Amazônia
In 2023, I embarked on a transformative 2500 km journey across the Brazilian Amazon rainforest, one of the most under-pressure ecosystems on Earth.
Despite the forest’s critical condition, I was moved by the hope and resilience of the people and projects I encountered. Becoming a guardian of the forest doesn’t require abandoning everything; it starts with recognizing our limitations and empowering those who have long represented their ancestral homeland.
Through this photographic editorial documentary work, I’ve chosen to keep everything raw and unfiltered. My goal is to open windows into this world, allowing you to envision yourself behind the lens.
Foundations
When I first set foot in the Amazon, I thought I had a firm grasp of what I was stepping into. I’d done my research, like anyone who’s concerned about this place and its challenges. But even with the knowledge that it is the largest rainforest on Earth — spanning over nine countries and covering 6.9 million square kilometers, more than 28 times the size of the UK — I couldn't comprehend the ecosystem it truly is. There is something about its scale, its pulse, its overwhelming complexity that can only be understood when experienced firsthand.
When we talk about the Amazon, the conversation usually revolves around its biodiversity and how urgently we need to protect it. We're bombarded with facts: Did you know 10% of the world’s known species live here? Or that since 1988, around 20% of the original forest has been wiped out for agriculture, mining, and logging? Add in fires and resource exploitation, and more than half of the Amazon has felt human impact.
These facts are alarming and important. They are effective in warning us about the crisis we're facing but they but they distort the prism through which we need to approach the Amazon. We often become so fixated on the trees and wildlife that we forget the true key to their preservation: the 30 million people who belong to this biome.
Above all, I had to realize that protecting the Amazon extends beyond preserving biodiversity and combating climate change; it involves recognizing the people who inhabit this region and whose cultures are deeply intertwined with the forest. We must allow them to represent their homeland and ensure their voices are heard. As global citizens, we need to understand that the fate of the Amazon's inhabitants is inextricably linked to the fate of the forest itself.
The poisoned arteries of the Amazon
Life in the Amazon rainforest revolves around its waterways – rivers and canals that serve as essential routes in a region where dense vegetation makes land travel nearly impossible. Children paddle to school in wooden canoes, and line boats transport people and goods to riverside cities.
The "Comunidades Ribeirinhas" are traditional communities living along these riverways in remote areas of Brazil. Living in harmony with the water’s rhythms, their homes are elevated on pillars, as the Amazon’s water levels fluctuate dramatically — by an average of 11 meters between the dry and high seasons. With the forest submerged, children learn to navigate canoes from an early age, relying on the river as their main mode of transportation.
During my first cruise from Belém to Santarém, I observed how these communities interact with line boats like the one I was on. Families skillfully docked their boats alongside our moving vessel, selling homemade goods like açaí and dried shrimp, much to the delight of travelers. Children, full of joy, paddled up to play in the boat's wake or approached in hopes of receiving a gift from a passing traveler.
The Amazon River, the largest in the world by volume, contributes one-fifth of the global freshwater discharge into the oceans. However, it is now tainted; the mining industry has introduced heavy metals into its waters, resulting in widespread contamination. In some regions, as much as 40% of the fish now carry mercury, affecting every living being that consumes them.
Once central to the Amazonian diet, making up over 92% of weekly nutrition, fish are now being traded for safer alternatives. Predators suffer from kidney and liver failure. Shores, soil, and vegetation are becoming depleted.
Additionally, the drought of 2023 was the worst in centuries. People were deprived of transportation, sanitation, food, and water. Yara, goddess of the waters, became central to the prayers of many.
Although water levels have returned to normal, the threat remains. With global warming causing increasingly extreme temperatures and weather patterns, who knows what next year’s drought will bring?
Manioc Flour: A Staple of Tradition, shaped by Neglect
Manioc flour, or "Farinha de Mandioca", is a staple food in the Amazon, essential to every meal. It accompanies nearly every dish, from fish and rice to pasta and even açaí, making it a cornerstone of the Amazonian diet.
Traditionally, families prepare their own farinha through a labor-intensive, three-stage process: drying and sealing the roots, crumbling them into fine pieces, and finally roasting them to achieve the desired texture and flavor. This weekly ritual is deeply rooted in the culture and sustenance of the region.
However, the process of cultivating manioc is equally demanding. After each harvest, the roots of the plant must be removed from the soil to prepare the land for the next crop. Unfortunately, due to a lack of adequate resources, modern tools, and government support, local farmers often face overwhelming challenges. Without the means to efficiently manage their fields, many resort to burning the land after each harvest.
