Chopping down trees in the Amazon

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The city of Anapu lies rougly 140km east of the river Xingú along the Transamazonic Highway. The city is literally spread out along the road, the commerce and hotels scattered over a paved section of the infamous dirt highway that stretches across the Amazon. There are roughly 20,000 people living here; almost everyone is from somewhere else. Thirty years ago, the city was no more then a small villa - the highway in it's infancy.

To understand the region of Transamazonia it's necessary to step back some 40 years. In the 1970's, the military government began a project to colonize and utilize the Amazon. The first step was the construction of the road, a giant highway the fluctuates between suffocating dust in the summer to impassable mud in the winter (and has changed little today). The second step was the colonization, the development of the region into cattle raising. As such, propaganda promoting the region was blasted across the country (particularly in the drought stricken Northeast). Lots of land were defined along the road, increasing in magnitude with increasing depth - lots of 100 ha for the colonizers and workers, larger lots of 500 ha for midsize farmers, and lots of 3000 ha for the large 'fazendeiros' to raise cattle (1ha = 1 hectare ~ 1 futebol field). The plots were sold on a conditional contract that within 5 years, the land would begin productivity, lest it return to the government.

The project, while stimulating colonization (and heavy deflorestation) failed as planned as many of the buyers of the larger lots never appeared - hypothetically at this point, the land was returned to the government. But with lack of fiscalization many of the titles sat in the hands of the 'owners' or were sold to second or third parties. Over years, as the land was abandoned, many began encroaching into the area - some small farmers, some larger fazendeiros. The land sat, uncertain of title.

Flash forward some 20 years. The government introduces a new project, SUDAM, which awards money for assistance in the development of the land. The areas, largely ignored, now become valuable assests. Owners return, false titles are created, land grabs occur - and corruption and violence become commonplace.

The region from the road is pasture - flowing soft green hills of waist high grasses with a scattering of fanned coconut trees. It's beautiful country. But if one looks closely, the eye discerns something wrong: blackened stumps between the grasses, lone massive trees that sprout seemingly from nowhere - the evidence that this was once Amazon forest. The deforestation here has been wreaked by cattle grazing - the large tracts of land are burned (often even the trees which earn high prices on market are destroyed) and 'capim,' the invasive and destructive grass used for cattle feed takes hold.

I have come here to visit the projects of sustainable development; two sections of land, each roughly 70,000ha, each settled by a maximum of 300 families, each supported in a plan to develop the lands in a sustainable manner (the particulars, which I wont expand, but include leaving 80% of the forest intact).

We leave in the morning for Esperança. The road is some 50km to the center, and is in theory passable by car. But even on motorcycle proves a difficult task. I cling to the back of the cycle as we blast over rock and jarring holes, slowing to pass over mud and lakes that have formed from rainwater. Steep inclines of rock strewn earth and large carved out rivets from rain water jerk and bounce the motorcylce forcefully and I regret not having a helmet lest I am airborne. I have come here with Carlos Enrique (or Negão), one of the agro-technicals working on the project (in all, there are four assigned to work with a total of some 600 families), and during the day we pass from house to house. The houses are set back from the road, into the forest. Small naked children stare wide eyed and dogs bark. The houses are simple, usually of wood and covered in palm leaves. Sometimes they are open -
more of a shelter really. The housecalls, while for a set purpose, also provide an opportunity for the farmers to address their concerns, whatever they may be, to someone who can speak to the outside.

Anapu, the city, is known here as 'the road.' As no one has transport, it's difficult and rare to arrive (more difficult further in; past the office where we are staying the project extends 15 more kilometers - the road unpassable by car). Sometimes it is done on foot when necessity is great. There is no hospital, nor post with doctor or nurse. In the three days I am there one child cuts his finger to the bone in a machine used to grind mandioca and another young girl has been sick with fever for five days. One man tells me of lashing hammocks to sticks and carrying the sick for a day. Another tells me of his four year old daughter with a hole in her heart and how he 'thinks it's got better' because it's 'too difficult to go back in forth to the city for exams'. Life here is difficult, but it is a struggle and the people have hope.

The lunch/dinner is prepared on a stove of brick and open fire. Water comes from the river of from the daily rainfall, collected as it runs off the roof. The office has electricity; a single solar panel on the roof. But there is no phone, only a small radio antennae.

On Wednesday I participate in a multirão, a gathering to work for a collective goal. In this case, the group of 10 who are designing wood crafts need to build a covering to store and dry wood. Into the surrounding forest, they cut small trees for the cross beams and fell huge babaçu coconut treets to remove the palm leaves. In all, five massive trees are felled, each with roughly 20 palms, and we cut and drag the leaves over a trail cut by machete (everyone is carrying a machete, all the time here, except me). The work is exhausting, particulary because the forest is thick and difficult to navigate and full of plants and insects that cut and sting. The forest itself is full of mammoth trees, but most of the foilage is concentrated in the
canopy far above. The forest floor is a mesh of descending vines and climbing bushes. The bioversity of the Amazon is overwhelming. The forest is never quiet, and one is constantly beseiged with sounds - be it the shrill of insects, alien bird cries, the distant barking of monkeys, or the ever present head turning rustling and darting of "something" in the surrounding brush. Curious insects of various size and colors buzz and hover at eye level to inspect and assess.
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In the neighboring Altamira, prior to my arrival in Anapú, I walk about the riverfront one evening, snapping photos of a sunset on the Xingú and the passing fishing boats. An old man with blurred eyes of cachaça begins to tell me about parrots, about rubber tappers, about the river. I tell him why I´ve come to region; to know about the projects in Anapú. Of course, he already knows I´m here because of Dorothy Stang - everyone who passes through here is. He pauses and looks as though he is going to cry. He touches his chest and tell me what a 'grand pain' her death was.

Dorothy Stang came to the region 26 years ago, an American missionary born in Ohio, but later naturalized, and arrived in Anapú, then the poorest in the surrounding area. Her resumé is long and bookworthy. One could argue that much of the establishment of the city was in part her struggle - with her support and connections outside, the fight to improve the lives of those in the region was long yet fruitful. In assistance and dedication to the poor, her work led her to establishment of the PDSs, and thus into conflict with the fazendeiros, the loggers, the land grabbers. With 73 years of age she was killed in Feburaury of 2005, a short distance from where the office sits, assisinated by hired gunmen of the large fazendeiros of the region.

My time in Anapú is highlighted by her life. Children ask if I'm brother. Workers ask if I'm here doing research. Daily, I'm regaled by stories regarding her life - particularly amongst the poor who knew, and who she knew, the best.

My last night, I pass hours in the local restaurant I frequent talking with the owner and José Carlos, one of the first Secretaries of the PDS Esperança. He tells me how when her death was drawing near, her friends were worried and warned her that the situation here was dangerous - that she could be killed. How she replied, "Irmã Dorothy não vai morrer, Irmã Dorothy vai ser implantada" ("Sister Dorothy is not going to die, Sister Dorothy is going to implanted.").

I feel at times, a hovering shadow, a presence - as if the dips and valleys through the region are her footprints. Those of a giant, perhaps not in frame but in heart, who will live forever in the existence of the communties and in the ongoing fight to save the Amazon.

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