Indigenous guardians successfully keep extractives out of Ecuador’s Amazon forests

PAKAYAKU TERRITORY, Ecuador — Deep in the heart of Ecuador’s Amazon, where the Bobonaza River winds through ancient forests in Pastaza province, Sacha Gayas spreads out a hand-drawn map across her wooden kitchen table. Her fingers, stained with the rich earth of her homeland, trace the boundaries of 71,000 hectares (175,000 acres) of lands that her people have silently guarded for generations.

“We are the hidden people,” she tells Mongabay. Gayas, 50, has spent decades defending what she and other Kichwa people of the Pakayaku community say outsiders cannot see or understand.

For decades, the community living in lush Amazonian rainforests has successfully kept unsustainable logging, mining and oil extraction activities out of these lands while preserving their cultural traditions and ecological knowledge.

In July, Mongabay visited the community to see the story of their resistance and conservation of vast forests, which few have been allowed to witness firsthand.

Standing just 1.5 meters (5 feet) tall, Gayas commands the attention of those around her with every word. Her shoulder-length black hair gleams with the fresh application of wituk, a natural dye harvested from fruit plants that grow in the community’s backyards.

Across her face, intricate designs painted in the same wituk ink create bold geometric patterns that will remain for a week — a canvas showing her identity as a guardian of this remote community. Seated at her wooden kitchen table in her traditional hut home, Gayas speaks of Pakayaku’s three foundational values that guide every aspect of their lives: humility, loyalty and dignity.

“These are not just words to us,” Gayas explains, pointing to the colorful documents displayed on her laptop that represent six years of painstaking work by her community to map out their cultural, social and economic plans. “They are how we live, how we survive, how we stay invisible to those who would destroy our jungle.”

Pakayaku sits accessible only by boat — a 1.5-hour journey from the Canelos port that itself lies another 1.5 hours by road from Puyo, the nearest major city. This remoteness is armor, the land guardians say. Like their ancestors, the Pakayaku have learned to move through their territory like mist to detect invaders, whether they be artisanal miners or loggers, who seek to extract wealth from their forests. In addition to small-scale extraction, they have successfully kept industry out of their territory.

“They protect the ecosystem as their only means of survival, and they prohibit loggers and oil companies from entering their territories,” says Basilio Suárez, technician for the Morete Cocha Kichwa community in Ecuador’s Pastaza province.

“No outside government, no extractive industry has been able to penetrate our community,” Gayas says.

In Pakayaku, women can hold positions as leaders and guardians. Armed with spears carved from palm trees, women and men patrol the community boundaries, as part of the Hurihuri guardian program. Their presence, they say, is both protection and a warning to those who might threaten their home.

“We want to show ourselves to the world as people who always fight for their rights,” says Zenaida Yasacama, a member of the community and the first woman to serve as vice president of CONAIE, Ecuador’s national Indigenous confederation. “Pakayaku is an Indigenous community that is emerging by its own efforts, without support from any political authority. Our big dream is for Pakayaku to have economic independence, to be autonomous in this sense.”

The guardians

Gracia Malaver moves with the assurance of someone who knows every trail, every sound, every shadow that doesn’t belong. At 32, she commands a force of 45 women warriors as captain of Pakayaku’s female Indigenous guard, her long, thick dark brown hair swinging quietly behind her as she walks through the forest.

“We come from a clan that is a warrior clan,” says Malaver, her voice firm. “Our grandmothers used to do this. That’s why we are continually training to be warriors.”

Of her 45 women, 16 are actively patrolling at any given time while the others remain ready to mobilize at a moment’s notice — what she calls the “sleeping jaguars” who can awaken instantly when their territory faces threat.

The scale of illegal mining activity in Ecuador has doubled since 2020, with organized crime groups like Los Lobos controlling operations across provinces including Napo, where mining has expanded by 500 hectares (1,235 acres) in one year. Loggers also try to enter the forests at times to exploit wood, Suárez says.

“We have always stood firm against extractivist activities in our territory,” Yasacama explains. “But right now we have a big threat from the [President Daniel] Noboa government and his cabinet — they want to open a super big road for petroleum extraction that will go through Pakayaku territory.”

The road she references is part of a broader government strategy that may open Indigenous lands to resource extraction. Simultaneously, Noboa has reopened Ecuador’s mining concession registry after a seven-year closure, courting international investment in what the government calls high potential sectors like mining and natural gas.

