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Juan Rojas: Recovering indigenous memory in El Salvador

Juan Rojas: Recovering indigenous memory in El Salvador

Story and videos by Tracy L. Barnett
Photos by Juan Rojas

LA FLORIDA, El Salvador – “That’s one of the purposes of the Salvadoran state, to make us forget,” Juan Rojas explains to me as we bump down the rugged dirt road that leads to his homestead, just six kilometers from San Salvador, but a world apart.

Rojas is determined to remember, and to help others remember, as well. It is here, and in rural villages elsewhere in the country, that Rojas is quietly working with indigenous peoples to recover the Mayan roots of this country. A country where the name Izalco, for most young people, just means a volcano, a town, or a street in San Salvador; but for the elders, it’s the name of a massacre, and of the native people who were extinguished on that day.

A curious mixture of Salvadoran revolutionary, Australian permaculturist and Mayan spiritualist, I met Juan Rojas on my first visit to El Salvador. He was one of the founders of the Permaculture Institute of El Salvador, a group teaching ecological design and agriculture principles to campesinos throughout the country. Rojas had stepped back from the institute in recent years to pursue other projects. His comments on that visit about restoring indigenous heritage in El Salvador made me curious, and I contacted him upon my return to learn more.

The story of his involvement in the revolution, of the attempts on his life and his escape to Mexico, his eventual move to Australia and his friendship with permaculture founder Bill Mollison, and his return to his country to help rebuild it after the war using the techniques of permaculture are worthy of an eco-adventure novel in themselves. He shares that story in this video.

Now, however, he’s turned the page to a new chapter in his life, and I’m here to learn more about that.

Through his work with the permaculture institute, which spread sustainable agriculture techniques through the farmer-to-farmer movement, he became acquainted with subsistence farmers throughout Mesoamerica, some of whom still practiced the indigenous traditions of their ancestors. It was then that Juan began to realize that the principles of permaculture aren’t so different from the traditional teachings about agriculture.

“That’s one of the first things we learn in permaculture, and Bill Mollison explained this very well: to watch and see where does the air enter your land in different seasons of the year? How does the water enter, and how does it leave? The same for the sun, and for the earth: they are objects of study, of analysis, when you are going to design a piece of land,” he said. “But when we’re living in a zone like Mesoamerica, among the ancestral cultures there’s already been an elaborate thought system developed about these principles, the wind, the water, the earth, the sun.

“Unfortunately, we in El Salvador have lost our cosmology, our understanding of life, and that’s why we’re in such a difficult position, environmentally speaking, in terms of food sovereignty issues, criminal violence, all the things that are making El Salvador famous around the world,” he told me.

Juan shared his thoughts with me about the Mayan cosmovision and climate change, which I recorded in this video:

This has been an exciting year for him, as the slow process of recovering the historical and ancestral memory has begun to yield fruit. Working in indigenous communities in his native Sonsonate and in Morazan, he has been teaching permaculture principles and incorporating the Mayan cosmovision.

Along the way, as they study the Popol Vuh, the Mayan holy book, or discuss certain traditions in planting, the students will stop and get a sudden look of recognition on their faces, Juan said. “Oh! So that’s why my grandfather did that!” they will say. Or, “Oh, yes – I remember hearing about the virgin who gave birth to the twins who were the first humans – that’s like the Virgin Mary!”

At the same time, indigenous visibility has been rising in El Salvador, once thought to be a country devoid of indigenous people since the massacre of 1932 in Izalco that claimed the lives of an estimated 32,000.

In August, a gathering of indigenous peoples in Izalco made a public demand for official recognition and asked that the government be a signatory to Article 169 of the International Labor Organization, an international law guaranteeing the rights of indigenous peoples.

And in October, Salvadoran President Mauricio Funes made a public apology to the country’s indigenous people for the government’s historic role in their repression, and responding to their request to recognize El Salvador as a “multiethnic and multicultural society.”

