I miss Yully.

As the Maijuna Congress dragged into day three, hour five, and as we both began to slouch over in our toddler-sized seats and nod into a slumber, Yully and I woke each other up by whispering about our perfect ice cream sundae.

We agreed on chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips and fudge drizzle in a waffle cone. "And it would be as big as my head!" Yully added. A few hours later, we added a strawberry on top of our fantasy.

And as the congress continued to day three, hour eight, I drew a picture biography of Yully in blue pen, pencil stub and squeaky pink highlighter. Her eyes are uncomfortably wide open, as if someone is prying them up with matches. Her head is in profile, and her nose points longingly to a patch of trees, dirt and open sky. Her neck dissolves into a river filled with butterflies, chocolate bars, dancing feet, clapping hands, and a big chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone.

"Exactly," Yully whispers.

* * *

As we floated down the Napo River in an elongated canoe (hour 15 of 27), Yully flicked her wrist, and I understood. Time to switch seats.

I had been trying to fall asleep on a sugar sack encrusted in ants, and Yully had been using an orange lifejacket as a pillow. She was convincing her neck and back to conform to the 90 degree seat angle. Neither of us had succeeded in catching a wink of sleep, so we switched. The life jacket looked exceptionally comfortable to me, and Yully eyed my sugar sack with envy.

The lifejacket was hard like plywood and it rustled every time I turned my neck. The ants on the sack snapped at Yully´s shoulder blades.

So we both gave up on sleep and sang instead.

"Hoy yo conoci / un cielo de sol / noche sin suenos / rio de sal / y un barco abandonado en el desierto..."

In order to outdo the hum of the motor, we sang loudly and together. We filled the river with love, change and Shakira.

* * *

A month ago, I was on board a boat to Brillo Nuevo that wasn´t destined to arrive in Brillo Nuevo anytime soon. Yully had just joined our team of three, and I approached her with a handshake. As we talked that night, I interlaced niceties with questions - I wanted to know her stats, just in case I needed to include them in a blog or article. I wrote them down on a piece of brown scratch paper that I tucked away in my notebook:

Yully is spelled Y-U-L-L-Y, even though it sounds like "Julie" to me. Yully, 37, is an agronomist, which means that she studies plants. Yully helps us out in the field. She is from Iquitos, Peru, born and raised. And she has two daughters, ages 6 and 13.

I was the journalist, and she was my subject. We weren´t friends yet, so that bland relationship was still possible.

* * *

A month later, Yully and I talked through the night about love, change and Shakira, but I would never repeat that here. I can´t write a story about her now. That would be disrespectful to my friend.

As soon as my story subject becomes my friend, I´ve lost my story. That´s a painful realization - that actually getting to know someone, that catching a glimpse of what they mull over when they stare blankly into the river, isn´t in your best interest as a journalist.

Yully is not accompanying us on this upcoming expedition to Jenaro Herrera.

* * *

And I miss her.