One migrant’s journey to Sacramento: 108 days, 3 deportations and the search for a new life

Diego de Jesús Delgado Meléndez traveled thousands of miles from his home in Venezuela and trekked some of the world’s most dangerous terrain in search of a way to provide for his 11 children. And yet, when he finally entered the U.S., after 85 days and 3 deportations, his journey hadn’t finished.

Delgado Meléndez, 40, is among the 36 migrants who arrived in Sacramento on two Florida chartered flights nearly two months ago. After traveling through Central and South America, they found themselves flown to Sacramento as political pawns in the dispute over immigration policy.

Migrants, like Delgado Meléndez, continue to be transported to Democratic cities. The tactic has been used by some Republican governors in recent years to protest immigration policies. Advocates blast the stunts as cruel, forcing cities and organizations to scramble for resources. Others, like Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, take responsibility for organizing the movement of migrants and point to them willfully going.

Most of the migrants are merely symbols of an ongoing humanitarian crisis, people hoping to escape persecution or secure stable income for their families. Many are now struggling to find work and face uphill battles to win their asylum cases. In the meantime, they are still traumatized from their monthslong journey to reach the U.S. that included days without eating, sleeping on the street and trudging past dead bodies.

Delgado Meléndez stands at 5 feet 5 inches and weighs roughly 180 pounds, up nearly 50 pounds from when he entered the country in May. He has a weathered face with patches of facial hair that nearly make up a full beard. Most days, he wears jeans, T-shirt and a K-Pax Racing hat — attire chosen from local thrift stores with the help of organizers.

He is the oldest of the group, and the only one who didn’t sign the consent form given to them to participate in the transportation program funded by the state of Florida. Now spending most of his time in a 190-square foot hotel room, Delgado Meléndez is frustrated but thankful.

He and the other migrants who remain in Sacramento are currently housed in a hotel as they continue to work through their immigration cases and attempt to find work. Their rooms are compact with two queen-sized beds, a 32-inch TV, small dining table and fridge packed with leftover food from the food pantry.

The following is a recounting of Delgado Meléndez’s journey to Sacramento. He’s hopeful for what his future may hold, even if the struggle continues.

“We did it all to take care of our children,” Delgado Meléndez said. ”In one form or another, whatever happened to us was good.”

‘Give the little one a better life’

Delgado Meléndez was born in 1983 in Maracaibo, the country’s second largest city. He said he grew up in a large family, the fifth born of his mother’s 26 children. His father had 52 children in total.

He described his childhood as “normal.” His mother cleaned houses and his father worked in the oil industry. At 8, his father died in a car accident at 59. By 13, Delgado Meléndez had stopped attending school and picked up a job as a mechanic to help the family.

Years of working odd jobs landed him in a welding position, which eventually became his primary occupation. His life was modest but livable, Delgado Meléndez said.

But in 2015, Venezuela began to experience an economic and political catastrophe.

Before then, Venezuela’s oil dependent economy made it among one of most prosperous in Latin America, according to Arturo Castellanos-Canales, a policy and advocacy manager at the National Immigration Forum. Sudden declines in the oil prices destabilized the economy and undermined the government.

“The Venezuelan government didn’t diversify their earnings of the country,” Arturo Castellanos-Canales said. “They heavily relied on oil and, when prices plummeted, they had no alternatives.”

As unrest continued, President Nicolás Maduro consolidated power through political repression and electoral manipulation, which led the migration to accelerate. Millions of residents were eventually driven from their homes by hyperinflation and shortages of basic necessities.

Around this time, Delgado Meléndez left to Colombia with his wife. He said he left behind 10 children, between ages 4 and 24, with family and promised to send money when he could. His escape to Colombia coincided with initial Venezuelan migration.

“At first, they started going to neighboring countries, but the situation got to a point where they’re began trying to find opportunities elsewhere,” Castellanos-Canales said.