After my visit with Juan, he sent me the famous words of Chief Seattle, which he asked me to include in closing this article:

“One thing we know, which the white man may one day discover – our God is the same God. You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the God of man, and His compassion is equal for red man and the white. The Earth is precious to Him, and to harm the Earth is to heap contempt on its creator. The whites too shall pass, perhaps sooner than the other tribes.

But in your perishing, you will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land and over the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the buffalo are slaughtered, the wild horses tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the Eagle? Gone. The end of living and the beginning of survival.”

For more information on the Salvadoran indigenous communities and efforts to recover ancestral memory and heritage, write to Juan Rojas at mesopermacultura@yahoo.es.

Permaculture Institute heals the wounds of war

Permaculture Institute heals the wounds of war

By Tracy L. Barnett

SUCHITOTO, El Salvador – A gentle breeze ruffles the thatched roof of the hilltop shelter here at the Permaculture Institute. An electric-blue morpho butterfly flits past, a sharp accent against the muted blue of Volcano Guazapa in the background. An incongruously peaceful backdrop for the violence, massacres, scorched earth and forced evacuation that razed this region less than two decades ago.

That mountain, the hideout for guerilla forces for miles around, was bombed daily and burned repeatedly; the town of Suchitoto itself became a battlefield. Hundred of tons of artillery, white phosphorus and napalm rained down on the once lush jungles of these lands, drying up even the springs where people once retrieved their water.

But the Earth has a way of healing herself, and her inhabitants, and this land and the people who work it are living proof of that reality.

The Permaculture Institute of El Salvador or IPES (pronounced EE-Pace), for its Spanish acronym, has staked its claim on a stony, hilly hectare in this region. In part because of the strong community organizations that formed before the war, Suchitoto has proven fertile ground for a new approach to community development pioneered by peasant farmers, ex-combatants and a British permaculturist with a stubborn streak.

Karen Inwood was a community development specialist looking for a different approach when she met Juan Rojas, a former Salvadoran dissident forced to flee his country at the height of the civil war. Rojas, by a twist of fate, had ended up in Australia, where he met Bill Mollison, founder of an innovative new system of ecological design known as permaculture.

Rojas was excited by the idea of the system as an approach to rebuilding his country after the war, and returned in 1993 after the peace accords were signed to see what he could do. Realizing that permacultural principles have much in common with ancestral agricultural practices, he began in the heavily impacted department of Morazan, which is also where the largest concentration of indigenous Salvadorans still live. He began working with local farmers to learn their traditional practices. Utilizing the farmer-to-farmer method, he began working to disseminate these ideas along with permaculture principles, and later began working with leaders in the departments of La Libertad and his native Sonsonate.

The first Mesoamerican permaculture design course was held in Perquín, Morazan, in 1998 with the participation of campesinos from Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador and Guatemala. These first Mesoamerican permaculturists went on to form the base for what later became IPES in El Salvador and IMAP in Guatemala, among others.

In 2000 he made a trip to England to attend an Ecovillage Training Course at the Findhorn Foundation and Karen, whom he met there, was intrigued with his project.

She headed to El Salvador to help him build the Permaculture Institute, and arrived to find a country in desperate need for the lessons in self-sufficiency and sustainability that Juan and others were working to spread.

“I’d always thought of ecovillages as an alternative lifestyle for those with the resources to buy land and move out to the country and do their thing,” she says. “My interest was to use permaculture for social change rather than as a lifestyle choice, and I came to El Salvador to do just that.”

Permaculture, as Inwood explains it, can be applied in everything from agriculture to architecture to community design. Its main application here, at the moment, is in teaching sustainable agriculture and living practices to the subsistence farmers that struggle at the edge of survival throughout the Salvadoran countryside. In practice, it can mean the difference between malnutrition and misery, and a life of good health, dignity and autonomy. And in an era of climate change, when this tiny and densely populated Central American nation has been named among the world’s most vulnerable, food security is on everyone’s lips, and permaculture seems to be taking on a new and bigger life.

