The whirlwind was ebbing slightly, but its noise was still deafening. The shaman who had summoned it stood a few meters away from us, head drooping and chest heaving as he panted like a man who had just run a marathon. His hands hung limp at his sides. Beyond him, the farmers were finishing off the soldiers—slashing with their machetes at the men who lay on the ground. Five of the soldiers were down, and then the female campesino took out the sixth with a brilliant turquoise bolt of energy that blasted out from her fingertips. The officer, however, was nowhere in sight.