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A rainbow on a bear hunt Jakarta




There are at least six different police to wait for the docking of the Rainbow Warrior. They parade uniforms, insignia and leggings of different colors and shapes. And look. But
nesun ship appears on the horizon. For the simple fact that the horizon does not exist. The sky over Jakarta and 'a single, compact mass of gray, sometimes by the tone' yellow. And it could be different, a sky sentenced to doze over fifteen million inhabitants, with their waste burned in the street, with their eight million vehicles every day puffing and coughing gusts black.
Cosi ', with no horizon, the Rainbow Warrior just emerging from wet mist, appears out of nowhere, like a rainbow. And like a rainbow, and 'a promise. The ship reaches the port of Dumai in Sumatra, where he blocked for days at a load of palm oil to Europe. In the weeks before, a short distance, activists in the Forest Defender Camp, have conforntato directly the expansion of oil palm plantations, building dams where companies destroy the forest and draining the land. And now it 's here in the capital, which must be closed the match with a law prohibiting once and for all the destruction of rainforests and peatlands. To protect the global climate by the release of carbon caused by erosion of the peat, and to protect forests from destruction.
Like a rainbow after weeks of storms. It was time.

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seems Emiliano Zapata. Big, never speaks, and the enormous mustache give a stern expression. But the smile and 'sweet as a schoolgirl. If he sits all the time, to look beyond the horizon, the dark blue sarong wrapped around his waist like an ancient Javanese warrior, or draped on his back with dignity 'Senate. He watched in silence
while stupendous pair of hornbills and eagles en route. He watched in silence while discussing the case of a group of monkeys. Disapprove? And the 'indifferent? Difficult to infer from that silence, that noble estate '. But today
and 'moved, Emiliano Zapata .. And not 'just moved. He grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged away like a twig. He even spoke, explaining nonsocche 'with excitement. But he has not let go.
And 'one who inspires confidence, Emiliano Zapata, perhaps because of his stubborn silence. I follow him docile along the path, then through fields recently opened. A tree roots still burning, waiting for the crash that tear down '. And I continue to follow him, stumbling over roots, walking on felled logs. I follow him into the forest, where a fallen tree lying in a bed of sawdust. Followed him and do not understand where I do not understand what happens. Every so often around the eyes to his massive body, and he responds with a look of confirmation and reassurance. I just have to follow him. And I follow through the undergrowth or the lianas more and more 'dense, I follow him while the forest is black as night. And
and 'them, black, black shadow that moves swinging. Only then did I understand what's happening. It 'a bear, shake caught in a trap of the hunters. Finished by mistake into the trap set to someone else. Furious and frightened, sinking his fangs in the tree which is tied the rope that binds him. And a trunk e'ora single pile of wood chips around.



the crescent white under the throat that makes her recognizable species, and 'a bear, Malay or sun bear. Moreover there 's a great chance' of error and 'the only bear that lives in Indonesia. But it 's very rare. The IUCN has just entered the red list of threatened species, exposing a population decline of thirty per cent in thirty years.
Thirty percent in thirty years. What percentage is the mass of black hair flapping in fornt of me? From the darkness of the foliage is another figure, like a faun, with a thirty per cent of the shirt on his back, and a twenty per cent of pants to his waist. The rest is dark muscles, tattoos and strings.
Suddenly the language gap becomes a drama. The two now are around the bear with ominous caution. They study the animal at a safe distance, and cut long branches drtitti. I would like to explain to them how much and 'this rare animal, and as' precious. I try to explain with gestures, but how to explain actions that an animal species and 'endangered? And I know that for them, 'a wild animal, a danger to families and children. I imagine the stories told in the evening before the fire, fierce and terrible to bear, the cunning to save themselves from the fearsome predator. Cosi 'terrible and' practically vegetarian. But how to explain? It 'a clash ancient, ancestral, between Man and Beast, made out of fear each other, that does not know at the reasons. The poor beast
shake paws. The long claws leave files furrows in the bark of the surrounding trees.
But what am I doing here among the hunters? I am the wrong person in the wrong place. And at the wrong time. The bear barks like a dog on a string. Around him, 'a battlefield of broken branches, leaves piled up. The words wander aimlessly, without effect. Words are unnecessary, death. Terror common prey and hunters.
E 'evening now. Other shadows materialized among the leaves more and more 'dark. And 'the people of the huts in the area. They all came to bear hunting.
We are now in the final stage. Immobilize the animal with long sticks, with moves precise, cautious, avoiding the bear's claws slashing. Quickly catching strips of bark feet, tie, fasten them to the sticks. It lasts an instant, and the animal and 'tied around the stick. The items remain silent out of my mouth. The bear continues to howl in despair.
Finally I find someone who can translate some length of sentence. Reassures me: no one eats bears here, it 'kills himself for no reason. But the bear threatens families, children, and always returns to the place of the first meeting. So take him far beyond the river, where there will be 'more' a threat.
I feel reassured, but the howling of the animal will not let me. I continue to be in the wrong place. But those of us' in the right place? The bear? The frightened faces of the people around me? No, not 'the place to anyone here.



