to be misunderstood.

I hold up my hand—not a surrender, just a signal—before I move.

Slowly, I pull out a few protein bars. A peace offering.

No hesitation. They take them.

No words. Just an exchange.

The first driver keeps my belongings. Standard protocol.

Before they move me to another vehicle, I raise three fingers.

Lentes. Libreta. Pluma.

Sunglasses. A notebook. A pen.

They glance at each other, then back at me.

A second later, they hand them over.

Another nod.

Cleared.

A door swings open.

I step inside the next vehicle.

Chapter 7: The Flight – Preparing to Board

The SUV slows, maneuvering into position, trunk facing the dirt runway.

Through the window, I see endless crops on one side, a dusty airstrip on the other.

A makeshift runway in the middle of nowhere. A place not meant to be found.

I sit still, taking it in. I glance at the driver, then gesture upward—am I flying?

He nods once. “Sí.”

Straightforward. No ceremony.

After hours on the road, I step out, stretching my legs.

The heat is dry, heavy. The air smells of fuel.

A small brick structure stands nearby. Not a waiting area.

Not a place for comfort.

Tools lie scattered.

This is a pit stop.

Fuel up, check the plane, and go.

I glance back at the SUV.

The city is behind me.

The next step is airborne.

Chapter 8: The Flight-Takeoff

A woman on the far side of the airstrip hoses down the dirt. She’s not cleaning. She’s prepping.

For what, I’m not certain.

Then, in the distance, a plane appears.

It approaches smoothly, touches down, and taxis closer.

A white Cessna—clean. well-kept. Not flashy. Just functional.

The pilot steps out—designer jeans, Hugo Boss shirt, a fashionable trucker hat.

Effortless.

Like this is just another Tuesday.

My driver greets him first. I wait, watching.

The two exchange words—low voices, brief conversation. Then my driver waves me over.

Time to go.

I grab my sunglasses, my notepad, and a half-empty water bottle before stepping out.

The pilot greets me with a firm handshake. Steady grip. Direct eye contact. No small talk.

He climbs in, flipping switches, punching in last-minute GPS coordinates. A change. The plan just shifted.

The propeller spins faster.

The cabin feels small. Tight.

The plane jerks forward, picking up speed—faster, rougher, rattling over the uneven dirt.

Then, we lift.

The pilot doesn’t hesitate.

No wasted motion.

No second-guessing.

We fly low—below radar, presumably.

Radios crackle. The hum of voices, constant. The pilot stays locked in—calm, focused.

I glance out the window.

The city is gone. The mountains stretch ahead.

This isn’t just a trip anymore.

This is my world now.

Chapter 9: The Flight & The View Below

Once we reach a stable altitude, the pilot finishes a radio conversation.

He opens the glove box—phones, radios—selects one phone, pairs it to Bluetooth, and hits play.

“Yo Soy Iván” by Grupo Máximo Grado booms through the cabin.

I recognize it. Everyone here does.

He sings along quietly. There’s a deep respect for Iván Archivaldo Guzmán. Outsiders might call it hero-worship; they see it as loyalty.

Yo soy Iván, Archivaldo Salazar,

También por mis venas corre el apellido Guzmán,

Soy hijo del general.

I’m Iván. Archivaldo. Salazar.

Guzmán runs through my veins,

I am the son of the general.

It’s a declaration. A statement of identity.

If you look at this organization differently, you’d say it underpins an entire local economy, employing thousands, directly and indirectly.

There are rules, expectations. When those are followed, the city functions.

But I’ve told you that Culiacán is dangerous.

Here’s why.

Before Mayito Flaco brought war to Culiacán in September 2024, there was stability. The Chapitos ensured it. There was order. There were Christmas celebrations.

Families could go to the movies, sit down for dinner without worry.

Now?

Restaurants torched. Families afraid to go out after dark.

Some pay with money. Others pay with blood.

A child—severely burned— survived an attack. She’s in the United States now, receiving care at a special burn unit.

I plan to follow up with her in person.

War isn’t just bullets and bodies. It disrupts supply lines, slows down operations, brings unnecessary heat.

Stability is profitable. Chaos isn’t.

The pilot is calm, disciplined, young. I glance at the GPS again: 74 minutes to go.

We’re still flying low over rugged mountains, deep valleys, endless brush.

Not empty, though. This land breathes with hidden life.

I settle into the seat, absorbing everything.

The pilot focuses on the horizon. No small talk. He doesn’t need it.

We’re getting close.

Chapter 10: The Landing

It’s rumored cartel leadership is near our destination.

The pilot carefully lowers the plane onto a dirt airstrip, much like the last one.

