Making of a Sicario: CJNG’s Training Camps

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There’s been a media frenzy over CJNG’s so-called “Terror Ranch,” officially known as Izaguirre Ranch, located near Teuchitlán in the state of Jalisco, about an hour from Guadalajara. Sensational headlines have shamelessly compared it to Auschwitz—the Nazi extermination camp where approximately 1.1 million people were systematically murdered. But let’s be clear: while Izaguirre Ranch is ruthless and unforgiving, it’s not a death factory. This isn’t Auschwitz. This is CJNG, and reality is gritty enough without hyperbole. What follows isn’t speculation—it’s the real story, told firsthand by someone who survived Izaguirre Ranch and lived to talk about it.

The dirt road snakes through the Jalisco highlands, leading to a compound few outsiders ever see. Here, young recruits enter the world of the Cartel Jalisco New Generation (CJNG) not simply as criminals, but as so-called “servants of the people.” This remote training camp is a crucible of discipline, fear, and indoctrination, where men leave behind their old identities to be reforged as soldiers of the cartel.

One former recruit, barely eighteen, recounts his time inside Izaguirre Ranch. His story is neither regretful nor apologetic—rather, it is a stark, matter-of-fact glimpse into a system designed to churn out CJNG’s next generation of warriors.

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The School of Terror

“When I joined, I was sixteen,” the former recruit says. “By the time I left, I had been trained by ex-special forces from Mexico, Colombia, and even U.S. Rangers. They called it the Commanders’ School. It was the last step before becoming a true leader.”

From the outset, strict discipline and harsh conditions set the tone. Recruits were stripped of personal belongings, subjected to invasive searches, and made to stand naked while being assigned sleeping spots on a bare floor.

“They checked everything—clothes, backpacks, even our wallets. Phones were destroyed on the spot. We were only allowed to keep a single number to contact our families.”

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Daily Routine

7:00 AM Wake-up Calls: Immediately followed by punishing exercise—laps around the ranch, push-ups, ab workouts. Anyone who lagged behind was beaten with wooden boards.

Sparse Meals: Food was served twice a day. Recruits with money could buy snacks from the handlers; everyone else went hungry.

Weapons Training: Drilled first with paintball guns, then advanced to real firearms. Commands came in numerical codes—“12” meant fire and engage the safety; “22” signaled a magazine change.

Government surveillance was ever-present.

“Almost every day, a drone flew overhead,” he recalls. “When we heard it, we rushed inside. The cartel didn’t want the military to see how many of us were actually there.”

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Trial by Paintball: The ‘Test of Courage’

Within this brutal school, one of the most feared rites of passage was the test of courage, a punishing set of paintball (“gotcha”) battles conducted over three consecutive days—with almost no protective gear.

“The only thing we had was a mask,” the former recruit explains. “Two rules: First, if you took three shots in the mask, you were ‘dead’ and had to throw yourself on the ground immediately. If you didn’t drop, or if you moved after going down, an instructor would shoot you at close range, yelling, ‘The dead don’t move!’ The second rule was that you could never stop or back down—just keep moving forward.”

How It Worked

1. Teams of five faced off in a clearing.
2. Commander’s Shout: “15!” meant advance straight ahead, firing relentlessly at the person in front of you.
3. If you eliminated your target (three hits to their mask), you immediately targeted the next person—again, never slowing, never retreating.
4. Losing Team’s Penalty: They stripped off their shirts and were forced into a second round. The final match had no tangible prize, only the “honor” of being declared the bravest and most skilled.

The injuries were severe:

“By the end, almost everyone’s body was riddled with welts and bruises. The paintball rounds hit hard enough to break skin. I got hit behind my ear, and it tore the flesh open. We were all sore and covered in marks. They called them ‘the marks from the school.’ Even our handlers carried these scars—they’d been through the same.”

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Weapon Assembly: ‘The Legend’

Another torturous phase involved mastering firearms under intense psychological pressure. Recruits were locked in a small room and forced to memorize a “legend”—a specific mantra or script—that accompanied the breakdown of each weapon.

“They gave us a note with the exact words we had to say when disassembling the guns. We sat on the floor, head down, reading it over and over. If we looked up or moved, they hit us.”

Once a recruit claimed to have memorized the legend, the real drills began:

1. Empty the Weapon: Instructors removed live rounds, but made it clear they were watching every move.
2. Recite the Legend: The recruit repeated the memorized script word for word while breaking down the weapon—naming each piece in order.
3. Punishment for Mistakes: If you skipped a line or misnamed a part, you got beaten on the spot.
4. Reassembly: You had to put the weapon back together without error.

