A large white cloud envelops the beach, the boardwalk, the palapas and the nightlife bars that earned Acapulco the nickname The Pearl of the Pacific. Deserted streets and closed shops along the famed Costera Miguel Alemán give the impression that something is about to happen. The white cloud brings rain, high surf and a wave of uncertainty that have inundated the city.

These are the effects of Hurricane Polo, which has been stalled since Tuesday off the coast of Guerrero after reaching Category 5, the highest level, in record time and later weakening to Category 4. Experts say the cyclone will not make landfall, but the locals — who still remember the effects of Hurricane Otis in 2023 — have thrown themselves into preparations “for whatever comes,” says Carolina Esquivel, a 43-year-old merchant with a business downtown.

Far from the luxury hotels and the sunbeds, Esquivel’s cellphone repair shop shutters at 1.30 pm, six hours earlier than usual. She fears both looting and the rising waters from the flood that formed in front of her workplace. “People haven’t come out in three days. Three days not knowing what’s going to happen,” she explains. “Everyone is sitting at home in fear,” she says. “We’ve been preparing for days — stocking beans, rice, eggs, whatever we can in case,” adds her neighbor from the flower shop. “Who’s going to come by now? There are no sales, but you still have to open,” she explains. Torn between the need to work and their fear, they agreed to open at least a few hours a day before taking shelter. Only major stores, banks and supermarkets remain open.

The Mexican government has also focused on prevention. Classes remain suspended for 500,000 students in the state of Guerrero, municipal administrative work has been halted, and more than 600 shelters have been set up that no one has used so far. The port remains closed to navigation. In addition, nearly 14,000 members of the Armed Forces across the country are on standby in the preventive phase of civil protection plans. In Acapulco, troops are on the streets and in shopping plazas, supervising and warning the population about the danger of Polo. “We have the necessary equipment to respond to an emergency,” the Navy said in a video shared on social media. So far, the local media reports no casualties from Polo, which has caused standing water, floods and some trees to fall.

Operations extend beyond the tourist area to the Costa Grande, Costa Chica, the mountain region and the sierra. In the capital, Chilpancingo, “it rains and then stops, it rains and then stops,” says Carlos Ruiz, a 43-year-old sunglasses vendor. In the last two days he has seen “many military personnel” passing through his city en route to the beaches or smaller towns “to make sure everything is okay,” he says, “but for now everything is normal.” That’s where “things are complicated,” he believes. “There” is the port. The hourlong drive that separates a partly cloudy, humid Chilpancingo from Acapulco, where the rain does not stop, reflects the change Ruiz describes.

Considered by the United States National Hurricane Center an “extremely dangerous” phenomenon, Polo on Wednesday began slowly moving away from Guerrero. But the depth, pressure and other technical terms mean little to Roberto Martínez, 27, who is trying to attract customers to an empty restaurant. “I just hope it calms down so we can get back to work as soon as possible,” he says. Here, money comes with tourism, and hurricanes scare away the few visitors who come in the low season.

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There are film projects that do not arise from a rigid outline but from years of sediment and personal crossroads. For Gael García Bernal, 47, Hombre al agua, his latest feature which he co-wrote, directed and stars in, took more than 15 years to take its final shape, having been seeded at the exact moment he became a father.

The story follows Camilo (played by García Bernal), a Cuban lifeguard who rescues a Mexican businessman named Abel (Jorge Salinas) from drowning in the Caribbean Sea. Grateful, Abel “saves” Camilo by offering to bring him to Mexico and make him his right-hand man. Abel introduces him to his daughter Juana (Esmeralda Pimentel), whom Camilo marries; they later have a daughter. But he soon discovers that everything was part of a Machiavellian scheme of manipulation and control. With his new life collapsing, Camilo must uncover who is behind the plot and take control of his own fate.

In Hombre al agua — his third film behind the camera after Déficit (2007) and Chicuarotes (2019) — which premiered at the Venice Film Festival and at the Toronto film festival, García Bernal makes use of metacinema, a cinematic practice and subgenre in which film turns a mirror on itself to reflect on its own creation processes, codes and fictional nature, as well as comedy, irony and the absurd, weaving together the crisis of masculinity, the exercise of power, migration, political disorientation in Latin America and the perpetual search for redemption in a society marked by simulation.

Question. How did the idea for this comedy with shades of drama and irony originate?