He’s got serious skill—smooth, controlled, no wasted motion.

We taxi to where two men stand by parked planes. The pilot shuts down and steps out, offering to assist me.

I wave him off, stepping into the heat myself.

A dozen planes line the strip, parked efficiently in tight rows. This isn’t random; it’s a system.

Dogs roam lazily, a rooster crows—someone must live here. This isn’t just a stopover.

At this point, I’m oddly comfortable. I’ve come farther than most.

This is a place few outsiders ever see.

The pilot requests maintenance, and a mechanic drives us up the road to another vehicle waiting.

No rush. No hesitation.

Everything runs like clockwork.

And I go with it.

Chapter 11: The Transfer

We switch to a four-door sedan—dark-tinted windows, unremarkable in a way that stands out.

The pilot takes the front passenger seat. They know each other—that’s obvious.

No face masks now.

Every new person I meet is closer to the center.

This driver is no different—crisp shirt, designer jeans.

We keep going.

Dusty roads. Endless flat land. Distant mountains.

No signs, no landmarks.

Time is irrelevant; only distance matters.

Eventually, we approach a small, nameless town.

The sedan pulls into a convenience store.

Another car arrives.

More members of Los Chapitos.

No tension. Just familiarity. A few quick laughs.

I stretch my legs. The pilot gestures—

“¿Quieres algo?” (Do you want something?)

Yeah,- I want a beer.

“Cerveza, por favor.”

Inside, he points me to the fridge. I grab one.

He hands me three.

I laugh. “No, just one.”

I’m mentally exhausted, physically drained.

That cold can is exactly what I need.

We drive another hour through nothingness.

Just dust and nowhere.

Finally, we arrive.

No sign.

No gates.

Just an understanding—this is it.

I step out.

Chapter 12.13: The Arrival & The Sit-Down

The car slows.

This is it.

I glance at the car radio. The time flashes—late morning.

The driver and pilot step out at the same time as me. They drift toward a small group, greeting them casually.

A man approaches me. The translator.

We shake hands.

“I appreciate your help today,” I tell him.

“Of course,” he nods.

Before heading to the table, I turn to a solidly built man with a 1911 on his hip.

“¿Dónde está el baño?”

“Where is the bathroom?”

No hesitation. He motions for me to follow. His demeanor isn’t indifferent—he’s actually welcoming.

Inside, it’s a bare concrete room. No frills. Just function.

For the first time in hours, I’m alone.

I turn on the faucet, splash water on my face, and look at myself in the mirror.

I smirk—and it turns into a silent laugh.

How the hell did I get here?

I exhale, dry my hands, and step back out.

The smell of food hits me immediately—grilled meat, roasted chilies, fresh tortillas.

It’s a good smell.

In front of me, a long wooden table. Seated around it—well-dressed men.

Hugo Boss. Christian Dior. Crisp shirts, subtle but expensive watches.

They carry themselves differently than anyone I’ve met so far.

They aren’t just here.

They own the room.

Before I take my seat, I remove my sunglasses, setting them on the table beside my notepad and pen.

I look into each man’s eyes as I shake their hands—steady, deliberate.

Respect is given.

Respect is received.

Only then do I sit, slipping my sunglasses back on as I lean into my chair.

I glance at the translator’s watch occasionally, tracking time without making it obvious.

We talk

Current events. Cars. Food. Family. The war in Vietnam.

They ask for my thoughts. They share their opinions.

They aren’t in a rush.

They enjoy my company.

I glance at my translator’s watch. Over ninety minutes have passed.

As I eat, I glance around.

Thirty men.

Most are sicarios, dressed in tactical gear, brandishing a variety of machine guns.

Their job is obvious.

They protect the men at the table with me.

One of the men—the one to my left—gestures toward my plate.

“¿Cómo están los tacos?”

“How are the tacos?”

With food still in my mouth, I nod, giving a thumbs-up.

He laughs, then leans in slightly.

“Cuidado con la salsa.”

“Be careful with the salsa.”

I ask what he recommends.

He insists—lime, onion, cilantro.

I follow his advice.

He’s right. This is good.

The man across from me looks at his phone.

He leans over, whispering something to the translator.

The translator turns to me.

“Lo siento, señor. No habrá entrevista hoy.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There will be no interview today.”

Then, he adds,

“La persona que planeaste entrevistar no está disponible. Te agradece por haber venido hasta aquí y dice que le gustaría conocerte algún día.”

“The person you planned to interview is unavailable. He thanks you for coming all this way and says he would like to meet you one day.”

That’s it.

That’s the answer.