“We did this for every type of weapon they had—AR15 rifles, AK-47s, Beretta 9mm, Colt .38 Super, Glocks. Sometimes they’d randomly slap or kick us, yelling, ‘The soldiers are coming! Hurry! Your teammates are leaving you!’ The whole point was to see if we could assemble and disassemble under chaos.”

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El Sapo: The Man Behind the Training

Overseeing much of this was El Sapo, known to recruits as ’90’. For many recruits, his reputation alone was terrifying. According to multiple sources, his real name is Gonzalo Mendoza Gaytán, originally from Michoacán, and he is approximately 34 years old (as of 2021 reports). He is the brother of Abundio Mendoza Gaytán, alias “El Güero Abundio,” a regional CJNG leader arrested in January 2012. Following his brother’s detention, El Sapo rose to prominence, taking control of Puerto Vallarta—one of the cartel’s key financial strongholds.

A May 2019 U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) report describes him as a trusted associate of Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, alias “El Mencho.” It even portrays him as second-in-command within CJNG’s hierarchy, though those rankings may shift depending on which source you consult.

“He gave speeches, telling us we weren’t hitmen—we were protectors of our families,” the former recruit recalls. “Then he’d hand out 5,000 pesos to each of us.”

Sapo’s Guard

• Ex-military from Colombia, Guatemala, and the U.S.: A multi-national cadre of hardened fighters.
• Stationed at a ranch near Las Palmas: Fortified with ‘falcons’ (lookouts) and roadblocks.

“We trained for everything: ambushes, roadblocks, air defense. If the government showed up, we’d burn trucks or fuel tankers to block roads. After Mencho shot down the helicopter, we learned from that—RPGs, miniguns, convoy maneuvers. There weren’t just two miniguns; there were many. 90 had his own, too.”

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Life and Death in the Camp

Violence was not confined to battlefield drills. Recruits were forced to partake in executions—a grim final exam in loyalty.

“They made us dismember bodies,” he says flatly. “Three men had stolen weapons. We were told to cut them up and break their bones. If you refused, you died, too.”

He estimates at least five people were killed during his two-month stay.

“One was a woman. They severed her head and put it in a jar. She’d stolen from the cartel. Her baby was crying in the background while they did it.”

Drugs were supposedly off-limits for recruits—only commanders had permission to partake. Any loss of control was dealt with swiftly.

“A guy freaked out on drugs and fired his gun by accident. They tied him to a truck and took him to 90. He lasted barely two days.”

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Graduation or Death

A system of violent meritocracy governed who advanced.

“If you stood out, you got sent to work directly under 90 (El Sapo). Others were shipped to active war zones. If you survived and proved yourself, you might earn 80,000 pesos a month and get a month off after every two months. But failure usually meant death.”

When the former recruit was deployed to Zacatecas, the government launched a major offensive.

“They bombed our safe houses. One strike hit our admin house where they kept our pay. People assumed we’d never see our money, but the cartel still made sure we got paid on time. That’s why people stay loyal.”

Their mission was clear:

“Take Jerez. Clean the plaza. If we succeeded, we’d become commanders or plaza bosses. We failed. I ended up back home with my family.”

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A Final Reflection

Now, at just 18, the former recruit considers how close he came to a permanent life of violence.

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed. Maybe I’d be dead, or maybe I’d be under another commander. Who knows?”

He can’t shake the discipline forged at the camp.

“It was worse than any basic training. I was side by side with Kaibiles, Rangers, Navy SEALs. I figured they’d use me as a test dummy.” He survived; many did not.

“People say recruits commit suicide. I doubt it—the only escape was forward. The last thing they told me was that I was young, but wise. They called me ‘El Listón.’”

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For those who enter CJNG’s orbit, there are three paths: command, war, or death. He slipped away, but the lessons of 90—along with the bruises, scars, and that unrelenting discipline—remain. They may never truly leave him.

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He escaped the camp, but freedom is a relative concept for those who’ve passed through CJNG’s brutal rite of passage. For ‘El Listón,’ the war isn’t just a memory—it’s etched into his flesh and burned into his mind, a shadow trailing every step forward. In a world shaped by men like El Sapo, survival itself becomes an act of defiance, because once you’ve trained as a sicario, you never fully escape the school of terror.