Answer. I began imagining three opening scenes in which the couple is interrupted by the baby and then the father goes to watch a Brazilian telenovela. At the time Lula [president of Brazil] was in prison, and it seemed like a great starting point to imagine a telenovela produced as if Carl Dreyer had been hired by TV Globo to portray the life of Lula and his then-wife Marisa. The mix began to coalesce like a strange geode. I knew it wasn’t a linear A-to-B film; we weren’t telling a conventional story but experimenting with the crisis of masculinity, fatherhood, separation, the Latin American political body, the use of power and migration. All within an archetypal rereading of the genie-in-the-bottle trope, where rescuing a person comes with a desire that always exacts a price.

Q. In the plot we see a film within a film, shifting biographies, a telenovela and even a documentary. How did you build this meta-universe that functions as both a love letter to and a critique of the industry?

A. It emerged as a fundamental dramaturgical device alongside Mariano Pensotti, with whom I co-wrote the script. He proposed that cinema become the vehicle for the sublimation of all the characters. Metacinema, besides being fun, supports our argument about daily simulation and masks. Very much in the spirit of Hamlet, the staging allows us to expose and denounce reality. We were inspired by filmmakers who never feared comedy as a tool to disarticulate truths: Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Ettore Scola, Luis Buñuel, Jean-Luc Godard and Miloš Forman. Comedy is a genre that opens up, unravels and dismantles many things. It’s extremely hard to do well. It’s one of the most undervalued genres, but also one of the most difficult and complex to execute properly.

Q. In Déficit, Chicuarotes and your recent work you explore characters confronted with realities that are not what they seem. What concerns unite the films you aim to make as a director?

A. There is a clear obsession with inheritance, with what we receive from our parents. I’m deeply intrigued by people who inherit money or positions of power and, along with them, gigantic existential problems. To justify their situation, they construct a daily psychoanalytic architecture and a simulation to convince themselves that nothing is wrong, asking why the world would be against them. In Latin America we keep inheriting vendettas, archaic problems and privileges from generation to generation and try to solve them without ever succeeding. Seeing those human passions exposed through comedy is revealing. I like to close films with an elevated Aristotelian structure, leaving the question open that something good must come.

Q. There have been gaps of 12 and five years between your films. How has your work behind the camera evolved?

A. Many things have landed. As an uncle in Sinaloa says: “You’d better have time serve you as an actor, because if not, what a waste of time.” Experience allows me to arrive on set with enormous enthusiasm and to infect the actors with the notion that making the film you want is a rare privilege. I feel more confident pursuing difficult questions through humor. That said, acting and directing at the same time is exhausting; I doubt I’ll do it again in the short term.

Q. The film tackles the crisis of masculinity in a setting marked by politics and the rise of the so-called manosphere. How does the central character fit into that debate?

A. Camilo’s character, a Cuban in a survival context, is forced to shape his identity according to what circumstances demand: he must be a father, a good husband, a bodyguard, a butler and chief of staff for a potential candidate. His masculinity is bombarded from all sides. There are still sectors determined to reclaim that absurd and ridiculous figure of the “perfect man” that helped trigger the two great wars of the 20th century. Fortunately, thanks to feminism, today we have greater introspection and sensitivity. Men today can carry our babies strapped to our chests, something we perhaps haven’t experienced since the nomadic era. Those questions about masculinity have been present in my work since Y tu mamá también.

Q. The film also exposes messianism, democratic crises and mistreatment of migrant populations. How urgent is this reflection today?

A. The film speaks of imposed realities. We see the millionaire who, from his hubris, believes he can fix everything, and democracy turned into a playing field where a magnate campaigns under the slogan “someone like you.” It’s the cynicism of imposing the idea that the real winner is the one who best knows how to take advantage of others. Leonardo Padura’s latest novel [Morir en la arena, Tusquets] sums it up well: Cubans were hit with the certainty that the worst predictions about capitalism turned out to be true, while the promises of socialism proved to be false. We live in rampant capitalism, with structures in crisis across Latin America. Today the figures of the manosphere do not debate public health, universal education or decent housing; they only talk about security, police and private property. The common good is no longer a slogan of political parties. We are in a complex moment in the world and in Mexico, where politics, democracy and the use of power are almost like a reality show, and we must be extremely alert not to fall into that trap.

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“Hey, Honduras, why are you going to Africa?” an officer said to Bryan Omar Sánchez with a laugh on July 29, when neither his cries, his protests nor the fact that he had not given consent prevented him from being deported to the Central African Republic.

Almost two months after his expulsion, a federal judge has ordered the United States government to return Sánchez, release him and respect due process. If the Honduran man returns to his home in Colorado, he will be the first person returned out of the dozens of migrants sent to Africa by force after agreements were signed with nearly 14 countries on the continent.

