“Liberated Territories in Napo”
- Franklin Vega
- 5 hours ago
- 7 min read
Two Days in the Areas Where Illegal Mining Has Replaced the State
“Don’t take out your phones. Don’t stop. We’re being watched.”
At nine in the morning, three vehicles drive along the gravel roads of Talag, in the province of Napo. Inside them are ten journalists and several environmental activists entering a zone where the presence of the State is episodic, fragile, or nonexistent. The rules are clear and answerable to one certainty: in these territories, illegal mining is in charge.
Security specialists call liberated territories spaces where state authority has been displaced by criminal structures, as happens in Ecuador’s prisons. In the Amazon, that logic is replicated far from the walls: contaminated rivers, surveilled communities, and mountains opened up by excavators mark the advance of illegal gold mining. This is the account of the first “toxi tour” through Napo — a high-risk journey through areas where the State arrives late or not at all.
Day 1
Las excavadoras escalan las montañas
The trip begins in Talag, about 40 minutes west of Tena. The night was full of heavy rain, and the sun barely filters through the Amazon clouds. Before departure, warnings are repeated like a mantra: don’t stop in unplanned locations, don’t take out your cell phones, don’t take visible photographs. Follow the instructions. There’s no margin for error.
The excavators of the illegal miners climb the mountain following the course of the Zapallo River in Talag, canton Tena in Napo. They have already ravaged the riverbanks and now continue upstream.
As they travel alongside the Jatunyaku River, the sense of being watched becomes constant. Motorcycles with two or three occupants appear at crossings, stop, observe, and disappear. The message is clear: the group has already been detected.
An Incomplete Bridge and an Open Wound
The first stop is at a strategic point. An unfinished bridge stands by the Jatunyaku River, just a few hundred meters from the mouth of the Ilokylin — one of the few tributaries still free from mining contamination.
“Luckily — and because of corruption — this bridge was not finished,” says Pepe Moreno, an activist from the Napo Ama la Vida collective. “If it had been completed, the excavators would enter without obstacles.”
Unfinished suspension bridge over the Jatunyaku River. Photos: Franklin Vega.
Just 400 meters from a Ministry of Environment office, the mountain ahead shows an open wound. What was once forest now stretches across nearly two hectares of bare earth. From afar, excavators tirelessly scar the slope.
A drone confirms what is already clear on the ground: dozens of mining fronts advance following veins of gold — even inside concession areas. From above, the impact is undeniable.
The Zapallo’s confluence with the Jatunyaku is flanked by barren land, pockmarked by abandoned mining ponds. These are scars from a previous exploitation that was never remediated. Where there were once small farms and forest, only sparse grass remains.
Several motorcycles cross a small pedestrian bridge. One of the guides says it under his breath: most likely, the miners already know the group is in the area.
Monitored Communities, Absence of Tourism
The route continues toward the Kichwa community of Shandia. The warnings are repeated. ‘Look at the houses,’ Moreno says. Security cameras protrude from façades and windows. ‘We managed to get some removed, but now they install them indoors.’
On the riverbank, silence has replaced the bustle. Seven abandoned kiosks mark the spot where tourists and kayakers once gathered.
‘Hundreds used to come here,’ a resident says. ‘Since the river was mined, the gringos don’t come anymore.’ He pauses and points to the opposite bank. ‘Who would want to travel to see that?’
The drone rises again. From the air, fences covered with green tarps—harmless from the road—reveal their true purpose: hiding dozens of pits, pools, and heavy machinery operating nonstop. Improvised workshops, dump trucks, and excavators line both sides of the road. From the ground, almost nothing is visible. From above, everything is laid bare.
“The next stop is the Kichwa community of Serena. A dozen women display their handicrafts and share their testimony of resistance against illegal mining. Their struggle is neither recent nor symbolic: it is daily, quiet, and unequal. We told this story in detail in a previous article: In Napo, a Small Paradise Resists Mining, En Napo, un pequeño paraíso se resiste a la minería
Organized Crime Is Also Present
At midday, when the humid heat becomes suffocating, the journey continues. Before reaching the La Ceiba viewpoint, a brief stop in Limón Lichikta recalls that in September 2025 “Topo” was captured — identified as one of the leaders of an organized crime group operating in the province.
His arrest is reportedly linked to investigations of serious crimes, including an alleged attempted homicide against a former judicial official. The presence of organized crime runs throughout the mining territory.
