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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