The fly swings slightly. Ticchetando The rain falls on the roof of leaves, like a diligent typist. The air is warm and oily. Beams and bamboo create a patch of polygon in horizontal and vertical lines, like a Javanese inlay. Through the veil, out of the window the trees sway in the wind like black shadows against a sky growing dark.
The world seems to move lightly, as surfing the waves of light hair. Or maybe 'Remember that fever and delirium in a single plot. Then the thrills give way to a deep sleep and without colors. Huddled in the bottom of the sleeping bag, finally found the right place.

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night on the town 'and then you die


After a day's walk in the mud, I can finally go to bed. But when I place the sleeping bag already 'lying on the mattress, we are under a nest of maggots. Maybe it 's been a few morsels of food from somewhere, maybe I should wash everything. In fact, there 'a stench in the room too. I look for clothes made to stretch out, drenched with sweat and mud. I try as best Lavarra some shirt, remove the maggots, aim carefully on the ground, I find others under the floorboards. In the end I cleaned everything, and put to bed exhausted.

to myself I think I'm someone a bit 'too suggestible. I'm still asleep, curled up on the sleeping bag, his hand under the pillow, and I repeat not to be impressed, to continue to sleep. But the feeling of having a hand full of worms still remain. It 's just a feeling. It 'not a feel-feel, an almost imperceptible movement. It 's just an impression. But too many concepts do not help you sleep, and eventually I wake up. I look at my hand and and 'in fact full of worms. Catered 'beautiful people nestled under my pillow. I wonder where they came, hopefully not my ears. Came to my mind the old horror movies, with flows of worms coming out from the nose and mouth. Just nonsense, the most 'obvious' that the maggots started to rise from under the floor through the cracks between the boards. Remove the maggots, I clean everything again, but I am not the best preparation for breakfast and to start the day. I lie in bed for a moment, carefully cleaned, and close my eyes.

Like a sparse rain, a noise gets out of bed. I look around, and other worms working toward a shelter. Plick, and another worm appears on the bed. The worms will drop from the ceiling, the cracks between the boards. There must be a dead animal up there ', maybe a mouse. This also explains the terrible stench in the room. Speed \u200b\u200bfolding my stuff, including shirts still wet, and I load the pack up, while the rain continues to tick and maggot on the mattress. Plick Plick ... .... Plick ....

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See Rengat


"Would you like to die Rengat? - Click". E 'to be taken seriously threatening phone calls on the phone with one of our activists? Perhaps, if two days before someone decided to organize a demonstration against Greenpeace in the regional capital, Pekanbaru (two dozen people, but it 's the thought that counts) and if the day after the thugs who came from outside, proclaimed " youth brigade for peace "in Kuala Cenaku distribute a flyer offering to throw out Greenepeace Indonesia and Kuala Cenaku in particular. Some of the mugs, incidentally, were in uniform. Second to the testimony of police villagers.

Tomorrow demonstration against Greenpeace in front of the small temporary office of Rengat. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile we continue to work on the dams. Today for the first time the dam had no control flow, which means that we completely stopped the water thing. The crowd gets wet in a haunting day, and new plants grow visibly. And with the green back even the animals: the fish jumping in the stagnant channel, in two days has been made to see a bear, a species of wild cat (hereinafter called the tiger of the roots) and gibbons. A sign of the forest that will be '.

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Shipwreck in the Straits of Malacca Singapore



Batam. Back on the road to the port. Among the basaltic rocks small woods are reflected on the waters of lego. I look at this green will not see that 'never again': if I ever return, the air will find its' banks, port warehouses and shopping centers.