The International Monetary Fund has encouraged this approach, promising financial support for country’s economic issues if Ecuador meets criteria for responsible spending that prioritizes economic growth.

According to leaders, Compañía General de Combustibles, an Argentinian oil company, was the last company that tried to enter the area for a potential project in 2000.

There are no extractive plans or programs in the Pacayaku territory, a total of 40,000 hectares (99,000 acres) of land with title deeds. Nearby, the Pluspetrol company operates in the Villano sector and Pacayaku borders its territory with the Villano River.

Mongabay reached out to the Ministry of Energy and Mines but did not receive a response by the time of publication.

When threats emerge — whether from illegal miners, unauthorized researchers or government officials — Malaver says she tries to mobilize the guardians with the precision of a military operation. The women patrol constantly, identifying anyone who they say doesn’t belong to their territory. This includes people from surrounding Indigenous communities who might enter without permission for hunting or other activities.

The spears they carry are not ceremonial. They are weapons, crafted from palm wood and sharpened to deadly points. “When you are on the frontlines, you don’t feel fear,” Malaver explains, her eyes steady. “You stay focused. The fear leaves you in that moment.”

This vigilance connects to broader patterns of territorial defense that have protected the forests for generations. A 46-year-old warrior who has served in the male Indigenous guard for 12 years explains the protocols that govern access to their land. Born and raised in Pakayaku, Olger Manya, a father of seven children, describes how his ancestors established systems that his generation maintains today.

“Our main goal is to protect the territory from people who come from outside,” he explains. “If somebody enters without authorization from the [Pakayaku] president, we go to the president first to see what resolution we will take.”

The consequences for unauthorized entry are serious: capture and detention until agreements are signed and promises fulfilled. This system of enforcement extends to all levels of intrusion, from individual trespassers to government officials who fail to honor their commitments to the community.

From his office in Cuenca, environmental lawyer David Fajardo says the Pakayaku community is one example of how Indigenous communities resist unwanted extractivism here in Ecuador.

“At the start of extractivist projects in their territory, they weren’t working with the projects. They had some agreements with oil companies, but then they realized that extractivism in their land would destroy not just their territory and their traditions, but also their spiritual way of life — everything they had reached and how they lived.”

Plans for the future

Evenings in Pakayaku often echo with laughter and communal storytelling as residents pass around bowls of chicha, the traditional fermented drink made from yuca. It’s during these that Gayas watches children absorb the stories and traditions that will make them the next generation of guardians.

“The rainforest must stay alive,” Gayas says, using the Kichwa word sumak that encompasses their entire philosophy of keeping the jungle in balance. This principle guides everything from their traditional calendar, which maps the harvesting and hunting seasons throughout the year, to their educational system, which teaches children to live in harmony with the cycles of nature.

The community lives in huts open to the jungle air, their daily sustenance drawn directly from the forest’s abundance. They harvest fresh fruits from towering trees, possess intimate knowledge of edible plants and medicinal herbs that grow from the soil and, when protein is needed, they fish the river’s dark waters or hunt wildlife.

The same documents from earlier in the day spread before Gayas. They represent more than just a community plan, sources say; they are a manifesto of survival. Six years in the making, created through general assemblies where every voice was heard, this “plan of life” maps out territory and their identity. It details their seasonal calendar, their vision for education that honors Kichwa knowledge alongside the national curriculum — and their economic alternatives to extraction.

“We want to separate ourselves from the model imposed by the government,” Gayas explains. “We want to give our children their own ways of learning, their own connection to this land.”

One of their most ambitious projects involves planting 250,000 cacao seeds across their territory, not as a monoculture plantation but integrated with other fruit trees and forest plants. It’s a sustainable alternative they hope could provide economic opportunities for 250 families while maintaining the jungle’s delicate ecosystem.

As the last of the day’s light filters through the forest canopy, casting dancing shadows across her map, Gayas says she carries both the weight of her responsibilities and hope for her people’s future.

The president’s vision

Later that evening, in Pakayaku’s central gathering place, a circular structure that rises like a cathedral from the jungle floor, Ángel Santi, president of the community, adjusts his beaded headband and leans forward on his warrior’s spear. The open-air hut stretches wide around us, its dirt floor worn smooth by countless community meetings, its wooden posts painted with Kichwa words that remind all who enter of Pakayaku’s foundational values. Bright jungle flowers cascade from the entryways, their colors rivaling the intricate beadwork that adorns Santi’s ceremonial dress.