This drastic method helps reduce the intense manual labor required to clear the fields, allowing farmers to replant quickly and continue producing manioc flour. The urgency to prepare the next crop is driven by necessity — ensuring they can maintain their food supply before hunger sets in.
In an environment where farming is already difficult, this cycle of burning fields worsens environmental damage, putting even more pressure on the delicate balance between survival and sustainability in the Amazon. But we have to see this destructive cycle as a reflection of a broader systemic issue: a chronic lack of investment and interest in supporting traditional communities that conservative movements often frame as inevitable rather than the result of poor policies and inadequate resources.
The institutes are establishing their presence in the Amazon through floating research bases, allowing them to adapt to fluctuating water levels and bypass land ownership issues. Most of these bases are built using tree trunks as floating platforms and are designed to be easily disassembled without causing environmental harm. They provide a comfortable space and working conditions for researchers, who typically spend several days a month there.
However, the extreme conditions of temperature, rain, and humidity take a toll on these wooden structures, rendering them unusable after about 10 years. With limited federal investment in science in Brazil, the construction of more ambitious, durable aluminum bases — which offer better insulation and improved working conditions—is restricted.
Science at the Heart of Amazon Conservation
Since the drafting of the Brazilian Constitution in 1988 and the creation of national research institutes, science has been central to the ecological struggle in the Amazon. Through rigorous study of the region’s social, economic, political, and geographical contexts, biologist João Paulo Capobianco and Marina Silva, Brazil’s Minister of the Environment and Climate Change, developed the Plan for the Prevention and Control of Deforestation in the Amazon (PPCDAm). The implementation of this plan led to a dramatic reduction in deforestation, with the annual loss of forest dropping from 22,000 square kilometers in 2004 to 4,000 by 2010.
One of the key institutions involved in this effort is the Mamirauá Sustainable Development Institute, founded in 1999 and supported by Brazil’s Federal Ministry of Science, Technology, and Innovation. The institute was created by biologist José Márcio Ayres after identifying one of the Amazon’s most unique primates: the red-faced white uakari. The institute is named after the Mamirauá Reserve, a protected area the size of Switzerland, renowned for its incredible biodiversity.
Research institutes like Mamirauá are vital to understanding the Amazon, one of the most mysterious and least-studied ecosystems on Earth. Spanning across nine countries and covering an area twice the size of India, the Amazon is still largely unexplored. For instance, between 2014 and 2015 alone, nearly 240 new species were documented.
Much of this progress has been made possible through close collaboration with local communities, whose knowledge and insights are invaluable. Sustainable solutions to the region’s complex challenges can only be achieved by investing in scientific research, understanding the needs of the local population, and creating policies that address the ecological and socio-economic intricacies of the Amazon.
Beyond their valuable work in understanding the Amazon ecosystem, research institutes like Mamirauá deeply grasp the importance of Indigenous presence in the region. Many of their advancements rely on exchanges with local communities, drawing from their ancestral knowledge. In this way, the institutes play a significant role in supporting these communities, amplifying their political reach and representation. As a result, numerous projects have been able to flourish and grow.
For example, the Boa Vista community, with support from Mamirauá, now has a basic health unit with dental services, as well as a fruit pulp production house, visible to the left, from which they distribute products to cities throughout the municipality.
The Pirarucu Crisis: A tale solved with the union of Science and Indigenous knowledge
In 2010, a similar situation occurred when the emblematic Amazonian fish species, the arapaima (pirarucu) — the world's largest scaled freshwater fish — was added to the endangered species list and came under scrutiny. The governor of the state of Amazonas abruptly banned fishing of the species overnight. What seemed like a good resolution only added to the list of neo-colonial decisions imposed on Amazonian territory.
Indeed, the arapaima, which can reach up to 3 meters in length and weigh 200 kg, is a staple of the local diet and irreplaceable for remote communities that have consumed it for centuries without ecological repercussions, as it is integral to the region's balance. As a result, nearly 250 forest-dwelling ethnic groups were forced to either purchase alternative food with their limited financial means or continue artisanal fishing illegally. Not to mention the fishermen who found themselves completely deprived of their livelihoods.
Facing this food crisis unaddressed by the state, research institutes decided to act. They swiftly established a quota of 30% and a minimum catch size of 1.5 meters, which would allow communities to fish without impacting the species' growth. However, quantifying the number of fish in a region posed a problem. Determined, they allocated funds to use nets in the lakes formed during the dry season to manually count the arapaimas. While effective, this solution was limited due to the archaic method of quantification.