From the viewpoint, the rain falls without mercy. From the wooden platform, the confluence of the Jatunyaku and Anzu rivers can barely be seen. Yet the traces are clear: mounds of dirt, holes in the riverbed, and the unmistakable geometry of mining fronts.
The first day ends with a shared certainty: the damage is neither isolated nor recent. It is accumulated, visible, and happening in plain sight — even where the State has offices, but no control.
Day 2: A Cat-and-Mouse Game
The second day begins with a scene that encapsulates the Amazonian contradiction. In a clearing, near a school and a covered court, dozens of reddish tree trunks lie in the forest. They are capironas — valuable timber trees — whose bark peels annually. From them, the community of Capirona takes its name.
Capirona was a pioneer of community-based tourism in Napo. It showed visitors the use of medicinal plants and life along the Puni River, from which residents drew water and food. Today, tourism is a memory and the river a threat.
The community reports that the Puni is contaminated by illegal mining operating outside its territory. To obtain water, they depend on tanker trucks sent by the Municipality of Tena two or three times a week.
The consequences are already visible. Residents report skin ailments after using river water. Mentions in travel guides have vanished. The economic model that sustained Capirona has collapsed, with no State institution taking responsibility for managing the transition.
Miner-Controlled Zone
The road to Huambuno begins with a blunt warning: there will be no stops. No one is to get out to take photographs. ‘This is an area controlled by illegal miners.’
The route passes through Ahuano, alongside Tena’s underused airport, until reaching the ferry crossing that carries vehicles over the Napo River. As the cars board the platform, a silver Toyota Prado—a high-end 4×4 with tinted windows and Colombian plates—lines up with them. No one photographs it. No one asks out loud. The scene hangs in the air like an uncomfortable question.
On the other side of the river, the journey through the Huambuno area begins. The secondary roads are in ruins. Yet the surprise is immediate: along the entire route, only 12 excavators are found operating, with another 18 parked beside homes.
In July 2024, in this same area, at least 42 excavators had been recorded working along the riverbanks.
What changed? For residents, the answer is as clear as it is fragile: the presence of the Army. ‘There’s an officer who actually burns the excavators,’ says one resident, who asks that their identity be kept confidential. ‘The miners are afraid of him. We’re afraid he’ll be transferred.’
Control does not stem from a sustained policy, but from the will of a specific commander. When patrols leave, miners go into hiding. An informant network alerts them to every military movement. The game is constant and unequal: cat and mouse. The miners have far greater financial resources; the soldiers must ration even their ammunition.”
Institutional Vacuum
On May 24, 2025, the Army disabled or burned 11 excavators and two suction pumps during operations against illegal mining in the Huambuno area. It was a visible blow, but an incomplete one. While the first machines were being destroyed, others were removed in time.
Over the past eight months, according to local activists, 88 excavators have been destroyed in Huambuno, Sindy, Chucapi, Misahuallí, and Chontapunta. This has occurred despite the fact that Huambuno has 13 mining concessions and that formal oversight lies with the Ministry of Energy and Mines, the Mining Regulation and Control Agency (ARCOM), and the National Police. In practice, the Army has taken on functions that belong to those institutions.
Far from bringing order to the territory, mining concessions serve as a shield for illegal mining. Andrés Rojas, the Ombudsman in Napo, points to the core of the problem: ‘The regulations have operational gaps. It’s enough for the excavators to move a few meters or be hidden for seizure not to proceed. If they are inside a concession, ARCOM only suspends operations.’
The journey continues under surveillance. Last October, during a similar trip, this team had a cellphone snatched away and was forced to delete photographs documenting diesel trafficking. This time, from improvised guard posts, homes, and parked motorcycles, several residents discreetly record with their phones. At one point, the flash of a cellphone is aimed directly at the vehicles.
“The problem is not a lack of regulations, but the State’s inability to enforce them. Mining concessions without environmental licenses have become shields for illegal mining and a source of impunity.” —Andrés Rojas, Ombudsman in Napo
The route ends in Misahuallí. Along the highway, the flow of machinery becomes evident again: trucks carrying jerrycans, tanks allegedly transporting diesel, and a flatbed hauling a Z-shaped classifier. The business is still in motion.
After leaving the miner-controlled area, the group stops for the first time without tension. A cacao beer marks the symbolic return to a territory where fear recedes, at least for a moment.
The first ‘toxi tour’ in Napo leaves an uncomfortable conclusion: where the State holds its ground, mining retreats. Where control depends on an individual rather than public policy, gold waits. In the Ecuadorian Amazon, liberated territories are not recovered—they are merely contested.
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