The port, however, 'is still the old style, in contrast to the terminal for Singapore. A row of benches crowded with magnet position of parcels. Porters pushing carts engulfed the pier of the goods. I look around, we are the only white people. At the ticket you have withdrawn your ticket and have given us another: the same place, same price, but another time. The first suspicion 'that they have canceled a trip to focus on a single passenger boat. The suspicion is strengthened when I see mass of people waiting in line. An employee cries

targets "Sembulunsebulunembulung", "Bulanbulanbualn. It does not seem to be ours. Came the cry "Bilahabilahabilahan" We, and 'Tembilahan, at least we hope. And it 'where the initial suspicion becomes certainty: the ferry is not' a big boat, no more 'bigger than a bus with 70 seats tight, in which crowd hundred and twenty people. There will be places for little more 'than half' of people. I look up, small shelves that contain life jackets. Nor is it enough for the seats. Behind the window port and the 'already' is a dot. I really hope not to have a swim in the sea. The speedboat

Coore wincing waves, with its load of people compressed. The islands are dotted, one after the other. Clumps of mangrove perched on plots of land. Are the islands to which Conrad and many others have saddled the wild and exotic flavor, with stories of pirates and adventurers from the sad look on a sea of \u200b\u200byellow and stagnant.

Old Malay instead tell stories. Legends of translucent beings that live in trees, rocks and inlets, and weaving the destinies of men in secret plots and unmentionable. Pushed by the progress that is devouring Batam, must have fled to these islands And I seem to feel some sweating out the breath, behind the roar of the engine in bits of breeze carries the scent of the forest. A

sudden jolt me \u200b\u200bback to the boat. No, not 'a start, and' a rap on the side. The boat nails in a persistent blaze of sirens piercing the air. I look around. Voices and cries incomprehensible. Dozens of hands rummaging concitatamene racks above the seats and grab the life jackets. A baby cries.

do not know what happens, I just know that for me the jackets are out of reach. There 'a lot I can do. Rest of them 'to think that I'd sink into despair among many hands that pull me to the bottom. Rest of them to think how useless it is my thinking. The boat rocks on the waves. All around the beams, tanks, bags thrown into the water.

The second run slow, slow, but the boat begins to lean to one side, it 'there are splashes of water from all sides, at least not yet. Then he cries out to the water make me understand what 'success. A small wooden boat lies upside down and gutted. She 's the victim, not my boat. Life jackets flying in the water. Two men dripping in a state of shock and are pulled on board. One is lying on the roof of the boat, does not react. The other shouts something in a voice broken by tears, indicating the wreck almost broken in two. It 'an old man who died, the third passenger on the boat, lost in the luggage floating around on the waves.

see the faces crowded into the small ferry. Old Chinese silent gaze impenetrable, young women who shake babies, others are hiding in those who wear kerchiefs on their heads, young old Malay faces excavated. And overboard, the two men were thrown into the water to try and retrieve the old pleasant part of the luggage. I wonder what they are thinking. And think about how 'difficult to live and die in these islands.

I think about a body floating in a senior dance dead in what could be my place or of each of these people around me.

I think my body, my limbs, my beam have mass impact, projectile planted in a broken life. I wonder how are the faces that are waiting for a man who will return 'more', building swimming beneath me, beneath the tanks scattered in the broken beams. Maybe tens of translucent little creatures are accompanying him to swim to mysterious places.

fishing boats come in, loaded the wounded and the remains of the luggage. The sirens continue to punch the air when the boat starts slowly, guided by a pilot in a state of shock.

The rain comes suddenly, a dark streak in the sky yellow. Warm and generous, takes away sweat, tears and thoughts.

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Singapore

It 's not a place, and Singapore' a mark on a map, a city 'virtual goods in transit is a huge custard enclosed in millions container if the same 'them. And then, skyscrapers, parks and shopping malls, and everything you need for a perfect image of a global city, like a scale model just released by a firm of architects. Here is home to many holding companies governing the plundering of the forests of Southeast Asia, Oceania, Africa, even the Amazon. Paper, timber, palm oil go from here in the form of waterfalls numerical bounce between bank accounts around the world. But there is no 'trace of chaos here. Order, cleanliness and consumption, commandments of an Asian free market capitalism and authoritarian. Here, even the concrete piers of the viaducts are painted pure white, and is' strictly forbidden chewing gum gum in public. Only fragments in the city 'old place and remember that every' fact of people: a Buddhist temple suffocated by skyscrapers, a tavern in China, an alley in the back room, but they are only fleeting dejavou, transparency elusive.

And then, away, back to the neighbor across the coast of Sumatra, and his suffering the forests. But there are flights via Pekanbaru it 'via Jakarta. You have to go by sea: ferry to Batam, and then another boat to Tembilahan, and by road up to Rengat.

arriving in Batam, we find that the boat leaves from Tembilahan to another port on the opposite side of the island. The air and 'red-hot from the sun. Well, load the luggage and look for a bus that brought us'. We find unlucky, a bus that takes us through a road lined with swaying hills, lakes and small woods. But when we discover that the ferry now he's' gone. We have to wait until the next day.