No dramatic exit. No sudden shift.

Just an understanding.

Maybe next time.

I lean back in my chair, take another bite.

And I go with it.

Chapter 14: The Goodbye & The Photo

The conversations wind down. People shift in their seats, wrapping up.

We stand, exchanging handshakes, final pleasantries.

One of them asks,

“Anything we can do for you?”

I don’t hesitate.

“I need a photo. I need proof. Nobody will believe me otherwise.”

A brief discussion. Three men talk among themselves. The translator listens, then turns to me.

“They’ll arrange it.”

One man—clearly in charge—signals to a group of sicarios. The men start positioning themselves discreetly around the truck.

I step toward the vehicle and ask, “Can I see the armor on the back window?”

One of them nods, taps the glass. Thick. Reinforced.

He opens the door to show me.

Perfect.

Another man stands back, camera phone in hand, waiting for the right moment.

The positioning is just right.

He snaps five shots.

Then, he gives me a thumbs-up.

I nod. “Gracias.”

Thank you.

They nod back.

The Goodbye.

We shake hands again.

One of them thanks me for coming all this way.

As we step away, I reach for a handshake-shoulder tap. It’s a total mismatch. Once, twice—a complete fail.

They laugh. I laugh.

And that’s when it hits me.

This world isn’t what people imagine.

It’s human. Surreal, but human.

As I walk to the vehicle, I glance at my translator’s watch.

Over two hours have passed.

This happened.

And that photo? Proof.

Final Chapter 15: The Last Night in Culiacán

The Drive Back

We reverse the process now.

Plane. Cars. The same labyrinth in reverse.

Everything moves faster this time. More efficient. The driver is relaxed—maybe I passed the test.

Dust plumes behind us. My mind replays every detail. I need to write it all down before it fades.

The sun is lower now, maybe 4:30 or 5:00 p.m. Long shadows stretch across the fields.

No stops. No hiccups. We retrace our route like clockwork.

The Flight Back

I don’t usually drink beer, but today calls for it. The can’s cold against my palm.

We lift off, soaring over the same terrain—mountains, farmland, the sky tinged orange by the setting sun.

This flight feels different. Calmer. I’m not tense, not analyzing. I’m just… here.

I think about the meeting—faces, conversations, that group photo. I lock the details in my head.

No talk from the pilot. He’s focused on the instruments, and I’m good with that.

I realize how comfortable I’ve become. Not fearless, but… at ease. I’ve seen a slice of the cartel world from inside.

That’s real journalism: stepping past the boundaries.

Just another day in Culiacán.

The Return to the Hotel

Time feels warped. The drive from the airstrip back to the hotel is quick. My thoughts swirl with everything I’ve witnessed.

We pass familiar roads, but I’m not scanning now. I’m deep in reflection.

The sun is dropping low—everything’s tinted in warm light.

No pit stops, no side missions.

The driver from earlier greets me through the window. He hands me my belongings—untouched.

I give a thumbs-up, no need to inspect.

I nod to him. “Gracias.”

He nods back. “Señor.”

I step out.

The automatic doors slide open, blasting me with cool air.

“Welcome back! How was your day?” asks the front desk clerk.

I hesitate.

How do you answer that?

I offer a polite smile. “It’s been… one of those days.”

She laughs. I take my key and head for the elevator.

Upstairs, housekeeping has refreshed the room—clean towels, made bed, like I never left.

I drop my bag on the floor and stand there for a moment, letting the day wash over me.

The Last Message.

I grab my phone.

I type a message.

“Thank you for the hospitality. I’m going to be here for a few days. Can someone take me around the city tomorrow? There are things I’d like to see in person.”

I hit send.

I exhale, rubbing my eyes.

A knock at the door.

Room Service.

I get up, walk to the door, and let room service in.

She wheels the tray inside, nods politely. I sign, she exits.

I set the water bottle next to my plate. Simple meal—nothing fancy, just enough to settle me.

 As I sit down, my phone buzzes.

A message notification.

I glance at the screen.

This isn’t my last night in Culiacán.

That’s another story for another time.

Final Closing Note

Thank you for coming on this journey with me.

This wasn’t just a story.

This was real.

Every moment—every handshake, every conversation, every risk—was a step deeper into a world most people will never see firsthand.

I didn’t go looking for answers. I went looking for understanding.

This is not about glorifying or condemning. It’s about documenting. Witnessing. Telling the truth.

This is an abbreviated story. Certain details and specifics have been intentionally left out for my safety.

There are more stories. More moments. More things I can’t forget.

And when the time is right, I’ll tell those too.

Until then—this was my time in Culiacán.

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