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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.