Cosi 'spend the night in Batam, city' quiet and sleepy port, full of shops and dance halls frequented by Chinese merchants and misunderstandings Malay prostitutes. But it 's apparent sleep. Singapore's younger sister, received the status of free zone development that should ensure a blazing. Immigrants from all over flock to Indonesia in droves entire city 'of terraced houses were built on hills.

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Fire barefoot


Kuala Cenaku, November 2, 2007. The field is full of people today. The green shirts Selamarkan Hutan (protect forests) are a minority, dominated by the red jersey Pemadam Kebakaran Hutan (forest fires fighting).
are about sixty people, blacks eyes of kids, staring at you with an intense gaze and direct, but it 's hard to guess the age' of each. Some faces are wrinkled and sun-dried, pitted by other unknown diseases, others smooth and taut as just emerged from a beauty salon. They came from the city 'of Rengat and villages around here. They are university students' and peasants. They listen in silence to the explanations of the instructor, an expert on forest fires came from Jakarta. Tell them how to turn the pumps fishing for water from the canal, to wet the peat in the vicinity 'of the fires, and stop the tunnel of fire that moves below the surface, or how to dig wells to bring emergency water to the surface.
The boys listen to instructions, impaled and wrapped in suits, despite the blazing sun. Then one by one operating the instruments. It 's so that the brigade was established volunteer fire department in Kuala Cenaku. These people were accustomed to open fields with fire. A practice used for centuries in agriculture semi nomadic slash and burn without creating radical changes to the environment, at least until the tissue was limited to ground surrounded by natural forest. But with the arrival of large plantations and the practice 'has become lethal devastation of no return.
The first to pay the price of development are the villagers. The smoke that surrounds their homes for months without a trail of respiratory diseases, particularly among children. The increase in mortality 'is the only compensation for land stolen from communities' local.

working hard, a single ruthless, and when the spray pump delivers a yellow towards the sky, it seems holy water, as a new hope among the scorched earth.
The training and 'over. The boys returned to camp, where you ', rice and fried bananas are not lacking. And then the oath, a commitment to the community 'to continue training and protecting the forest. Then there is always
time to go. The speeches are over, sixty handshakes one hundred and twenty eyes that look at you inside, you feel close. Direct and open smiles that are not used. And you know that many of these faces shall never see them more '. But something inside you leave.

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Kris Yoyo




Kuala Cenaku, October 30, 2007. Yoyo and Kris' engineer in the field. Adult body and eyes as a child, Kris seems an actor, but his job and 'another. Kris builds dams, organize patrols against illegally Talgo, worked on a voluntary fire-fighting brigade of his region, in Kalimantan. Kris
nuoa as an otter between stakes driven into the canal. He holds the meter in one hand, cigarette in the other, and never wets neither. Measure, 'the indications scuadra work, adjust the distance between the boards, make sure everything works as it should. It works together with others, has no trouble getting your hands dirty, he 'tired,' cause Kris and 'engineer in the field. His university 'has been the forest, its faculty' illegal logging.

How many trees will have 'fallen? No one can 'say, certainly thousands. And without a regret. After high school there was no way frequantare the university ', and you Kris and' look for a job. The work available was the woodcutter. About two thousand inhabitants in its Community ', three hundred were loggers. Ris e E 'become lumberjacks. He worked with his team, two hours work, and a tree went down, two hours, and another tree. And so 'for weeks, and then for another week to take away the logs. Twenty euros (300,000 rupees) for a trunk that Rummy was sold in Europe for thousands of Euro, but mostly ended up in the pockets of intermediaries, the barons of Rummy, who ran the channels and rented chainsaws. Once dug the canal, the Baron of checking the surrounding forest. The law of fait accompli.

Since 2003, Kris does a different job. Organize the unit on patrol against illegal wood, a project instead of mobilizing the police, however corrupt, involved communities' local. And who knows better how to combat illegal timber, and if not who we 'past?

Now Kris and 'happy. Sometimes his former colleagues put it in the middle, make fun of him, but he pulls straight. He knows that besides a job also has a purpose.

