The wheels of the truck ahead of us threw up yet another cloud of eye-stinging yellow dust, and I could hear Rafael curse. When we hit a straight stretch, he shouted, "Hang on, Leni!" and gunned the motorcycle more fiercely than before. We pulled out to one side of the truck, surged past it—and emerged from its dust cloud only to find the road ahead blocked by an armored personnel carrier, a jeep, and the concrete barriers and striped fencing of a military checkpoint. Rafael jammed on the brakes, sending us into a skid. I gasped and ducked my head behind his broad back, thinking we were about to crash. He kept the bike under control—barely. But by the time we stopped, we’d knocked over a number of bright orange cones that had been set up to direct traffic. I looked up to find that we were dead-center in the checkpoint, only a pace or two away from a very slotted-off looking military officer.