After a decade working in the obscurity of this rugged countryside, with a bare minimum of financial support, mostly from individual donors and foundations in England, Inwood is beginning to see the group’s efforts bear fruit. More than 1,000 families have adopted permaculture practices on their land and are growing organic produce for self-consumption and for sale. A team of promotores, or farmers turned permaculture teachers, is using the farmer-to-farmer method, working through the regional ecological networks, spreading permaculture principles throughout the villages.

And this rugged, typically hilly and not particularly fertile parcel has been converted into an educational center and demonstration site for the dissemination of a new approach to rural life here in El Salvador, an approach that promises to lift its practitioners out of poverty and into self-sufficiency, in harmony with each other and with nature.

It’s a rustic and simple site, with structures built mostly from natural materials found on the land, and with a vast diversity of crops worked by a simple yet passionate team of campesinos.

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Other projects in the remote department of Morazán, one of the poorest regions of the country and one of the hardest hit by the war, have taken off and are blossoming; municipal governments are lending their support, and several hundred families are now practicing permaculture, with a team of promoters there beginning to branch out even further into the countryside.

Now, after years of trying to meet with and work with other community development organizations in the region and being repeatedly ignored, regional leaders are beginning to seek out the advice and input of IPES.

And most recently, representatives of the new leftist government of Mauricio Funes have expressed interest in applying permaculture principles to a national food security program aimed at strengthening the role of the family farm.

Inwood isn’t sure what has caused the sudden surge of interest, but speculates it has to do with the recent crises brought on by climate change: crops are failing due to intense flooding, followed by drought. A huge part of Central America’s bean crop has failed, and the price of what remains has gone sky-high; the price of the family basket has risen 300 percent in September and October.

Ironically, just at the moment when IPES has begun to break the ice with government agencies, and just as the group’s services are being widely sought, its funding sources have declined precipitously. The drop in the price of the pound has taken a toll, just as the financial crisis has left funders with less to share.

At the same time, the Funes government inherited the traditional patronage system of agricultural assistance, in which $33 million in agricultural “packages” consisting of hybrid seeds and agrochemicals are distributed throughout the country.

In the first year of its administration, before the young government had a chance to organize an alternative, the agricultural packages went out in the traditional way and there was an outcry among those who weren’t on the receiving end. The government realized the old system wasn’t working, and is now looking for new alternatives, Karen said. Permaculture is one of those alternatives.

“We’re excited but at the same time, it’s challenging,” she confesses, her expressive blue eyes widening. Those blue eyes, together with her gentle, sweet manner and her British-accented Spanish, have worked their magic with more than one hard-hearted bureaucrat, I imagined, watching her present her ideas to a pair of authorities from the United Nations Development Fund. The pair left impressed with what they saw, and were scheduled to attend another meeting with IPES the following week.

Contrasting with Karen’s feminine, British touch are the passionate and very Salvadoran approach of Agustin “Maclobio” Duran and Alejandro Martínez, two former Salvadoran guerillas who took the design course and ended up converts to the permaculture cause. Both see permaculture as a means to achieve the same goals they strove for in the revolution: a dignified life for their families.

After the war, an army of nongovernmental organizations descended on El Salvador, each with a different proposal for solving the country’s deeply entrenched problems. Like others from IPES, Agustin is critical of their approach. None that he has seen were ultimately viable, he said, and some were even deceptive; together, they left communities with a dependency mentality and in some ways, worse off than they were before. Permaculture, on the other hand, offers a different model, one that empowers people to take control of their own lives.

“I see it as a different kind of revolution, one that achieves just what we were fighting for – a dignified life for our people, healthy food and an education,” he said.

“From what I’ve seen since the war and in fact in my whole life, permaculture is what convinces me the most; it’s a more integral proposal. Of course it requires a lot of sacrifice, but if we were able to withstand all the risks and hardships of the war, we can do this, too.”

For Alejandro, the shift to this form of agriculture is urgently necessary, not just individually but at the community level.

“If we continue with the same agricultural practices we’ve inherited, we are going to suffer a great famine,” he said. “If we can spread the ideas of permaculture, we can all live well, and have a better system to pass on to the future generations.”