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The jump ship The police arrive



Kuala Cenaku, October 29, 2007. The sun rises behind the trees. A pair of hornbills flying over to greet the day strode the small team of orange T-shirts spotted with mud, "Tim Pembendung Kanal - Damming Crew." But no one wears gloves soaked, there is 'something not quite right: the other side of the dam, still under construction and' parked along a boat, about ten meters and switches. Still, as always at a traffic light red.
No, this really did not expect. What makes us a vessel of that scale in a drainage channel?
From the boat out a man and a woman, and peek behind the curtain three children. The clothes are faded rags, their faces bear the brunt of resignation, used to wander about in the mud if great efforts.
An exchange of cigarettes and words, and leaves a new story. They lived in the forest, fishing, cultivating a bit 'of cassava in a piece of land. Then there were the employees of the company and they told him to leave. Thus, from day to day. They put their few belongings on the boat-house, and have started. But nobody had told him that the channel was closed. Now waiting with the patience of those who have no alternative.

What do we do? Removing the channel is not talked about, and then the stakes are now deeply embedded in the ground, never give up his grip. No, the solution 'just one: building a ramp for the boat, above the dam. And then pull, pull, as hard as possible.
As the tide slowly build chute rooms. The water reverses and flows from the river, filling the channel. The boat gradually rises. When we begin to pull all the strings with which we have harnessed the ship, it seems a surreal scene, in the middle 'between Frizcarraldo and an epic Egyptian pyramids. But it 's all true. At the end of the boat climbs on top of the dam and diving lazily on the other side, plunging without apparent damage.
"Selamat tinggal, Pak" bye uncle. Two arms waving in the air, the boat moving away, while new beams keeps piling on the dam under construction.

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Kuala Cenaku, October 28, 2007.
They came to camp in the afternoon, apparently a courtesy visit. Few uniforms, many in civilian clothes. But many. One after another came from the path leading to river. One after another, twenty-two policemen who had come from Kuala Cenacu, Rengat, Pekambaru. And they have warned all foreigners to leave the camp. Indeed, the presence of foreigners means international attention and political pressure, in which they develop atorno tales and legends of fixers: every foreigner here and 'potentially a secret agent.
but the climate is 'lying, there's no' tension, at least not yet. Two of our sitting in a tent with twenty-two representatives of the order, and began a long negotiation, interrupted by you, 'coffee' and cigarettes. At the end waives off foreigners, and they decide to leave the field. But two of them will stay with us, for our protection, we are told. So cops are about to permanently reside in the Forest Defenders Camp. But it will not stay long: a week before the fire and the tiger-men legends that haunt this strip of land sufficient to change his mind. Early in the morning proceed towards the river to avoid being more 'to see.
Well, to be saved and the man-tiger 'still uncommon experience.

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Back to Kuala Cenaku



Kuala Cenaku, Sumatra
A group of children sits perched on the rickety little wharf and watch the loading of boats. The engines must be revised, and the sun 'already' when you give up the high peaks. The river continues to flow against the current with its load of water hyacinths, slowly. It seems that time flows according to ancient rhythms. Sometimes you come in half an hour, sometimes two hours. Sometimes when it happens. Once docked
begin downloading the equipment brought by Kalimantan, and immediately begin to test the soil. Kitz handle instruments carefully. Simple sturdy pieces of iron, but ingeniously combined. The rig for drilling is not 'that kind of a big knife that is screwed to a handle of iron. The result is a kind of halberd, which is stuck firmly in the ground, until and 'completely sunk in the peat. If not sink 'cause it encounters a stem change point and start over. If you reach the bottom, unscrew and add an extension cord, then back to push. Meter by meter, the drill continues to sink, until it reaches the mineral soil. At this point, the drill is turned on if 'itself, and one face of the "knife" as you browse the page of a book, capturing the perfect carrot to the ground. At that point just pull up everything and measure.
In each hole in the ground by planting a plastic tube stuck on the bottom and punched every ten centimeters with a hot nail. The water that soaks the peat into the tube by small holes, and fills the tube making it easy to measure the water level in the soil.

Every five hundred meters, a new hole. At the edge of the plantation record nearly five feet of peat, much more 'than allowed by law. As you go towards the center of the plantation, the thickness of the peat increases up to be more 'deep drilling rig with all the extensions in place: eight feet. We are a mud mask black and slimy, just long One flew from the rain that has now begun to soak. But the depth

'water does not exceed five feet. Peat and 'wet. But the channel at a pace that we continue to drag by water. "If the drainage is stopped immediately, there is still time - says Kits - But if we wait five years will be 'too late. As the' we, in Kalimantan." The forest 'has now been demolished, at least on this side, but the soil and' still alive. At our feet a lively stream of black water and foaming goes down to the river with the water drained from the channels. This time we can still do something. It is worth groped, even though some will be angry '.