It was only when local knowledge joined the project that it could expand throughout the region. After using the net technique for a few communities and with project funds dwindling, researchers met a fisherman who knew how to count the fish while they were still in the water. He explained that the unique characteristic of the pirarucu compared to other fish is that it breathes air, allowing an attentive person to differentiate individuals and determine their numbers. By learning this technique, the "Pirarucu Management" program spread to all corners of the Amazon, and these efforts helped resolve the food crisis.
Today, since there is legal and certified sustainable fishing, real infrastructure is developing. Fishermen who adhere to the quotas established by the institutes can even sell a portion of their catch — harvested and processed under good sanitary conditions —to other municipalities and states at higher prices.
Urban Amazonia, the Key to Change
It may seem counterintuitive, but a critical part of the work to protect the Amazon biome needs to happen in its cities. Due to the dense forest and the asymmetrical development of Brazil, with most of the national budget focused on the south, the Amazon region suffers from a significant lack of infrastructure, especially in remote areas. Transportation options are extremely limited, making logistics challenging and everything considerably more expensive. This scarcity of infrastructure and high costs make it very difficult to build and sustain projects in these remote locations. As a result, the cities account for nearly 70% of the region's population, holding the true power in influencing politics and leading the ecological transformation that the Amazon urgently needs.
However, one of the biggest challenges we face is an identity crisis among urban dwellers in the region. Many residents struggle to proudly claim their connection to the forested biome. For too long, the Amazon has been perceived as a vast, empty space — an obstacle to development. To fortune-seekers, identifying as an Amazonian means sharing space with apes, trees, and, even worse in their eyes, indigenous communities.
Take Belém, for example — the second-largest city in the Amazon with 1.4 million inhabitants. It often downplays its identity as a forest city. In fact, when Belém hosts COP 30 in 2025, many people across the country will be surprised to learn that the city is surrounded by the Amazon and lies on its banks.
For the Amazon to be preserved, its cities must embrace their role. The people who live there are key to this fight, and their involvement will be crucial in ensuring the future of this vital ecosystem. But this identity gap is not just about personal affiliation; it reflects a deeper ideological discrepancy at the core of how the Amazon is perceived and conceptualized.
For nearly a century, the Amazonian development strategy was straightforward: exploit the forest as a resource to fuel the country's growth and its second industrial revolution. In 1967, the Manaus Free Zone was established, quickly rising to prominence and now accounting for 80% of the state of Amazonas' GDP. It has become Brazil’s third-largest industrial center, thanks to a system of attractive incentives and tax exemptions. Today, it is home to over 500 high- and medium-technology companies, with key players in industries such as mechanical engineering and technology, including global giants like Honda, Nokia, LG, Siemens, Philips, Pioneer, Toshiba, Gillette, Coca-Cola, and Microsoft.
This became even clearer to me during my journey through Pará, when I passed through the town of Belterra. Shocked and puzzled by its American-style architecture, I looked into the origins of the city and discovered that it was founded in 1927 by Henry Ford, the famous inventor of the assembly line and founder of Ford Motor Company. The idea was to establish a rational rubber plantation in the Amazon, with the goal of transforming the region into the world’s leading producer of natural rubber. To accommodate the families of employees relocated for the project, American-style houses, hospitals, schools, gyms, and grocery stores were built. The town was originally called Fordlandia.
However, the rise of synthetic rubber and the low cost of rubber production in Asia shifted the course of events. Today, Belterra stands as a ghost town, a fossil of Amazonian ambition.
This ideological and identity-based opposition has divided the forest in two—on one side, the activists, and on the other, miners, loggers, and farmers. Today, this opposition has turned into a war. With very little means to control this vast forest, many workers invade regions illegally to exploit them. In response, Amazonians are rising up and fighting back, often against firearms. They send their leaders to the capital to voice their dissatisfaction and demand a strong response from the state. This rivalry results in numerous threats and deaths.
It would be easy to place all the blame on the Brazilian government and criticize its Amazonian policies. It would also be easy to vilify industrial workers, turning them into the enemies of the region through demagoguery. But the truth is more complex. Brazil, with its ambition to become a global power, has long pursued a Western model of development, which still labels it as an 'underdeveloped country.' We’re talking about a country without a public education system and a life expectancy of just 60 years. A country where people can’t rely on federal aid to survive.
In this context, everyone does what they can to meet their own needs and those of their families. And let’s not forget that mining, forestry, and agriculture are almost entirely driven by and catered to external markets (Europe, the U.S., China). I’m not saying Brazil and brazilians bear no responsibility for the Amazon’s ecological crisis, but we need to reconsider the broader forces behind this exploitation and perhaps shift away from the global pressure to protect what the world calls 'the lungs of the Earth.'
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