The COVID-19 pandemic and Colombia’s issues handling the mass exodus from Venezuela led to many migrants traveling farther north. Delgado Meléndez referenced the pandemic as the main reason for his family’s economic situation worsening.

Last October, he began thinking about making the 3000-mile journey himself. His wife first broached him with the idea. Their youngest daughter, who was born in Colombia, had recently turned 4. Delgado Meléndez was making about $20 working each week.

“She told me to come because life would be better,” Delgado Meléndez said. “And that it was it necessary to give the little one a better life.”

So, in February, he took a bus to Necoclí, a small coastal town of northern Colombia, with the “willpower of God.”

‘There’s no shortage of dead’

Migrants, he said, began lining up on the beach of Necoclí in the early morning. Ahead of them was the Gulf of Urabá, a stretch of the Carribean Sea. Smugglers offered boat packages to three locations — Carreto, Capurganá and Acandí.

Each beach town starts a different route through the Darién Gap, 66-miles of treacherous, roadless jungle connecting South and North America.

Delgado Meléndez began his journey to the United States in Necoclí, Colombia. In recent years, Necoclí has become a common stopping point for international migrants traveling north.

He crossed the Gulf of Urabá to the Colombian beach town of Capurganá.

He began his trek through the Darien Gap in Capurganá. The Darién Gap is a notoriously dangerous migration route between Colombia and Panama.

The Darien Gap is the only overland path connecting Central and South America. It took three days for Delgado Meléndez to cross the Gap, traveling the 25 miles from Capurganá to Bajo Chiquito on foot.

On Feb. 14, Delgado Meléndez paid to travel to Capurganá, which is the starting point of the most common path through the jungle. He didn’t waiver recounting most of his journey, but his voice lowered recalling the following three days.

The first day took him up mud-slick hills in a dense part of the forest. By that afternoon, he saw the first of 22 dead bodies — 19 adults and three children — in the gap.

“There’s no shortage of dead,” he said.

On the second day of his jungle trip, his journey slowed as each step was taken with more caution. The dead became more apparent that day — bodies collapsed by the river, people who fell off the cliffs and others who stopped moving from exhaustion or lack of food and water.

He climbed a grueling mountain aptly named the Hill of Death, and recalled struggling to sleep near the riverbank. The fear of robbery and death kept him up most of the night.

“You wonder if the same thing was going to happen to you,” Delgado Meléndez said. “In the jungle, no one cares about anyone.

On the third day, he arrived at a camp in the town of Bajo Chiquito, which marks the first populated place on the Panamanian side and the next-to-last stop in the gap. Many migrants are met by international humanitarian organizations that have set up there to provide medical care and other services.

The Darien Gap is the only break in the Pan-American Highway. There is no paved road through the forest. There is also no law enforcement, which puts migrants at risk of robbery, rape and trafficking.

The Darien Gap is one of the rainiest regions in the world. Flash floods are frequent, making the mountainous rainforest terrain all the more difficult to cross.

According to the U.N., the number of migrants who cross the Darien Gap could grow to as many as 400,000 in 2023.

Delgado Meléndez exited the Darien Gap in a town called Bajo Chiquito. In Bajo Chiquito, there are international aid groups like Doctors Without Borders and UNICEF, though access to clean water is scarce.

Panamanian officials had also set up a migration checkpoint. An estimated 250,000 migrants have crossed the Darién Gap so far this year, surpassing the record set in 2022, according to Panama’s government.

At the camp, Delgado Meléndez scrapped together enough donations to pay for a bus passage through the rest of Panama and into Costa Rica where the “real journey begins.”

In Uvita, a small beach town of Costa Rica, he was given donations by Americans. They provided $100 and a paid hotel for the night. It was the only time he did not sleep on the floor for the next two months.

He continued on, traveling via a mix of bus rides and walking through Honduras and Guatamala. At certain points, he was stopped by organized crime groups or authorities trying to extort him. He laughed when recalling these moments.