At 38, Santi is part of a new generation of Indigenous leadership, one that is trying to bridge ancestral wisdom with modern political realities. His headband features a striking orange sun with a yellow center, white arrows pointing outward on each side like rays of light. Around his neck, a blue beaded necklace displays the same solar motif, while below it hangs his warrior’s necklace — a statement piece crafted from the vertebrae of hunted prey, interwoven with vibrant orange-red seeds and white seeds harvested from the jungle itself.

“To reach this level as president, I have done a lot of work,” Santi tells Mongabay. “It was a long way to get here.” His path to leadership began with participating in mingas, community work gatherings where everyone gathers to build and maintain their shared infrastructure or farmlands.

Now one year into his two-year term (a limit imposed by Pakayaku’s own laws rather than any outside authority), Santi serves as a bridge between his community and the outside world, navigating the complex relationships with government institutions while securing funds for education, health and economic development.

“My main job as president is to be the medium between the Pakayaku community and the state, and other institutions,” he explains, gesturing toward the painted posts that remind everyone present of their shared values.

The governance system he oversees reflects the same consensus-building approach that has allowed his people to remain autonomous for generations. Twenty-two council members, including the Indigenous guards who patrol their territory, must reach agreement before any major decision can move forward.

“All the people, the government council and the community must agree,” Santi emphasizes. “If not, it will not pass.”

This commitment to consensus has been crucial in maintaining their resistance to extractive industries. Santi speaks with quiet pride about their 40,000 hectares of legally government-recognized territory, and like Gayas, he says the lands their ancestors used extend far beyond any government documents.

“We haven’t allowed any extractivist activity to be held in our territory — no mining, no oil drilling, no logging. Nothing. We keep the rainforest alive,” he tells Mongabay.

But the threats are mounting, sociologists say. Indigenous leaders say they fear the implications of recent actions by President Noboa’s administration. This includes a proposed bill to privatize protected areas, where Indigenous territories are also located, and folding the Ministry of Environment into the Ministry of Energy and Mines in attempts to revive the national economy.

Recent government bills labeled as “economically urgent” have tightened controls on civil society organizations, requiring NGOs and community groups to meet conflict-of-interest protocols and register in mandatory government databases. Critics argue these laws are designed to persecute human rights and environmental defenders, creating obstacles for groups trying to combat threats to protected areas.

“There have been threats because we have been protesting, going into strikes and struggles,” Santi explains, his usually animated demeanor growing serious.

The economic pressure on the community is equally challenging. Unlike government officials who draw salaries, Santi must fund his own leadership role through traditional means. Instead of funds from the state or NGOs, he must cultivate and sell yuca and plantain to cover the costs of travel to cities for legal proceedings and advocacy work.

“When we have to go out to the city to do legal papers, we have to pay everything from our own pockets,” he says. “Nobody is supporting us.”

Despite these challenges, Santi says he is optimistic about his community’s future. The guardian program he oversees has been running for six years, formalizing the ancestral practice of territorial monitoring while training both men and women in conflict resolution and community protection.

“It is very inspiring to see these women who have come into politics, into the defense of the territory,” he says. “Women must be equal to men, and this is happening here.”

Later in the evening as the night approaches, the jungle sounds grow louder around the circular meeting hall. Santi’s voice becomes somber.

Though the community prides itself on staying invisible and not attracting unwanted attention, he says Pakayaku is welcoming and open to people. “We are looking for allies — people who understand that what we protect here belongs to all humanity.”

Additional reporting by Aimee Gabay.

Banner image: Female Indigenous guardians. Image by Brandi Morin.

Indigenous women in Peru use technology to protect Amazon forests

Related Mongabay podcast episode: Canada’s mining companies destroy biodiversity with impunity, Brandi Morin reports. Listen here:

Feedback: Use this form to send a message to the author of this post. If you want to post a public comment, you can do that at the bottom of the page.

Credits

Latoya Abulu Editor

This story first appeared on Mongabay

This article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

You may republish this article, so long as you credit the authors and Mongabay, and do not change the text. Please include a link back to the original article.