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Juan Arredondo

Admiring the view of Medellín from the Santo Domingo viewpoint. Cable cars are a relatively new addition to the city's infrastructure, connecting more lofty neighbourhoods to the city centre.

A two-month-old clings to a tree in his enclosure. Baby three-toed sloths are in high demand as pets in Colombia—and as props for selfies throughout Latin America and in the United States. At AIUNAU, the lucky ones who manage to thrive are released after about a year. “When people talk about rehabilitation,” Plese says, “they think you just feed the animals. I spend days and nights just observing them. They’ve taught me so many things. I call them kids from the forest.”

Rescued two-toed sloths snack on apple slices at Fundación AIUNAU. Founded in 1996, the organization provides a tranquil environment for sloths rescued from the pet trade that mimics their natural habitat—complete with tree branches, hanging food, and minimal human contact. Over the past 25 years, Plese has rehabilitated and released more than 300 sloths back to the wild. Three times as many haven’t survived.

A baby two-toed sloth peeks out of a basket at Fundación AIUNAU. The baskets, Plese says, provide a cozy retreat, mimicking the warm embrace of their mother’s arms. Two-toed sloths are not as heavily trafficked as three-toed sloths because they can be more aggressive toward humans. “If there’s something I’m really proud of,” Plese says, “it’s that I’ve never been bitten by a two-toed sloth!”

Villada looks on as a four-month-old two-toed sloth eyes a snack. Each year, the center receives dozens of sloths from regional wildlife authorities or members of the public. Poachers, Plese says, sometimes clip sloths’ nails so drastically that they sever their fingers. Some take out the teeth of the more aggressive two-toed sloths. Others are malnourished. “Sometimes they come here to die in peace,” Plese says.

Paula Villada has been working at Fundación AIUNAU in Medellín for more than 10 years, where she and founder Tinka Plese care for rescued sloths. Speaking frankly about the horrors she’s witnessed in a decade of looking after abused sloths, Villeda says, “I have faith, but I no longer have faith in humanity.”

Controlling wildlife trafficking in the lush landscape of Córdoba is complicated. Much of the forested territory, home to an abundance of sloths, is under the sway of the Clan del Golfo, Colombia’s largest drug cartel. Poachers often make agreements with clan members allowing them to operate in cartel-dominated territory.

A weather-worn sign on a highway outside Montería, in the province of Córdoba, educates drivers about the need to protect wildlife, including sloths, monkeys, and turtles. Córdoba has long been the center of Colombia’s illegal sloth trade.

Morales uses his phone’s flashlight to check on the young sloth, captured the day before at the request of a buyer. December through February are typically the busiest months, when he and his friends can sell at least 30 sloths. “I really want to stop,” says Morales, who provides for his mother and nine siblings. “I feel like I don’t have another option.”

Yilber Morales, 20, places a captured baby sloth into a box in his home in Altos de Polonia. Morales is part of a third generation of residents who make a living poaching and selling wild animals on the highway near the town, a busy artery for Colombian vacationers heading to the Atlantic coast.