By AFP
January 8, 2025
Renato Cordeiro, 57, harvests rubber from a hevea tree (Hevea brasiliensis) near his home - Copyright AFP Pablo PORCIUNCULA
Anna PELEGRI
As the sun rises over the Amazonian island of Marajo, Renato Cordeiro laces up his boots, grabs his knife, and heads out to tap his rubber trees.
Drop by drop, he collects the milky white sap, known as latex, that sustains him.
The recent revival of the rubber tapper trade in this impoverished northern Brazilian region has created jobs for families who once thrived during the Amazonian rubber boom, which collapsed in the late 20th century.
A local company called Seringo has enabled Cordeiro and more than 1,500 other rubber tappers to resume their craft. The company produces goods such as footwear while also protecting the forest, increasingly threatened by deforestation.
For Cordeiro, a wiry 57-year-old, the Amazon is his backyard.
Behind his stilt house on the Anajas River, dozens of natural rubber trees blend with centuries-old trees and palms typical of this island, surrounded by rivers on one side and the sea on the other.
– ‘Family heritage’ –
“I started tapping trees at age seven with my mother, deep in the forest,” said Cordeiro, holding his knife, which has a protruding metal piece for making precise cuts in the bark.
With each incision made carefully to avoid harming the trunk, the native Amazonian tree begins to drip its latex into a container placed underneath. As it fills, Renato moves on to the next tree.
Each day, he collects about 18 liters (4.8 gallons), mixing it with vinegar to produce white rubber sheets. These hang on a rope for 10 days to dry before being sold to Seringo, which picks them up from his riverside home.
Cordeiro, a married father of three, beams with pride. After nearly two decades of scraping by through hunting and acai harvesting, he returned to rubber tapping in 2017 to protect what he calls his family heritage — the forest.
“I longed for this work to return,” says Valcir Rodrigues, another rubber tapper and father of five, from a stilt house along the river north of Anajas.
“We want to leave a better world for our children, so we don’t deforest,” he says.
Rodrigues frequently confronts loggers who invade his land to cut down trees.
“They need to understand how much they harm the forest — and themselves — since many end up in debt to their employers,” he explains.
Deforestation surged in Marajo when global demand for Amazonian rubber plummeted as countries like Malaysia began large-scale rubber tree plantations.
Today, however, rubber sustains Rodrigues’s entire family. His wife and mother-in-law skillfully craft colorful artisanal goods sold primarily in Belem, the capital of Para state, to Marajo’s east.
“I was a civil servant, but the local government never gave me a job. This is my first real trade, and I love it,” said his mother-in-law Vanda Lima, a smiling 60-year-old.
– Expansion –
With one of Brazil’s worst Human Development Index rankings, “it was necessary to create income in Marajo,” says Zelia Damasceno, who co-founded Seringo with her husband to boost the region’s bio-economy.
Initially focused on promoting artisanal work, the couple realized that rubber tappers were “unsatisfied,” extracting latex sporadically for their spouses to use in making crafts.
“That’s why we envisioned a second purpose — footwear — so they could also earn a living,” says Damasceno, 59, from Para.
At its factory in Castanhal, about 300 kilometers (200 miles) east of Marajo, Seringo produces 200 pairs of biodegradable shoes daily, made from 70 percent rubber and 30 percent acai powder.
The company recently received support from the Para government to expand the number of rubber tappers it calls on in Marajo to 10,000.
That is part of a sustainable development program launched ahead of COP30, a UN climate conference scheduled for November in Belem.
Still, challenges remain, Damasceno admits: “Some young people don’t want to follow this path. We must raise awareness about the importance of this work to preserve the forest and their future.”
‘No more fires,’ demand fed-up Amazon residents
By AFP
January 8, 2025
View of burned acai palm trees due to an out-of-control fire in the Amazon region of the Marajo archipelago in Breves - Copyright AFP Pablo PORCIUNCULA
Anna PELEGRI
Giovana Serrao was not home when a fire lit in a neighboring agricultural field got out of control and destroyed her acai palms on the island of Marajo in the Brazilian Amazon.
Paulinho dos Santos remembers the dark nights in November when he would leap out of bed to use buckets of water to douse flames threatening his farm.
And Maria Leao’s two daughters suffered sinusitis, caused by a smoke cloud that for weeks enveloped Breves, the largest city on the island, surrounded by sea and rivers in the northern state of Para.
Like them, many residents of the region felt the brunt of blazes in the Brazilian Amazon, which had over 140,000 fires in 2024 — the highest number in 17 years.
The situation was worst in Para state, whose capital Belem will in November host the COP30 climate conference, with more than 56,000 fires during the peak of the fire crisis last year.
According to scientists, the fires were linked to global warming, which dries out vegetation and makes it more flammable.
But they are almost always started by people clearing land for pasture or agriculture, or for illegal logging.
– ‘Intolerable’ –
“We lived through intolerable weeks. We couldn’t even go outside because visibility was zero. The medical center was overwhelmed with patients suffering from respiratory problems,” says Zairo Gomes, a 51-year-old teacher and a prominent civil society figure in Breves.
At the time, the air quality monitor at the city’s federal university recorded 480 micrograms per cubic metre of harmful fine particulate matter (PM2.5), far exceeding the WHO’s 24-hour limit of 15.
Breves, an impoverished city of 107,000, relies primarily on its river port connecting Marajo with Belem, the state capital.
Unemployment is widespread, and much of the population depends on farming acai fruit, a staple in Para’s diet.
Authorities were notably absent during the two-month fire crisis from October to November, Gomes notes.
The city’s open dumps, swarmed by vultures amid a strong stench, reflect the lack of sanitation.
When contacted, neither the mayor nor the environmental secretary responded to AFP requests for information.
– ‘Right to Breathe’ –
The wave of fires sparked an unprecedented grassroots mobilization.
“We achieved something crucial: citizens began talking about the environment, climate change, and criminal arson. We stopped passively suffering,” says Gomes.
This led to the creation of a collective called “Breves Asks for Help: The Right to Breathe,” which regularly meets to pressure authorities and prevent similar destruction during the dry season, which starts every July.
“We want more resources for local firefighters, who are overwhelmed, and punishment for those responsible,” said Maria Leao, a 50-year-old midwife and activist.
Greenpeace data highlights that most Amazon fires go unpunished, and less than one percent of fines levied are paid.
– ‘Lack resources’ –
“We lack resources to fight the fires and apprehend those responsible,” admitted Lieutenant Colonel Luciano Morais, at the Breves military police headquarters.
This year, “we made only two arrests” because proving responsibility is “very difficult,” as fires are often started at night, he said.
At those hours, the forces “avoid entering the forest. And no one wants to talk,” whether out of fear or ignorance, he conceded.
Outside his farm on the city’s outskirts, Paulinho dos Santos, 65, said he doesn’t know who started the fires that kept him awake for nights.
“Maybe it’s better that way because I could have done something reckless,” he said, still shaken.
The retiree lost vegetation across 40 percent of his land, though his house and chicken coop survived.
– ‘Same Struggle’ –
Serrao, however, pointed to her neighbor, who destroyed her acai plantation while burning his field for farming.
“The police spoke to him, but he is still there,” said the 45-year-old woman.
Serrao and her husband planted her palms seven years ago with a bank loan they were finally about to repay by selling acai to Breves’s schools.
“Now we don’t know what we’ll do,” she said, standing among the charred trees.
Beside her, Gomes added: “We need to organize and unite with neighboring towns also seeking help. We’re in the same struggle. No more fires!”
No comments:
Post a Comment