On the way back the rain continues to beat the River. The air and 'cold facts, and the water still warm mist form balls. A magical and surreal landscape, which seems to come from other worlds.

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Riverside


Kualacenaku, August 29. The small fishing boat is started struggling. The engine made in China must have been more 'and more' times changed. Now it 's a collection of battered pots held together with string. When she finally managed to leave, it makes a hell of noise, spitting black smoke swirls and splashes of water every time you enchant. Teres keeps the foot with a rope tied to the power lever, and the other with a stick tied to the accelerator. While the engine leaps into convulsions, the boat slips River Light. Along the river
women washing clothes and men who make toilet more 'is rarely a fisherman. Clumps of water hyacinths run quickly towards the source as if going upstream, stretching their necks of swans with old-fashioned elegance. In reality 'is the current up the river, driven by the rising tide of tens of kilometers from here. And the sea takes us along the river to the concessions of oil palm.

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Kualacenaku


Kualacenaku, August 28. The village is' a group of small houses and huts sandwiched between the river and the road. Trucks whizzing among the children playing, carrying oil, oil palm fruits. It is not 'yesterday that the people of Kualacenaku fights against big companies. A decade ago I managed to kick away a large company that had possession of their lands. Now she and 'presented another, Duta Palma is called, and appears to have learned the lesson in less than no time has no forest, dug canals, drainage and cultivation have made a good part of the community lands. It 's the policy of fait accompli. But do not stop there. The machines continue to advance, eating every day new pieces of forest. In his hand he has to grant a permit issued by the provincial government. A recent police investigation of the province of Riau has shown that most of the permits were issued in the region are illegal, but Duta Palma does not care: it has already 'gone beyond the limits of the grant awarded, and continues to push forward, as if not reach the boundaries of the sky. And 'we go to these boundaries.

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On the way


Pekanbaru, August 26. I try to remind me of that poster, when I'm on the bus. The window and 'the backstage of the advertising', the other side of the same machine: for a few gains, destruction and misery for everyone else. In reality 'is not a coach, and' just a van. But it has the same passengers on a bus, and each time picks up speed ', ie' always, like a suitcase frame Accessibility overloaded, dodging trucks and bicycles of a hair. But I am now almost five hours darting full speed, 'and the view on the roadside and' always the same: palm trees, palm trees, palm trees. Sometimes a piece of forest, every once in a rice field, occasionally clearing an area from which they emerge as blacks claws strains of the trees burned down. It 'a scenario that repeats itself without endless, impossible to believe that na twenty years ago here there were large forests. Yet it is 'so'. Then came the first plantations of rubber, then cut flush with large-scale plantations of acacia, and in the end 'here is oil palm.

As the minibus devours the street, the burned areas are more 'spread. And the results are: widespread fires in Indonesia in 1997 have issued more than 2.57 billion tons of carbon. Since then, every dry season, thousands of fires each year are issued between 0.39 and 1.18 billion tons of carbon. These issues are designed to grow with the conversion of the swamp forests into plantations of oil palm.
And this' easy to say. But to see it for yourself is a different effect. Out the window runs for miles a barren field of ground toasted, always equal to if 'itself. Eventually I dozed off, and when a pocket alarm with a start, you do not know how long after, the field and 'them yet, which runs like a ribbon enchanted. A ribbon that runs, runs, runs to the village of Kualacenaku. The border of the forest and 'come here, with its organization of chain saws, bulldozers and canals.

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on Dams



Kuala Cenaku, October 22, 2007. We all get up before dawn. It 's not the cold, rain and even here' hot, but just woken up wearing clothes soaked with mud the day before and not 'a nice thing. And yet 'wise: better to keep the shirt dry for the evening, when we destroyed the field of fatigue.
Cursing, feet covered in rubber boots, blisters screaming, protesting dislocated fingers, the bones are bruised, but the coffee 'and' warm, and always will set you up. Another day of hard work, the drainage channel. A drag beams and sandbags, digging immersed in water up to neck, to plant in peat beams with boom-boom, the gigantic hammer made from a section of trunk.
Nobody thought it was easier to build dams on the canals. No, no one thought, but now the body rebels. The feet slip on the catwalk that barely emerge on the sea of \u200b\u200bmud, his hands lose their grip on the beams of jagged shrapnel, gear slips. It 's not that in a Finnish sauna you would really want to give to hard work.
But shot after shot, one after the other trunks penetrate the turf for one, two, three meters. And one after another, rows of trees create a barrier to water. Sack after sack, the log files are filled with sand, a barrier made for last, at least until the forest is 'grown back, and it will be' she take care of the channel and regulate the water flow.



