The impact of Ecuador’s mega-prison: A polluted river, cleared forests and military checkpoints

The military patrol tasked with guarding the mega-prison known as Encuentro — one of Ecuadorian President Daniel Noboa’s most ambitious projects in the coastal province of Santa Elena — skidded along the dusty road. At least six soldiers and police officers got out of the truck; their boots kicked up clouds of dust as they intercepted a group of local villagers who, accompanied by a lawyer from the Guayaquil Human Rights Committee (CDH) and several journalists, were attempting to document the environmental impact the prison has had on the river that winds just a few meters away, alongside the stone wall surrounding the penitentiary complex. “I’m a member of the Don Lucas community,” said Donald Cabrera, sounding annoyed. Since learning about the government’s plans to build the prison on their land, Cabrera has protested relentlessly, outraged by the damage to biodiversity.

Part of the prison is built on communal lands that have been stewarded by the local inhabitants for centuries. It is a natural area that hosts forests of enormous ceibo trees and serves as a refuge for endemic birds. That land, at the foot of the majestic Chongón-Colonche mountain range, had never before been touched by activities that could disrupt its natural balance, its defenders explain. As the villagers handed their ID cards to the patrol chief, tensions rose. The officer reviewed the papers and explained that access to the area was prohibited, even though it is the road connecting several nearby communities. He also demanded the images that the photographer accompanying the group had captured with a drone over the river running through the Don Lucas community, located about 9.3 miles (15 kilometers) from the prison. The soldier copied them to his phone to check that none included the prison itself. He immediately forbade them from proceeding. “No one can prevent people from freely traveling on these roads,” Cabrera protested, to no avail. The other police officers and soldiers warned them not to travel that route again.

Military checkpoints have intensified in the area since November 10, when the first prisoners arrived at the facility. That day, Lidia Avelino saw a military armored vehicle for the first time. She was impressed by its size, she says, as it passed in front of her house, shaking the brick walls. She felt afraid, she remembers. “Now the military searches us, pats us down from head to toe to see what we’re carrying,” the woman recounts with concern.

The Noboa administration began transferring prisoners to the facility in the midst of the controversial referendum called in September to create a Constituent Assembly, even though the prison was not yet finished, as the president acknowledged in an interview: “It’s not at 100%, but it’s already [about] 35%, 40% complete.”

What little is known about the interior of the center — intended to house leaders of criminal gangs — comes from photographs shared by the president and his ministers on social media. The first of these images was posted by Noboa on X and shows former vice president Jorge Glas, who was detained in three corruption cases filed by the Attorney General’s Office. Noboa wrote with an ironic tone: “Welcome to your new home. More criminals will arrive soon.” That day, the first 300 prisoners were transferred. A month later, 640 inmates are already being held.

The construction of the prison has been surrounded by controversy due to its environmental impact. To build it, 16 hectares of forest were cleared and a hill was leveled. Five octagonal pavilions, four yards, three security fences, and six watchtowers were erected, according to an image shared by Interior Minister John Reimberg. The local villagers learned about the opening of the prison through their rivers. One morning, Lidia and her husband went to the small plot where they grow what they need to survive, and along the way they smelled a stench that stopped them in their tracks. “It was black, it stank. We had to cover our noses,” the woman recalls. She says they saw feces floating in the water. They complained to the prison administration, and officials promised to redirect the wastewater, but, Lidia says, “it will end up in the river anyway.”

Disruption to community life

Ángela Domínguez, 84, gazes at the water with resignation. “Everyone used to bathe here. We called it ‘the little beach.’ The water was clear. Now look at it,” she says. In this rural area, there is no drinking water or sewage system. The electrical grid is unreliable, as are cell phone and internet signals. For decades, the river was the only source of sustenance for the roughly 20,000 villagers in the Chanduy sector. Women would store water in pots, boil it to drink, and beat clothes against the rocks when they gathered to wash together. It was a place for community. But now no one can bathe, says Lidia. “The water stings the skin,” she says.

Organizations such as the Guayaquil Human Rights Committee warned about the consequences of the prison’s construction. The CDH has filed reports and lawsuits against the building of the facility. “It was obvious that a mega-project with hundreds of people would have an environmental impact,” explains Telmo Jaramillo, a CDH lawyer. The organization demanded that authorities explain how they plan to manage the waste generated by the prison or its sewage. “Anywhere else in the city they would build a treatment plant, but here they decided to dump the wastewater into the stream,” the lawyer denounces. The CDH is preparing a new request for precautionary measures so that a judge can force the state to immediately repair the environmental damage caused by the prison.

But for the residents of Don Lucas, it may already be too late: the river is contaminated, the road that once connected the communities ends at a wall guarded by soldiers, and peace — the kind that had defined the community for generations — has been shattered by the passage of military tanks.

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