Agustin nodded his agreement. “That’s the challenge we face,” he said. “If we can successfully transmit these ideas, in 20 years things will be very different here, and maybe we can shift a little the destructive direction we’re headed in. We already have the effects of climate change upon us – but from this battle trench of IPES, we can minimize the impact, the consequences that we have already been suffering.

“We as campesinos, people who don’t have economic power, want to show the world that relying on solutions and alternatives so simple as learning from what surrounds us in nature, we can have multiple solutions to great problems, and we can solve them. It’s just a question of education and consciousness.”

For more information about the Permaculture Institute of El Salvador, to pay a visit or to sign on as a volunteer, see their website and/or their Facebook page.


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Little finca, big dreams: Laura and eReciclaje

Little finca, big dreams: Laura and eReciclaje

My other Pato contact was Laura Montoya, an elusive sprite of a woman who only sporadically answered e-mail and telephone. Laura had temporarily inherited the leadership of eReciclaje, an urban permaculture group established by her partner, Felipe Rrague, upon his departure to study in the States.

I finally caught up with her at a presentation at a local university, and she was worth the wait.

Laura Montoya of the peacock-feather earring, the disarming smile and the passionate rapid-fire defense of the Pachamama, is a one-woman Earth revolution in action. Over coffee, she sized me up and apparently decided I was worth her time, and she invited me to her home and the new headquarters of eReciclaje in the marginal barrio of Belen, up in the hills on the outskirts of the city.

The trip itself was almost as memorable as the actual visit. Starting from the classic Hotel Nutibara, whose elegant neoclassic lines are meant for others with far greater budgets than mine, I climbed into a bus destined for the outskirts. After nearly half an hour of traffic through the modern world of esthetic salons and shopping malls and residential neighborhoods we began to climb up and up into another world, one in which houses begin with brick and end with sheet metal and black plastic, where women still carry water in jugs and corn in tubs on their heads, where the smoke from cooking fires curls hangs in the air, where you or your neighbor may or may not have electricity or running water.

It was here that eReciclaje located its second project, the first one, an urban permaculture center in the rougher Barrio Triste neighborhood, having been undone by a devastating robbery.

Here, according to Laura, Felipe started over again, building terraces and irrigation ditches and working the land. Here is the regional headquarters for A Limpiar el Mundo or Clean Up The World, an international group working to organize mass cleanup projects, and here the plastic detritus of the neighborhood becomes eco-bricks of the sort David had demonstrated to me earlier.

But first, I had to find it. The neighborhood was a network of streets without names, and a misunderstanding led me to get off the bus in the wrong place. Finally, there she was, smiling, brilliant in her green hindu pants, big white sunglasses and peacock feather. We embraced, long-lost friends who had only met, and she led me up the hill to her “finca” next to the brick factory, where trucks rumbled up and down all day long, carrying away red bits of mountain in their cavernous beds.

Ironic, and someone poetic, that their little eco-brick workshop is right next to a brick factory of quite a different sort.

I thought of what David told me the other night in Sajonia as he tended his little fire. The Center for Ecological Arts is similarly situated in a truck-traffic zone near the cantera (quarry) and trucks rumble past all day long. Here, too, one can look out from this little mountain paradise and see the mountain across the valley being slowly eaten away.

“Some might see this as a negative thing, and sure, it’s sad to see the way they are altering the mountain – I wish they wouldn’t do it,” David had said, thoughtfully. “But this is exactly the mentality we are working to change – so it’s better that we are here, rather than isolating ourselves from it.”

Laura, it turned out, is not so different from me at 25, in love with an activist completely dedicated to his work, taking on the mantel of his cause as her own. Only hers had left the whole operation in her young hands. Suddenly I understood her reluctance to meet with me. She had been simply overwhelmed.

Still, her words flowed crisp and clear like the mountain stream outside the window. She spoke of dreams and visions, of tarot and shamans and sacred medicine, of greening and cleaning the world.

“Everything has a message, if we listen,” she told me.

