But if thou raisest the strong gavel of Justice,
thou wilt see that a son of thine flees not from battle,
nor does he who loves thee fear death itself.
-- The Brazilian National Anthem
Around 1810 among the Sakariowarás -- an indigenous tribe, now extinct, who were related to the Suruís and who lived in a region located today in the State of Amazonas called Rorama -- there arose a love story that reached the ears of the court of Brazil’s King João VI residing in Rio de Janeiro.
It is said that Sahi, a menina (young girl) of the Kajará tribe was approached by Karahi, a young man from the Sakariowarás. They met when a group of Sakariowarás visited a Karaján village two days travel away. Even though they did not speak to each other then, they could not keep their eyes off each other from the moment that they met. For his part, Korahi burned from the gentle gaze filled with possibility emanating from the young Karajá. But this was something he had to put aside. To remain with someone from another village was not permitted, neither among the Sakariowarás nor among the Karajás. Beyond this, to remain away from one’s village required permission, and the hike – three days sozinho (alone) – before reaching the village of the Karajás was always a risk.
But Korahi could not think of anything else. He moped about sadly, until something extraordinary happened. He had been on a hunt with the men of his village. Walking in the midst of the mata (forest), he gathered up a fistful of cherries from a camu-camu tree and was putting the last frutinha (little fruit) in his mouth even as he was listening for any telltale sounds and looking for chão sinais (tracks) of recently passing game, when this last camu-camu slipped out of his hand and rolled under a large rock.
Now, he wasńt going to let a rock rob him of the last frutinha – which always seems to be the sweetest. So he jostled the rock, but rock did not budge. So he tried again, fannoyed with the rock, until it finally gave way and rolled away.
Underneath the rock, covered by some aging moss, in place of his frutinha, he found the largest pepita (nugget) of gold that anyone had ever seen! Korahi wanted to make sure. He cleaned it well, and discovered that it was shaped like a little tracajá (turtle). His heart raced wanting to saltar do peito (jump out of his chest), and the first thing that he thought of was to give it to his Karajá sweetheart as a good luck charm.
In the village, everyone was bewildered by the news. They went to the site where he found the rock, which was not at a site where gold was usually found. Someone must have hidden the nugget there long ago and either could not find it again, or perhaps had died...
Korahi carried the nugget close to him, as he promised himself to give it to the his Karajá, while the turtle seemed to transmit a softness to the touch that he had never experienced. Beyond that, he felt that there were people in the village who wanted to take his piece of gold. As it happened, a second extraordinary event took place: One day, he got the feeling that someone was spying on him from behind a tree. Korahi stretched his bow, fired an arrow and then moved toward it ... only to discover to his surprise that it was Sahi. The two embraced and sat down at the foot of a sumaúma tree whose wide roots formed a kind of protective embrace around them.
Korahi gave his menina the turtle. Passionately, he gave her a hug. Suddenly, two Sakoriowarás appeared, screaming. Korahi ran away. Frightened, Sahi disappeared into the forest, and later Korahi died.
The golden turtle disappeared and was never talked about anymore. Yet, upon hearing this story, expeditions of whites left Rio de Janeiro for this village and combed the forest searching for this golden nugget, but to no avail. It was lost forever.
***
It’s 2007, in Candaeias do Jamari, a small town some 20 km from Porto Velho in Rondônia. The day is coming to an end. The toreiro (lumberjack) Álvaro parks the caminhão (truck) well in front of a large white house, climbs out of it in a hurry and knows on the door. The house was located away from the road, had a lovely Portugese garden, laranjeiras orange trees) and a small espelho d’água (reflecting pond) in the back. Impatiently, he pounded on the door anew. A woman answered the door. He asked for Dr. Vidigal. “You need to return to the medical clinic. You will find him there.”
Que maçada (how annoying!) he thought. But it didn’t matter. He thanked her and excused himself and left -- in a hurry. The clinic was not far away.
A trained doctor with a clinic in the south after the death of his father a year ago, Dr. Vidigal had left everything in order to return to Candeias to take care of family business. He did not come back to sell an area of 50 alquieres (a Brazilian unit of measure 1 alquiere equaling between 2 and 10 hectares) which Álvaro wished to buy.
The toreiro waited for a couple of minutes while Dr. Vidigal finished waiting on a patient and asked if he would enter. Álvaro was direct: “I came to fechar o negócio (close the deal) on the property, Dr. Vidigal. Is it still for sale?” He said this in jest with a large smile, because the question was unnecessary. A week did not pass in which he ran into Dr. Vidigal without offering to purchase the property. The issue was that they did not come to an agreement because he did not have the money, and Dr. Vigidal refused to help.
The owner of the property responded with his own question: “Have you put together the money?”
“Yes, I have and wish to mudar de ramo (change my way of life). I only want to have my own place and take care of it, doctor.” The moço spoke happily with a smile.
“Escute (listen) here, Álvaro. A week has not passed in which you have told me that you were born in Rondônia and made a living by puxando tora (hauling lumber). And you’re going to change the story?” The doctor stopped there and Álvaro began to explain himself better, adding more details.
