Journalist Yasmielen Beatswine fled her home in Venezuela in 2017, after she was targeted with threats because of her reporting. She is among more than 6 million people who have fled Venezuela in recent years amid a grinding political and economic crisis.
After four and a half years living in Ecuador and Peru, Beatswine decided to brave the Darien Gap on foot.
That’s the notoriously dangerous swath of jungle between Colombia and Panama that has become a choke point for people from all over the world trying to reach the US.
A video shot by a friend shows Beatswine, legs covered in mud, among a large crowd inching its way up a steep hill during her five day trek through the jungle.
"It's just walking and walking," she said, in Spanish. "You get exhausted. Many people get injured, there are many people who have died there."
Beatswine made it through, only to learn the Biden Administration had just announced a new policy for Venezuelans hoping to enter the country. They would now need to apply before reaching the border – and have a sponsor already in the U.S.
So she got in touch with Daniel Rios, her former boss at an online news publication, who lives in Cumberland.
Rios said he’d already supported other arrivals from Venezuela, including about half a dozen friends and acquaintances over the last few years.
"I can help a little bit, because they don't have anything, and they came here with absolutely nothing," he said.
Rios, who works in digital marketing, said he helps them with some of the basic steps of resettling – trips to the store for clothing and toiletries, and a place to stay.
"And I open my apartment for them. And they stayed here and now they are independent, which is the purpose," he said.
Rios said he can relate to that specific immigration experience.
Until about seven years ago, he was living in Venezuela and running a digital newspaper. But an article he published that looked into the finances of one of the daughters of former president Hugo Chavez landed him in hot water with the government.
"I had a source that they told me, like, 'Daniel, you need to leave now. If not, you're gonna be in jail,'" he said.
So he came to Portland, where he lived with his cousin. Rios said she hosted and took care of him while he waited for his work permit, a favor he now wants to pay forward by hosting others.
Crystal Cron, with the advocacy and aid group Presente! Maine, said this sort of informal resettlement support is common in the Latin American immigrant communities her organization works with.
"I mean, I think that that's the case for almost everyone," she said.
In part, Cron said these informal networks reflect a lack of coordinated support services to Latino immigrant communities from more established social service organizations.
"I think just in terms of funding, and like political will to care about these communities that are at the fringes. So it's just very hard, and I think, paralyzing for other groups to know what to do," Cron said.
And she said the need for support - especially when it comes to finding housing - has become even more acute as the state continues to attract immigrants from many Central and South American countries.
People like Yasmielen Beatswine, who was able to travel to the U.S. last spring – through a two-year legal status known as Humanitarian Parole.
She remembered touching down at the Miami airport, and the moment customs officers let her through.
"The official said, ‘Welcome to the United States’, and I couldn’t believe it," Beatswine said. "It was really emotional."
In Maine, Beatswine stayed with Daniel Rios. After her work permit arrived, she landed a job cleaning houses, and Rios helped her find an apartment in Portland.
"I feel really happy and at peace," she said. "And safe."
Meanwhile, Rios’ spare bedroom may not stay empty for long. He said he’s in touch with another former employee from Venezuela, who’s in Mexico with his family, waiting for an appointment with U.S. immigration officials.
