By Jess McGlothlin
Thunk.
I slam into the seatback in front of me as we slide to a greasy stop. Jerked from the first indoor sleep I’d had in two weeks, I squint against the bright searchlight that certainly does not belong on a dirt trail in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon. The clock on the weathered dashboard of the Hilux tells me it’s just past 0100; I’m wedged in the back seat with duffels of gear, sitting on my Pelican case, mud-coated camera bag in my lap. We should have another few hours before reaching the research lodge that will serve as our post for the night, and I’m pretty damn certain the blinding spotlights searing my retinas don’t belong to the biologists.
A balaclava-wearing figure carrying an M4 appears out of the rainy jungle, clad in full tac uniform. More follow.
Nope. Not the biologists.
We’re more than two weeks into an expedition to make the first stand-up paddleboard descent of the Madre de Dios, an Amazon tributary flowing from the cloud forest down to the mighty, muddy Amazon. Comprised of local Peruvian whitewater athletes and one Montanan with a camera, the team has been painstakingly camouflaging my camera gear as we maneuver through the jungle.
Years ago, the region was known for its impressive flora and fauna. Now it makes headlines for illegal gold mining and local violence. It’s a stunningly beautiful region and like many stunningly beautiful regions, has its fair share of violence to counter the scenery.
We’ve just—successfully—finished our paddleboard descent of the river, and while we’d brushed by some of that “illegal activity,” we’d avoided any outright confrontations. Now, when we thought we were home free and nearly back to our first showers since leaving civilization, we’re being stopped in the middle of the jungle.
By balaclava-wearing guys with guns.
Okay, sure, our two Toyota Hilux trucks and packed van probably look a little suspicious. Muddy, exhausted, and clearly coming from a zone of the jungle where things are known to happen, we’re driving along a dirt path at one in the morning.
And, judging by the fact the Peruvian anti-narcotics unit is posted up here waiting for someone to come along, there is … activity afoot.
.“Hey,” An accented whisper comes from Pepe at the wheel. “Get your passport. Aquí.” Still sleep-hazed, I quickly eject the secondary memory cards from my camera and slip them into my bra (let’s call it “file backup” when cameras might get confiscated), hide the bag under a tarp, and slide into the front seat, passport in hand.
Moments later, soldiers materialize at the truck windows, shining apocalypse-strength Maglites into the small cab. We collectively wince into the brightness, careful to keep our hands clearly visible, and wait. At their bidding, Pepe calmly rolls down his window.
Quick words are exchanged in Spanish. After a moment Pepe gestures for my passport then hands it over, along with his ID. The officer glances over them, then the Maglite flicks back to our faces. More rapid Spanish, and the documents are handed back with a few stern words of warning.
And just like that, we’re waved onward. The van lurches ahead before us. The searchlight flicks off. Night blind, we slowly follow the taillights of the van as our little convoy slogs onward. The soldiers meld back into the jungle, waiting for their next prey.
No one speaks for a long time.
Finally, it’s Pepe who glances aside at me and gives a toothy grin.
“Gringa in the front.”
I was our passport through the checkpoint.
