Deforestation in the Amazon is at record levels in areas that were once under FARC control. Farmers are cutting down trees, burning the land and planting pastures for cattle, saying: “What else can we do here in the Amazon?” Our reportage from the heart of the felled forests in Caquetá.
Tumbas. In the Colombian part of the Amazon, this is the name given to the vast areas where trees have been felled and the land burned. Tombs. The cemeteries of the Amazon. I find myself in the middle of one of these tombs alongside Jairo, also known as Peluche. Jairo is 46 years old, jovial and smiley, with a nickname that suits him perfectly. Peluche, standing on an enormous trunk, looks around, surveying the tumba — the fruit of his hard work. He is proud of this vast expanse, of the one hundred hectares he has wrested from the jungle. He is getting ready to set it on fire, after which he will plant grass. One hundred head of cattle will graze here, part of the inheritance he will leave to his children. The trunk Peluche is standing on was, until recently, a tree hundreds of years old.
Usually in my work as a journalist I try to be impartial, objective. I generally avoid leading questions. But here, in the midst of this destruction, I am overwhelmed by sadness. I feel as though I am standing beside a murderer who, with pride, is showing me his victims. The trees, the jungle, the lungs of the earth. He, standing on the carcass of an ancient tree, is like a hunter posing with his prey. I cannot hold back. "What do you feel, having cut down all this forest? Don't you feel guilty?" I almost attack him with my words. Peluche almost retreats into himself. We walked for an hour under the blazing sun to get here, chatting pleasantly, laughing. It is almost as if he were showing me the work of a lifetime. My question has touched something deep within him. "In my view we are heading towards the end of the world. These trees are like my children. Plants, water, the forest are the most sacred things. Cutting down the forest tears me apart, morally, but what else can I do? What else can I do to survive?" Peluche's words dissolve into the air. Even the sounds — and their absence — are different in the tumba. The birds and insects, whose noise is normally deafening, are gone. It is the jungle's funeral wake.
Colombia is the second country in the world (after Brazil) in terms of tree biodiversity, with 5,776 species. But deforestation has been growing steadily ever since the government signed the peace accords with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (Farc) in December 2016.
In 2017 deforestation increased by 65 per cent compared to the previous year, with three quarters of the total concentrated in the Amazon, where the Farc held power and acted with the authority of a state, explains William Mellizo, a local leader. The forty-year-old is the representative of sixteen communities in the Bajo Caguán, in the department of Caquetá, and says that the Farc had implemented a kind of environmental policy: it was compulsory to maintain at least a quarter of one's land as forest reserve. Failure to comply with this regulation could result in a fine or expulsion from the area. The most stubborn risked a bullet in the head.
In this way people respected the rules and the trees were left as a reserve. For many, their livelihood depended on the cultivation of coca, used in the production of cocaine. It paid well, so keeping 25 per cent of the land as a reserve was not a problem — but at some point the army began to combat its production and business started to suffer. Shortly afterwards, with the signing of the peace accords, the guerrillas laid down their arms and much of the Farc disappeared from the region. And deforestation began in earnest.
"When the Farc put down their weapons and left, ferocious deforestation began," explains Mellizo. "The government did not fill the vacuum they left behind, and now a kind of devastating anarchy reigns. They are cutting down the jungle like mad, and there is not much experience in cattle ranching so it all happens inefficiently." A single cow needs one hectare of jungle, and most people in this area do not own their own livestock but manage that of large ranchers, earning a small percentage. Peluche finds himself in this situation.
Mellizo's analysis is confirmed by Mario Angel Varon Castro, director of the environmental body Corpoamazonia in south-eastern Colombia. In his office in Florencia, the capital of the department of Caquetá, he shows us a map hanging on the wall. "All the areas where deforestation is rampant were once under Farc control — they did not allow the forest to be cut down. The state is still weak in those areas where the Farc used to be, and now deforestation is going at breakneck speed. Do you see these hundreds of zones? They were cleared in just six months in 2018. We cannot stop them, we do not have enough resources. We are just a few hundred officers with a 4×4."
According to the Institute of Hydrology, Meteorology and Environmental Studies, deforestation in Colombia caused the loss of 197,159 hectares in 2018. Surprisingly, there was a 10 per cent decline compared to 2017, but 70 per cent of deforestation occurred in the Amazon, an increase of 4.5 per cent on the previous year. "If you come back in ten years, there will be savannah and desert here: the forest will be gone. It is a tragedy, a death foretold," says Peluche, laconically.
"We know the story about the green lung of the earth," Mellizo clarifies. "We know perfectly well that the forest must be looked after. The ranchers are not doing all this out of malice, but out of necessity. And we need help to change things. Farmers know they should protect the forest, but they are also thinking about the future of their children." For Peluche and his family, for instance, deforestation is an opportunity for advancement, a chance to grow. "This is what I can leave to my children. Yes, in some ways it is a shame, but at the same time I am glad about it. It is a step forward for me and my family — we will have more land to work in the future," Jairo points out.