When the last stake is driven into the sand bags and start to fill the bottom of the channel, the water level rises visibly. Peat sucks the water as salt, fills, swells, prepares new life.
the edge of the plantation, we have found among the charred embers of young plants meranti, duriam, garcinia bintangor and a sign that life 'is still willing to return to this earth, if he comes back the water. Each year millions invested in reforestation plans if they go up in smoke on a soil has been affected, on a now dried peat. And then, 'cause waiting for? Act now, to have no regrets tomorrow. One kilometer from here we found a population of gibbons, confined by the advance of the bulldozers in a tissue of forest remaining. Certainly do not fare well, but if the forest will return 'to expand, we will treat them to repopulate.

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Kalimantan, Sumatra - Dams against fire


Palang Karaya, Kalimantan

flowing green fields under a brilliant sky. The cool wind stirs my hair, under me a motor sings. Just open your eyes struggle to focus on that green. Seem to see bundles of soft grass piled in clumps in the dry stone walls of the alpine pastures. A palm tree isolated projects I hit the tropics, and remember to be sitting on a motorcycle journey through Palangka Raya and Sebangau in Central Kalimantan.
Ciscius front of me driving at a constant pace, swaying gently on the bumpy road. At the edge of the street is a sea of \u200b\u200bferns china in regular waves to the passage of the medium. University Ciscius works' but does not teach formulas, does not take exams. His work 'in the fields and forests, the laboratory in the world.

I rub my eyes lost, but I'm not too surprised at the discrepancy. and 'was a real journey through time, one in which Ciscius guided me. A visit to the near future in Sumatra and Papua: the large agricultural projects development that have brought only misery, fire and environmental devastation. One million hectares, was the slogan. A megalithic project: cleaning up the swamp forests and transform them into the bowl of rice in Indonesia, making the country's largest exporter of corn.

An army of peasants and 'deported from overpopulated areas of Java into the heart of Central Kalimantan's peat swamps. They've given a piece of land razed, and they went away. Only it was not earth, was peat. And beneath the peat and sand. A soil unproductive and subject to terrible fires, like all peatlands drained and dried. Also because 'fire and' the only economical way to make just a little 'fertile soil that is not ', at least for one season. But year after year, fire after fire ends in ashes and peat is drained away. What remains and 'sterile sand.

After a few years of living in poverty, thousands of these farmers have fled away. Some, having no where to go, stand like ghosts in an abandoned land, where even the little 'that can produce cassava lies unsold in the dusty courtyard.

Who won with this project and 'already' left long ago, and now invests in other regions, hoping to repeat the killing. These are the logging companies from Indonesia, Malaysia and China, created by powerful friends of the former dictator Suharto. Have won the rights to remove timber in the areas of "reclamation". No need 'management plans, no rules, but to take away the highest in the more' soon as possible. So tons of meranti and ramin did en route to the Italian and European markets.

"I explained to the government officials that the Mega Rice Prject would not work. He could not work - says Professor Suwido Limin, della'Universita 'of Palangka Raya - could not,' cause the soil and 'poor, and the bottom sand drains what little 'of the nutrients generated by burning peat. But I was not listening. Now repair the damage and' a long and costly process. "
With a small group of people linked to university 'works with the few remaining farmers hostage peat, and attempts to restore the devastated forests. Together they have built dams to block drainage channels, to return to those camps unfortunate water and life. Together they have organized teams of volunteer firefighters to fight fires. And they planted trees that protect the soil from the sun, making it a carrier of the flames. But it 's a slow, expensive, exhausting. and 'a race against time and against the deadly fire that region.

The huge fortunes made from timber barons of today will not be enough to cover a dime of the costs of rehabilitation. and 'was a genuine war of plunder, and as' a war of looting the expansion of plantations of acacia and oil palm on land so full of life as poor in nutrients. But in the folds of the devastation these university peasants have preserved priceless treasures. Ciscius takes me to a forest protected by a joint project with the Hokkaido Institute. A protected forest with the excuse of meteorological studies. An excuse not too bold, since the main research on emissions from tropical peatlands are held in a small hut in the heart of this forest. And it 'here, climbing up a tower, I have my first face to face with an orangutan. Two, in fact, a mother with child. An omen? I do not know, it seems to me that.



This journey in time, this passive consumers, this future devastation and 'now a promise of hope. A team of experts from the University 'of Palangka Raya will' to Sumatra to help in building dams in drainage ditches, and to prevent the repetition of the past. Because there 's always time for choices.