I listened.


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Listening to myself at the Center for Ecological Arts

Listening to myself at the Center for Ecological Arts

By Tracy L. Barnett

SAJONIA, RIO NEGRO, Colombia – My main contact in Medellín, passed along by friends from the Rainbow Caravan in Mexico, is a mysterious leader in the environmental movement, café owner, attorney and permaculturist known to me only as Pato. Sadly for me, Pato was in Peru for the duration of my stay, but he put me in touch with a couple of his young compañeros, and I duly followed his leads.

The first one took me out to the countryside for a blessed respite from the city at the newly founded Centro de Artes Ecologicas. I’d been asked to collaborate on a book about permaculture projects throughout the world, and I was excited to see what these creative paisas had come up with. I’m not sure what I expected – ecological houses, fragrant gardens and a busy staff, perhaps – but it’s not what I got.

There to meet me at the bus stop on the gravel road in the one-bar town of Sajonia, Rio Negro, some 40 minutes from Medellin was David Rojas, a volunteer who was holding down the fort in Pato’s absence. He shouldered my heavy pack and together we headed down the road.

“Someday we plan to build buildings, but for now we just have the carro-casa“, he was telling me.

Sure enough, the Cento de Artes Ecologicas is currently based in a broken-down RV, donated by a German who used it to travel through Latin America. It seemed I’d be camping. “I hope you’re not disappointed,” David said.

I quickly recovered from my initial disillusionment and began to listen and look at what was around me. David was a soft-spoken, tousle-headed young man who seemed to weigh the value of each word against that of quietude. I soon found a wellspring of wisdom in that quietude and in the conversations we shared in this beautiful mountain retreat.

“Most people are so busy they don’t really take the time to even listen to themselves, much less to others or to the nature that surrounds us,” he told me. “I come here to do just that.”

He took me on a tour of the site, filled with insights about the innovative permaculture practices the group is employing as they develop the property into a training center for ecological design. The hectare of land that the group has chosen is enormously diverse, with habitats ranging from wetlands to hardwoods to pine forest to pasture, and it slopes upward to a spectacular view of the hills all around.

He gave me a demonstration of the eco-bricks technique being used throughout Latin America, in which plastic bottles are packed tight with trash and used as bricks to build water storage tanks, benches, roads and even houses.

As darkness fell, we built a fire and cooked a simple dinner of pasta and onions, tomatoes and cheese, served with aguapanela, a delicious drink typical in the region made of hot water and panela, an unrefined chunk of condensed sugar cane syrup.

I awoke to the patter of rain on the metal roof and felt an enormous sense of gratitude for the shelter of the carro-casa. I spent awhile listening to the rain, the birds, David’s quiet breathing in the bunk above the cab – and to myself.

The next day we traveled together to the nearby mountain town of Ceja, where I met his friend and colleague Andrés Correa, another energetic and charismatic young leader. The two of them are working on an ecological design project for an ecoresort in Cocorna, Tierra de Agua, and they took me on a tour of a new agroforestry project established by the YMCA where they conduct workshops with local youth.

Here we are in front of the center, as darkness is falling, on a bench made from eco-bricks by Andrés and his crew of youngsters.

Over coffee, Andres quizzed me about my travels. He was intrigued by the concept of my journey, and wanted to know what I had seen. More than anything, he wanted to know if I had found what I was looking for: Hope.

He and David are recent converts to the permaculture cause, and he sees a growing back-to-the-land movement in his country evolving because of the change that’s in the air – changes preached by politicians who do little but ultimately manifested by nature itself, by the pending scarcity of petroleum and other substances that our economy depends on, and by the prophecies in the Mayan calendar, which ends in 2012.

“Basically, we’re getting ready,” he said. “I’d like to be hopeful, but mainly, I think we need to be prepared.”

In many of my conversations here in the South, I ask people how they see the coming transition, and in front of the campfire, David had left me with an image that stays with me still. I recalled it that night over coffee, and we ended our conversation on a hopeful note.