“They let me go because I didn’t have any money,” Delgado Meléndez said.

‘Tren de la muerte’

Delgado Meléndez described those 32 days walking as “the worst of the world.” He started in Tapachula, Mexico’s main border city with Guatemala, where he had run out of money to travel by bus. His destination was 411 miles away, the capital of Oaxaca.

He would usually walk at night, after the sun had set, and go until 11 a.m. Rest took place on the side of the street during the day. Food sometimes came through the good will of strangers, but mostly from the seemingly endless mango trees that surrounded him.

One day, he worked harvesting peanuts. He was paid 200 pesos, or about $11. The money was useful when he arrived at Oaxaca’s capital. There, he used the $11 to pay for a bus ticket to the Mexico City.

Freight trains, known colloquially as “la bestia” (“the beast “) — or “tren de la muerte” (“train of death”) — became his next main method of transportation. Over the years, the trains have earned their names because so many migrants have fallen off and lost limbs or been killed. Others have been caught beneath the wheels, their bodies cut in two. Delgado Meléndez carries videos in his phone of some amputated dead bodies.

This passage to the northern towns didn’t require money, but he had to pay other prices. During the day, touching the scorching metal walls of the train was difficult. At night, train cars grew so cold, sleeping was hard, he said.

His journey of freight trains came to an halt in Ciudad Juárez, right across the border from El Paso, Texas. Delgado Meléndez believed his travels might soon end. But a first attempt to enter the country was unsuccessful. He turned himself in to border patrol officials seeking asylum, but was denied entry and held for 11 days.

‘I was alone, alone like the child Jesus’

His detainment ended with a deportation to Tijuana. A combination of walking and hitchhiking landed him in Mexicali, another border city. He again boarded the train, hoping to return to Ciudad Juárez. On the way, Delgado Meléndez was faced with yet another ever-present threat of the trains — criminals who extort or kill passengers.

At a stop in the town of Caborca, he said cartel members grabbed him and three other travelers. Delgado Meléndez was interrogated with gun rifles pointed to his head. They asked to search his phone, and questioned his reasons for migrating. He recalled telling them about his 11 children and desire to work.

“I figured if I got nervous they would kill me,” Delgado Meléndez said.

The cartel members pushed him aside, and interrogated the other three. Two of the men were aggressively probed for possessing American phone numbers on their phones. Delgado Meléndez said he witnessed them shoot one of the men nine times in the chest, killing him. Another one ran, was shot more than a dozen times in the back and fell dead.

Delgado Meléndez was released, and headed back to Ciudad Juárez, where he was again denied entry. This time, he was deported to Piedras Negras.

Weeks later, Delgado Meléndez was back in the city trying a third time. Again, he was deported. Now, in the northeastern Mexican town of Matamores, the disappointments were adding up. He considered returning to his wife in Colombia.

“I was alone, alone like the child Jesus,” Delgado Meléndez said.

‘We’re going with God’

Delgado Meléndez credits Emilie, a Venezuelan woman, for giving him the motivation to try a fourth time. He met her in the Chihuahua City as he debated between returning home or making another attempt to cross the border. She was also from Maracaibo, and said they could travel together.

“We’re going with God,” Delgado Meléndez recalled her saying.

Together, they hopped on the trains and arrived at Ciudad Juárez. And together, they used an electric metal cutter to create a hole in the wire fence and pass through it to enter the U.S.

Once they crossed the border, they walked four blocks to a shelter at Sacred Heart Church in downtown El Paso. Hundreds of migrants were doing the same.

It was early May, and the end of pandemic-era border policy was looming. Named Title 42, the restriction allowed the U.S. to turn back millions of migrants and asylum-seekers.

In anticipation of the policy change, El Paso and other border cities declared a state of emergency. Shelters became fully occupied and thousands of migrants lived on the streets. Father Rafael García, the pastor of Sacred Heart, said 1,100 migrants surrounded the shelter his church operated at one point.

