Ernesto’s face radiates pride. “We got photos of wildcat diamond miners teaming up with local police to plunder the lands of the Cinta Larga. We had videos of roads being bulldozed for miles just to get to protected mahogany trees. We posted images on our Web site of the devastation that gold miners are causing in our rivers. Every year they dump tons of mercury into the Amazon basin.”

“It sounds like you probably made some powerful enemies along the way,” I guess quietly.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but I also had many friends. I would never have believed that I could just disappear. But one day as I was driving on a remote stretch of highway my car was stopped by gunmen in army uniforms, and I was blindfolded and brought here. I don’t think my family and friends even know that I am still alive.”

“Can’t they find out?” I ask.

He smiles at my naïveté. “If they ask too many questions, they may be the next to vanish.”

Lunch is served—I’m told it’s the only meal of the day. It’s a watery soup with a few pieces of potato thrown in. As I sip my half cup I understand why the men in the cell look so emaciated. This is a starvation diet.

I’m tempted to give in to despair. But then I spot the boy we rescued from the Andes. He’s in a corner of the cell, kicking a stone around with other kids. In this dungeon he’s found friends! They’ve claimed a tiny part of this cramped cell as their own, and are joyfully playing a crude but competitive game of soccer!

Ernesto finishes off his soup and takes up his sad tale. “The third group in this cell are the settlers—newcomers who have no traditional ties to the land. Most were driven here from the cities by poverty and promises of cheap land to farm.”

He points to a few men who are taller than the Indians, but now look just as weak and miserable. “But those promises turned out to be hollow—the rain forest exists in a delicate balance with nature, and when the trees are burned and the wrong crops are planted, the soil quickly becomes useless. The settlers fell into debt, they couldn’t feed their families, so they rebelled and ended up in prison with the very Indians whose land they stole.”

“And what about the fourth group?” I ask.

Ernesto laughs. “You are the fourth group,” he says. “We sometimes see Asians, Europeans, and Americans touring the mills, processing plants, and ranches, but never in our prisons. So it’s an unexpected honor to have you here.”