The Sinaloan Silicone Route: Buchonas, Power, and the Dubai Breakfast
The sculpted body, the curated image, the designer wardrobe. But now, there’s a sash. A political post. A budget.
Dr. Ghaleb Krame
Dubai, summer of 2022. Just past 7:30 a.m., the outside temperature was already approaching 40°C, but inside the hotel’s restaurant, the air conditioning kept the room pleasantly cool. I was staying in a mid-range hotel near Marina Beach, a few kilometers from the World Trade Centre, where I was scheduled to deliver a lecture later that morning on cartel drone warfare and future scenarios involving artificial intelligence.
Colonel A (a pseudonym used here to protect his identity), an official with the Dubai Police and my host during the World Police Summit, was already seated near one of the windows. As I made my way to his table, a scene just a few steps to my left caught my attention.
Two women had just sat down. Their accents gave them away instantly: Mexican, northern. Their appearance was anything but subtle — exaggerated curves, heavy cosmetic surgery, lips unnaturally full. They wore tight designer outfits that accentuated their figures, but they moved with an ease that suggested this was not new to them. One wore a gold anklet with tiny dangling bear charms — playful yet unmistakably ostentatious.
Then came a man. He had been waiting in line at the buffet and joined them shortly after. Slim, in his mid-to-late thirties, pale complexion, light hair, blue eyes. He wore a crisp white designer linen shirt, tailored shorts, leather sandals, and had an abstract tattoo on one calf. He greeted them calmly, sat down, and joined the conversation seamlessly.
At first glance, I considered the usual assumption: high-end escorts with a client. But something felt off. The energy wasn’t flirtatious. It was too controlled. Too focused.
I sat down at Colonel A’s table. He noticed where I’d been looking and, with a knowing smile, said in Arabic:
—"Quite attractive, aren't they?"
I half-smiled, but didn’t laugh. “They’re not escorts,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Bu... what?”
From our distance, I couldn’t make out what they were discussing. Their voices rose and fell inconsistently — sometimes loud enough to be noticed, other times reduced to near-whispers. It wasn’t the tone of a typical conversation. It was modulated, deliberate. Not casual. They weren’t trying to be overheard — in fact, at times, it felt like they were doing the opposite.
I couldn’t confirm what they were talking about, but their body language was telling: there was no intimacy, no playfulness. It wasn’t romantic or social. It was measured. Professional. Something was being discussed — and it didn’t seem like small talk.
At one point, the woman with the exaggerated lips — clearly the more experienced of the two — handed the man her phone. He stood up and walked away to take a call. He returned about seven minutes later, handed the phone back, exchanged a few more words with her, then left without ceremony. The women remained a few more minutes, asked for the bill, and left together.
It was quiet. Efficient. And it didn’t fit the assumptions we’re trained to make.
That was the moment Colonel A was introduced to the world of the buchona. Not through a case file or a police operation — but through a real, live demonstration just a few tables away over breakfast.
For many, the word buchona evokes a stereotype: the cartel girlfriend, surgically enhanced, draped in Gucci, starring in Instagram reels or TikTok dances. But that’s just the surface. The reality is more strategic — and far more dangerous.
The buchona of today is not just ornamental. She’s operational.
These women travel with clean passports. No criminal records. They speak English, navigate airports smoothly, and know how to blend in. They don’t traffic drugs — they move information, coordinate logistics, broker contacts. They’re walking through hotel lobbies in Dubai, sitting in cafés in Madrid, or window-shopping in Bogotá — and doing so with diplomatic immunity granted not by a government, but by strategy and aesthetics.
Some are financial couriers. Others are scouts. A few are intermediaries. Their appearance may distract the uninformed — but their utility is understood well by those who send them.
And increasingly, they are crossing into politics.
Several have invested in local campaigns. Others manage digital influencer networks or public-facing NGOs. A few have even run for office. The line between criminal infrastructure and political legitimacy is thinner than ever — and the buchona is walking right through it in heels.
A few days after the Summit concluded, I was discreetly invited to the Dubai Police’s counter-narcotics division. They wanted to hear more about what I’d implied in my talk — not just about cartel drone advancements, but about how criminal organizations use human vectors that are invisible to conventional intelligence models.
That meeting remains confidential. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to share its details. But what I can say is this:
That morning, I witnessed a quiet, professional act of criminal diplomacy. It was polished, calm, deliberate — and real. And no one else in that room seemed to notice.
Cartels are evolving. They no longer rely solely on brute force or rural safehouses. They rely on soft power — image, mobility, leverage. A woman with a clean visa, elegant appearance, and sharp discipline is more valuable than a convoy of armed men.
Today’s buchona is not just a lover. She’s a node. A courier. A proxy.
And while the media memes her and the public mocks her, she’s busy getting things done — crossing borders, laundering messages, and sometimes even laundering legitimacy.
That breakfast in Dubai was not a spectacle. It was a symptom. And it reminded me of a truth that policymakers and analysts too often forget:
The new face of criminal power doesn’t always wear a mask. Sometimes, it wears gold charms and linen shirts.
And I’ve seen that face again — not only in Dubai. In towns like Elota, nestled in the Sinaloan corridor where criminal and political loyalties often blur, or in Papasquiaro, a quiet Durango municipality with long-standing ties to trafficking routes, similar profiles have emerged in public office.
In both places, women once identified as romantic partners, relatives, or close social affiliates of cartel-linked men have transitioned — seamlessly, even elegantly — into political life. These are not isolated cases of redemption or civic engagement. These are calculated insertions into public power structures, often built on reputational laundering, clean legal slates, and the strategic erasure of memory.
Their campaigns are not built on debate or visibility. They’re built on quiet endorsements, money that doesn’t leave a paper trail, and communities too intimidated — or too economically entangled — to question the narrative.
What began as closeness to power is now power itself. The aesthetics remain: the sculpted body, the curated image, the designer wardrobe. But now, there’s a sash. A political post. A budget.
And behind it, an increasingly evident architecture of a cartel-state nexus that continues to evolve — unseen, unchallenged, and too often, elected.