Caquetá is the Colombian department with the highest deforestation rate: it has been so for thirty years. Cartagena de Chairá had been identified as one of nine epicentres of this activity in 2018, and the previous year it topped the rankings for trees felled. Reaching this place, where Peluche cleared a hundred hectares, is something of an odyssey: seven hours by boat along the Caguán river where, passing the checkpoint at Remolinos, a soldier warns us: "From here on (downstream, ed.) we have no control. Be careful." He is referring precisely to the Farc dissidents and the vast lawless regions of the Colombian Amazon where the forest is being felled at maximum speed. This is the price of peace with the guerrillas. Despite there being many dissidents who left the Farc during the peace process, Peluche says it is the first time a journalist has visited him, and it is rare for government or army representatives to show up. The Colombian state has not yet made contact with either him or his family. Peluche tells me that dissidents have visited him on several occasions to try to persuade him to return to growing coca. "But I don't want to grow coca. I'd rather cut down more trees and plant more fallow," he says. What weighs more on the moral scales: remaining free from coca production, or not felling the trees?
Colombia receives funding from several nations to combat deforestation: Norway, for example, is among the most significant donors in environmental terms. Following the record fires that captured the world's attention in August 2019, the Scandinavian nation decided to cease its contributions to the Amazon Fund, an initiative to combat deforestation in Brazil. The decision was due to the attitude of Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro, who showed himself to be in favour of felling, encouraging it in words and even with financial incentives. Germany took a similar decision, and several European nations threatened to impose sanctions on the entire region. In the meantime, an association of 16 local communities in Caquetá received funding to improve cattle farming practices in order to combat deforestation. The contribution comes from Vision Amazon, an initiative created by the Colombian government with the support of Germany, Norway and the United Kingdom. But it is far from sufficient, Mellizo argues: "It's happening too slowly. Farmers are felling a vast area; we need to act quickly."
Being a region rich in natural resources, the Amazon is home to many powerful economic interests that drive deforestation: activities such as mining and the felling of trees for timber bring a great deal of money to landowners, businesspeople and politicians who often live in cities far removed from the tumbas. People who oppose these activities — that is, environmentalists — often risk their lives. Defending the forest in Colombia is an extreme matter: Latin America is the most dangerous region in the world for an environmentalist. According to the latest document published by Global Witness — an NGO that highlights the connections between the exploitation of natural resources, conflict, poverty and human rights — in 2018, 164 environmentalists were killed worldwide. At the top of the list were the Philippines, followed by Colombia, India and Brazil. More than half of the deaths occurred in Latin America.
Major Yanny Alexander Melo of the Colombian Armed Forces is part of the so-called Burbuja ambiental, a regional unit under the command of the Ministry of the Environment to combat deforestation and illegal wildlife trafficking. Major Melo feels resigned in the face of deforestation in the Amazon. "These are irreversible environmental damages. It's as if a monster is devouring the Amazon while we stand and watch."
Felling trees is illegal and in theory farmers can be punished with fines and imprisonment. According to the Penal Code, when the impacts of felling weigh seriously on an ecosystem, the penalty ranges from two to six years in prison, or a fine equivalent to between 100 and 10,000 times the national minimum monthly wage. Fines are increased by 30 to 50 per cent if threatened, at-risk, rare or endemic species are harmed. If an area with special ecological status is encroached upon, such as a nature or indigenous reserve, those responsible risk between two and eight years in prison and a fine equivalent to between 100 and 50,000 times the national minimum monthly wage. This, in theory, is what the law says.
In Colombia, some of the environmental criminals responsible for deforestation have been arrested: in 2019 (up to the first week of December) there were 102 convictions for damage to natural resources, of which four were in Caquetá. In December, moreover, proceedings began against three mayors — of Calamar, Miraflores and El Retorno — in the Colombian Amazon. But all too often the sentences do not match the scale at which the forest is being felled. Major Melo feels frustrated by what he considers the failure of the authorities to tackle the problem. "We never catch the masterminds. There's a whole mafia behind the issue. We only catch the farmers who cut down trees and burn the forest, but we never get to the real criminals: no one who is truly responsible is ever punished. We have neither the staff nor the capacity to stop deforestation. The result is that absolutely nothing happens to those who cause these environmental crimes."
"Show him the reserve, Dad," urges Breiler, Peluche's twenty-year-old son, aware that his father comes across as the villain in this story. A villain whose son dreams of becoming an environmental hero. Right next to the tumba, Peluche has a forest reserve that his son dreams of being able to preserve. "If I could be paid as a forest ranger to protect the forest, my dream would come true," says Breiler. On the way back to Peluche's house, we stop beside two large trees. He has named them after his two sons. Listening to Peluche and Breiler talk about how they gave the trees their names when they were just saplings feels like being carried back in time, like a living photo album. When they tell me that the forest and the trees are like family to them, and that they are about to uproot it, I believe them. I pat a trunk and, to my great surprise, discover an enormous boa constrictor — a so-called galán — just above us. "Don't worry, it's not dangerous; it comes here often and is used to people," Peluche reassures me.
An exotic moment, which at the same time offers a real, living example of the consequences of deforestation in the Amazon. Wild animals lose their habitat and begin to venture ever closer to human settlements: local people tell me that it is now the norm to see tigrillos, snakes, parrots and wild boar. "It is not our intention to create this hellish mess. We know full well that our children need to breathe clean air," says Peluche. Breiler, who lent his name to the boa's tree, has just returned from a long stay in the capital, Bogotá. "We cut down