“We couldn’t take anybody else but there were people just outside waiting to see what they could do or what options they had,” Garcia said.

During his first few days in El Paso, Delgado Meléndez slept outside the shelter. He soon found employment from men who drove by the shelter seeking workers. He earned $80 a day working construction. The man who provided employment eventually suggested that Delgado Meléndez turn himself into U.S. Customs and Border Protection.

At the time, he did not know why the man recommended that route. But the suggestion likely came from immigration authorities worried about the overwhelming number of undocumented migrants.

Days before Title 42 expired, flyers began circulating, offering protection. They provided an an address for the border patrol station and promised migrants they would be “processed by CBP officials and placed in the correct immigration path.”

“They processed like a ton of people in that week before Title 42 lifted,” said Imelda Maynard, director of legal services at Diocesan Migrant & Refugee Services Inc. in El Paso. “But that particular policy was put forward by CBP… it’s not something that is common.”

Despite the targeted messaging, many migrants, including Delgado Meléndez, wrestled with whether to trust border patrol. A possible fourth deportation awaited him.

“Who’s not going to have fear that they’re going to send you back,” Delgado Meléndez said.

He ultimately decided to turn himself in for processing because his then-employer appeared “honest” with the advice. The gamble paid off, with him receiving immigration papers and temporary admittance into the country on May 10.

A few weeks later, Delgado Meléndez was approached by two men outside the Sacred Heart Church shelter. He was offered housing, work opportunities and a chance to change his upcoming November court date in New York. That potential assistance, and the lack of connections in Texas, led him to accept the offer, despite with some initial reservations.

“Since I had nothing, I said ‘yes,’” Delgado Meléndez said.

He and 15 other migrants were driven about 100 miles to Deming, New Mexico, where they stayed the night at Super 8 hotel. There, all the migrants were asked to sign waivers to participate in the program funded by the state of Florida at the direction of DeSantis and contracted by Vertol Systems Co.

Each signed the consent forms, except for Delgado Meléndez. The contractors became angry and threatened to return him to El Paso, Delgado Meléndez said. Still, he refused. He did not understand the forms. The next morning, they said he could go with the group even without signing.

“We were happy because we were going to have work and a place to live,” he said.

‘Going to church’

In early June, within the span of three days, two flights landed at McClellan Airport and Executive Airport with 16 and 20 migrants, through what Florida called its voluntary relocation program. California officials condemned the flights, with Gov. Gavin Newsom calling DeSantis “a small, pathetic man.” and vowing to investigate the legality of moving the migrants.

Delgado Meléndez was on the first flight. His goal now? To return home.

He believes he will need five years to do so.

Unlike many of the migrants in the group, he does not envision staying in Sacramento long term. He hopes to save up enough money to buy a home in Venezuela for his family. Delgado Meléndez estimates a home will cost him roughly $5,000. Then, he can open his own welding business.

In the last two months, while many of the migrants have enjoyed outings to Sacramento Republic FC or Sacramento Kings games, Delgado Meléndez has opted against most of those excursions. He focused all this attention on securing work. But he does have one favorite experience of Sacramento.

“Going to church,” Delgado Meléndez said.

Sacramento ACT, a collaboration of Sacramento area religious congregations, began coordinating carpools for the migrants, who want to attend church, when they arrived. Cecilia Flores, a spokeswoman for Sacramento ACT, said Delgado Meléndez does not miss a Sunday.

“That’s the one thing I’ve really noticed about him, that he goes every Sunday,” Flores said.

At church, Delgado Meléndez gives thanks God for protecting him during the nearly 4,000 mile journey. He prays for his new life in Sacramento and work to provide for his family. And though frustrated with the people who brought him here and gave false promises, Delgado Meléndez prays for them too.

“In the end, we are all sinners.”

Maps by Ellie Lin