The rebels insisted we ride with them in their pickup truck. They helped Rafael lift the motorcycle in over the tailgate, then the woman and one of the men climbed up and settled themselves on top of the farm supplies and produce that filled the back of the truck, beckoning Rafael to join them. The shaman insisted I sit up front in the cab with him and the driver. I knew what they were doing—deliberately separating Rafael and me. But we’d decided to trust them, at least for now. I’d had one wildly paranoid moment when I wondered if they had set this all up for us but then decided that the likelihood was extremely remote. We’d blundered into their civil war—and now we would make the best of this fortuitous meeting. Whoever the rebels were taking us to had probably also known Mama Grande and would be a valuable source of information.