No, Doctor Vidigal, I was not born in Rondônia. I was born in the capital Leônidas Marques in Paraná. I left there with the whole family when I was 16 years old. We came to Rondônia where I have worked since as a toreiro (lumberjack) along with my pai (father). We’ve lived in Vilhenas, Cerejeira, Costa Marques before coming to Candeias. It’s been 10 years that I’ve lived here and continue to work as a freelance toreiro. I only cut down the madeiras (wood) that the serrarias (lumber mills) want: cerejeira, cedro mara (red cedar), ipê, cedrinho, taxi, tauari, faveiro, cinzeiro ...”
Dr. Vidigal listened attentively and somewhat surprised. He thought that the toreiro worked for a exploração certificada (licenced enterprise). “So you are one of those who is acabando (gutting) the forest!”
The toreiro laughed anew: “The logging that I do is tiny compared to the derrubadas (clearcutting) done by the fazendas (plantations), doctor! When I come back to the place where two years ago I chopped down a tree, the forest has already grown back to as it was before.”
“Who are destroying the forest are the fazendeiros (plantation owners). The great derrubadas have already destroyed the great part of the valuable wood. They don’t aproveitam (value) anything. For them, it’s not worth it to first harvest the madeira (wood). Instead they mandam logo tocar fogo (order everything to be set afire) because they want to clear the land for pasture, in order to plant capim (grass) for the cattle to eat, and later when the capim no longer yields they plant soy which sells for more money.
The doctor continued to listen attentively. “Truly, eu não fazia idéia disso (I did not know of this).”
The toriero smiled again. He always laughed, speaking with a big smile on his face whenever he spoke, but now he seemed positively euphoric. He continued, “I cut four or five trees a week. Taking into account my expenses, equipment wear and tear, fuel, and the cost of day labor, I make a about 1,500 Reals/month. One can make a living with this kind of work, but the forest is disappears. There were trees here that people don’t find anymore in our region.
“Now I want change my life. I will buy my own piece of the mata (forest), plant some rice, mandioca (a root similar to a potato) and beans for my family and I will never cut down another tree. I want my son, Rafael, to know what was here before all this destruction. I would like that he study so that he could find different work than mine, because when he grows up, there will be very little left to derrubar (cut down).
“Today, I cut down my last tree, doctor. It was a sumaúma that must have been three hundred years old. I cut it down with a serra (saw), and when it came down, I received a sign to give-up this life: look at what I found in the middle of the trunk, right in the toco (stump).
The toreiro put a golden turtle on the table.
Armed with a Stihl 051 chainsaw
A motosserra (chainsaw) is like many venoms: it’s means that can do good, but it also kills, as can a small box of matches. It can make a fire that gives heat, but it can produce an uncontrolled blaze that can destroy an entire forest.
Irresponsible forest dwellers don’t need to be armed with a Stihl (a brand of chainsaw) and a box of matches in order to win easy battle against Nature. The 75 cm blade of a 051 chainsaw can fell a healthy 100-200 year old angelim-pedra tree with a truck 80 cm (nearly 3 ft) in diameter. The phosphorus tip of a match is enough to open a Pandora’s Box killing animals, destroying plant species and definitively altering the ecological equilibrium sustained by Mother Nature for millenia.
There’s been much discussion about the “right” to impose a program for the development of the Amazon Rainforest, without asking the forest if it wants to be developed. There’s been much discussion about the effect of cutting down 30, 50 or 75% of the forest without asking the forest if it wants to be cut down.
One can’t ask because the forest can not speak? So we should ask those who were born there, who live there, who dream there, and only wish to live there, in peace, breathing clean air, listening to the chirping of the pássaros (birds) living in the jungle. Certainly, the progress that the Amazonian wants isn’t one where his jungle is destroyed to give space for cow pasture or soybean fields. The progress that the Amazonian wants are schools in the forest (there aren’t any), roads in the forest (there aren’t any), electricity in the forest (there isn’t any), medical care in the forest (there isn’t any), basic sanitation in the forest (there isn’t any).
Before the Câmara Federal (Federal Legislature) today, are 199 proposals concerning the desmatamento (deforestation) of the forest. How many concern themselves with basic sanitation for the towns and villages of the forest? How many concern themselves with bringing schools or doctors into the same mata (jungle) that they wish to develop even as they debate the death of the forest?
In the meantime, we have a still greater problem. The Earth is seriously – very seriously – ill, saturating itself with carbon dioxide that Amazonia can help to digest (see Chapter II).
Whether or not the desmatamento (deforestation) is illegal and the queimadas (burning) is intentional, it is clear that they must stop. The reality is that we are borrowing on what can not be paid back. It’s not enough to simply come to respect a logging cycle. The Amazonian forest will only recover when instead of cutting, we start planting; instead of continuing programs of deforestation we begin programs for reforestation.
The health of the planet hangs in the balance, but do we have the courage?
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