“This court and many others across the country have determined that ICE’s policies of expelling people to third countries violate the constitutional right to due process when applicants are not given notice and an opportunity to challenge their removal before being transferred to a third country,” Judge Regina M. Rodríguez said in a federal court order dated September 18 before the United States District Court for Colorado.

Sánchez arrived in the United States a decade ago after crossing the border, and since then he had worked as a gardener and truck driver. Lately he ran a small pressure-washing business. After he was detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and taken to a Colorado detention center this past May, his lawyers filed a habeas corpus petition. Still, Sánchez was moved to a unit housing dozens of African migrants at the Prairieland detention center in Alvarado, southeast of Dallas, Texas. He was later taken to another facility in Phoenix, Arizona.

“There I thought they were going to send us to Mexico,” Sánchez told EL PAÍS a few days after arriving at Maison Confort, an apartment lodging in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic. “I thought: ‘Mexico is fine, they speak our language, it’s not bad.’” But when the Honduran man asked where they were being sent, the center official replied: to Africa. “Africa? No, I can’t go to Africa,” he told them.

Sánchez told ICE authorities he had not signed consent to be deported to that continent, that he had an asylum application pending in the U.S. immigration system and that he even had protection under the Convention Against Torture (CAT). Despite his pleas, he found himself on a flight with dozens of migrants of other nationalities, and after nearly 22 hours of travel he arrived in the Central African Republic.

In the court order addressing his case, the judge states that “all removals to third countries, that is, removal to a country other than the country or countries designated during the immigration proceedings as the country of removal in the noncitizen’s removal order, must be preceded by written notice to both the noncitizen and their attorney in a language the noncitizen can understand.”

EL PAÍS has interviewed nearly a dozen migrants in the Central African Republic, Liberia and Equatorial Guinea, and all of them confirmed they were deported without signing an authorization, and even learned they were being sent to Africa only after they had been in flight for several hours.

Now Judge Regina M. Rodríguez ordered not only Martínez’s return from the Central African Republic to the District of Colorado but that, once there, he be released immediately, along with all his personal belongings, “without onerous conditions on his release,” such as GPS monitoring, periodic check-ins or other restrictions on his freedom of movement.

The magistrate also demanded that Martínez not be re-detained “unless they prove, by clear and convincing evidence in a pre-deprivation hearing before an impartial judge, that there is a risk of flight or danger to the community.”

A call to end deportations to third countries

On March 15, 2025, when dozens of Venezuelans arrived at the massive Salvadoran prison CECOT, the U.S. government opened a new chapter in its migration policy: deportations to third countries, which have led to diplomatic agreements with at least 35 nations worldwide. According to the group Third Country Deportation Watch, more than 23,000 people have been deported in operations in which the U.S. government has spent over $49 million.

“These illegal deportations to third countries are part of the broader efforts by the Trump administration to undermine the global protection system and make countries around the world complicit in its campaign of mass deportations, which openly disregard due process and separate families,” said Savi Arvey, policy director for refugee and immigrant rights at Human Rights First, an organization tracking these deportations.

Once in these countries, many people have reported being victims of kidnapping and violence. They say they face a lack of care and remain in a legal limbo, without identification or the ability to apply for asylum or refuge.

The situation has escalated to the United States Court of Appeals for the First Circuit in Boston, where on September 18 three judges upheld the ruling of U.S. District Court Judge Brian Murphy, who on prior occasions has opposed deporting migrants to third countries without respecting due process. The current ruling states that the Trump administration cannot send a person to a third country without prior notice, thereby overturning a Department of Homeland Security policy that allowed this type of rapid removal.

“A person’s right to challenge their removal to a country on the basis of fear of persecution in that country means little if they do not receive prior notice of the intended destination for removal and a meaningful opportunity to contest that destination,” Circuit Judge Seth Aframe wrote.

Although the Trump administration is expected to appeal the case to the Supreme Court, the ruling against deportations to third countries brings hope for many who have been sent to completely unfamiliar places over the past nearly two years and who remain in a state of uncertainty.

“International human rights law does not allow states to create a protection vacuum of this kind,” Michael Gyan Nyarko, deputy executive director of the Institute for Human Rights and Development in Africa (IHRDA), told EL PAÍS. “A person cannot be moved from one jurisdiction to another until, eventually, no state is willing to accept responsibility for protecting the rights international law guarantees that person.” Nyarko’s main concern, he said, is whether these deportations to third countries “are being used in practice to indirectly achieve what the law prohibited the United States from doing directly.”

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