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Swamp of desolation



Swamp of desolation, August 30. A field of stubble burning is not 'the most' cheerful images. The smell of burning, the stems of dirty coal dust. But a forest and moorland burnt 'image incomparably horrible.
A sea of \u200b\u200bblack mud and rotting ash, from which emerge as the stripped bones, shreds of charred tree trunks and branches, some blacks still by the fire, partly bleached by the sun and rain. A hell extended for miles to the horizon, where it still stands the compact wall of forest, a blue ribbon from which emerges the sound of chainsaws in action.

Walking in this quagmire and 'complicated. Your feet sink into a bottomless mud and soft, but flexible enough to richiudertisi sandals on and suck in its deep recesses. The only way is' trying to walk in balance suiu protruding branches or trunks down. Even where 'dry, the fire burned the peat below the surface, digging pits that do sell the land as a thin-crust pastry. It 's a slow march and stumbling on a site that you do not know if there' oe 'pure image.

The air around and 'silent There are birds, it' frogs, it 'crickets, there's no' the din of the forest. There 's silence. From a distance comes the call of a predator, but there are no more 'preaching around here. And he flies away.

The cycle of life and 'broken, and indeed' sunk into the swamp and sucked away with the water channels to drain the peat constantly prosciugarla.Via water, street life. It is the space to fire.
It 's a fire that can not be' off, marching invisible, suddenly coming out against the sky. And when you see it 's too late. Tonnes of peat burning under the plaster, even going below the drain, dig tunnels that uncontrolled stretch for miles and miles and then suddenly re-emerge in a grisly feast of logs and stumps in flames. Tigers, elephants, orangutans, and the thousands of plants and animals give way to the orderly array of palm oil, until the last tree will be 'shot down the last forest turned into a quiet hell.

In the distance, obscured by dust, some vehicles dredge the bottom of the orange drainage channel. Water, peat, black as coffee ', slow wave file of logs connected by planks nailed. Will serve to pull off this sad train, destined for the international market of meranti and ramin.

Like a sad omen, when we return to the landing we find the boat tilted on its side. The tide 'has fallen and the river started to flow towards the mouth. We have to wait under the sun that the water goes back, without even the solace of a bath in the river at this point it seems that the crocodiles in scorrazzino ranks. And be patient. And submission to the dictatorship of natural cycles, until such time as they eradicated once and for all from the face of the earth. But that, as closely, and 'yet another day. And a piece of the future and 'still in our hands.

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Pekanbaru


Pekanbaru, the capital of Riau (Sumatra Province Eastern), August 23. The billboards along roadsides anninciano the world a new era. The Provincial Governor and 'statuary pictured posing with the President of the Republic, smiling in front of endless plantations of palm oil. And 'the ideology of the new frontier, and the new gold rush' started, adventurers and desperate rush to collect cash and hopes were born dead. Huge luxury hotels line the streets. Flaunt marble and glass, but no water comes out of taps, and rugs, made soon, are already beginning to rot. This time, however, 'the forest will not be able' to take his revenge, taking up new spaces sottrattigli. Just 'cause here, now, the forest there is no' more '. E 'has now been eradicated long ago. Pekambaru 's only a step, and the epicenter of the new race but the frontier and 'now moved away. And more 'than a border and' a small archipelago of islands surrounded by bulldozers. And the march continues. "The Golden Crop" advertises the state broadcaster, the harvest of gold. But it 's bad fusion of gold, made of carbon that goes for the atmosphere. In fact, the expansion of plantations has a specific target: the land is not "productive." That is, the swamp forests.

shame that these forests, biodiversity as well as hosting a 'single hatch an immense wealth for the planet: the peat. For millennia, the organic material in forest and marsh is 'accumulated on the ground, creating a layer of peat from two to twenty meters and more'. And 'one of the most' big tanks carbon on the planet. About 550 billion tons of carbon are sequestered in the peat bogs around the world, about 75% of all carbon in the atmosphere, or the equivalent of global carbon emissions in about 70 years. Peat and 'soup of water. but when it is burned or dried, is in contact with oxygen and decompose, releasing carbon to the atmosphere. And others will pay damages. Of the 27.1 million acres of swamp forests in Southeast Asia, 12 million have already been deforested and mostly drained. One third of the peat is in the tropics, and this 60% is located in Indonesia: 22.5 million hectares of peat bogs, but the smiling face of the Governor leaves no doubt that the assault and 'already' begun.