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squeezed in next to fourteen native Indians, including three mothers nursing children ranging from a few months to one who must have been close to five years old. The Bolivian women believed that their best form of birth control was to nurse their children as long as possible, so it wasn’t unusual to see a six-year-old child suckling at its mother’s breast.
    The Indians had brought food and drink with them, and they shared it with Rolf and Max, who they scrutinized with some amusement in their faux native garb. There were checkpoints every twenty kilometers or so, but the banana boat never even slowed down. The driver, Jose, was known to the guards, and they seemed to think there was no reason to check the truck.
    The ride was one of the most breathtaking Rolf and Max had ever taken—and could easily have been their last. Jose knew every inch of the road, but the drop-offs, ruts, and curves were so severe that no sane person would ever have attempted to navigate it.
    Over the next six hours, all the other passengers jumped off the truck as they came to their homes and villages tucked into the sides of the mountains they traversed.
    Jose invited Max and Rolf to join him in the cab, asking questions about America and sharing his knowledge and love of his own jungle town of Caranavi. When they reached the final military checkpoint entering Caranavi, the young guard on duty could see that Max and Rolf were not ordinary passengers. He peered at them suspiciously and demanded to see their identity cards. Max handed over their passports to the puzzled soldier, who had never seen such foreigners—or even a passport—in this remote outpost.
    â€œThese are international identity cards, just like the ones you use here in Bolivia, but better,” Max explained.
    The guard looked at Jose, who smiled and spoke up.
    â€œThese boys are okay,” he said. “They have been with me the entire trip. They will not make any trouble, Jorge. It’s okay to let them through.”
    The guard turned out to be married to Jose’s second cousin, and just like that, Rolf and Max passed the thirty-ninth and final checkpoint since entering Bolivia, all without being stopped and questioned, defying all the security precautions of the Bolivian military government.
    The banana boat continued into the town of Caranavi, and Jose dropped Max and Rolf off at the nearest bar while he headed home to his wife and children. As the two young adventurers enjoyed their beers and meal, they chatted with the restaurant owner, who promised to arrange for the hunting rifles and serve as the guide for finding the jaguars.
    That accomplished, they sat back and observed their surroundings.
    Although they were in the middle of the South American jungle, they felt as if they were in a John Wayne Wild West movie. There were wooden shacks on either side of the main road, which was dry and dusty, and an elevated walkway almost eight feet above the street that served as a sidewalk. From what they gathered, during the rainy season the road turned into a river, and most of the buildings were built on stilts to protect against flooding.
    As Max and Rolf each finished their third beer, a uniformed officer came up to them, saluted, and spoke in Spanish.
    â€œEl dice wants to see you. Can you come with me ? ” the man said.
    Max had no idea who he was talking about, and when he pressed the uniformed guard, he was informed that el dice was the equivalent of the director, mayor, and governor of the region, all rolled into one. He had the impression that no one should mess with el dice, so he and Rolf finished their beers and followed the man to the small wooden shack across the street that served as government offices and jailhouse.
    El dice was a heavyset, imposing man. The first things he asked to see were their passports, which he examined carefully. Then he questioned Max quietly and without emotion. When told that they were there to hunt