Back at the campfire, David had responded to my question with a gesture at the mountains that surround us.

“I see a future where this mountain will be dotted with little fires like this one, and everywhere you see a little fire will be a family,” he said. “They’ll be cooking together, sharing aguapanela, talking to each other, just as we are.

“Right now, everywhere you see a light is a family – a family that is most likely seated around the television or the computer, but probably not talking to each other. I think that will change.”

I think so too – and for all the fear that change may generate, in the end, it may not be a bad thing at all.


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Peace, hope and clowns in Medellín

Peace, hope and clowns in Medellín

By Tracy L. Barnett

MEDELLIN, Colombia – I arrived just after dawn after a nine-hour bus ride from Cali, but a fresh breeze from the mountains awakened my excitement at being here in this legendary city at last. Known as the City of Eternal Spring, its descent into war and drug-related violence earned it the sadly twisted moniker “City of Eternal Violence.”

Much has been written of Medellin’s unfortunate role as the headquarters of Pablo Escobar, the most ruthless of Colombia’s drug kingpins, and the references continue long after elite forces stormed his palatial home and shot him dead in 1993. Like Cali, a bloodbath of homicides and car-bombings held this city in its thrall for years.

Walking its peaceful, shady streets today, the nightmare of the ‘90s is just a faded memory, but its legacy lingers on – in the 4.5 million displaced by wars and narcotrafficking that live in shantytowns on the outskirts of cities like Medellin. The core of this city is a paragon of planning, with a Metro system that’s the envy of Latin America, an eye-catching collection of public art (most notably, a collection that native son Fernando Botero famously donated to the city) and an inclusive approach to development that seeks to break down the barriers between rich and poor with ample public spaces.

The wealth accumulated here is evident in the gleaming skyscrapers standing proud against the blue mountains that encircle the Valle de Aburrá, most of which have developed in the past decade.

Still, as my first day in this city made vividly clear, those barriers are far from breaking, with thousands in the colonias outside the city living without jobs, public services, education and hope.

Residents of Medellín and the mountainous department of Antioquía, who call themselves “paisas,” are known for their determination, their creativity and their forward-looking approach to life, described by the term “hecho p’adelante,” roughly translated as throwing themselves forward.

Those characteristics aren’t limited to the well-off, as I was soon to see. I found my hotel in the city center, took a shower and sat down with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, and was intrigued by the lead photo in El Colombiano: a group of youths dressed as Gandhi were making their way around the city, passing out little cards written with messages of peace.

On my way to the supermarket, I ran into one of them, a young man whose face still bore the wrinkled makeup from his morning’s event, and who invited me to the group’s next action in the Parque de las Luces (Park of Lights).

“We’re protesting the militarization of our country,” said one of the youths, referring to the obligatory military service for those without economic means, and the millions (mostly from the U.S. treasury) currently being spent on military bases and what former President Uribe called “democratic security,” placing military forces throughout the countryside. Those forces have been credited with quelling the violence, but have also been charged with countless human rights violations. The main concern expressed by the young men was the lack of economic alternatives that compel young people to choose a path of violence: either join the military, or take up a life of crime.

IMG_2494As we chatted, the noise of drums in the distance was growing louder, and soon we saw why. A demonstration was headed our way, and this was like no demonstration I’ve ever seen. Had it not been for the multicolored signs of protest, I’d have thought I was in the middle of a moving carnival. Children on stilts, their faces brilliantly painted, towered above clowns in rainbow-colored wigs and colorful tophats.

A storm was rolling in so I only got to read a few signs before the clouds opened upon us, dispersing the crowds. The main purpose of this group, from what I was able to discern, was to raise awareness about the desperate conditions among the city’s poor, the increase in cost of services like water and electricity, and an assortment of other issues.

I was struck by the colorfulness and the lively, almost joyful atmosphere of their protest, and I mentioned it to one of the Gandhis, a young man who makes his living by juggling, walking on stilts and occasionally performing in public theater events –like the one he was participating in, which, it turns out, was sponsored by the Mahatma Gandhi Foundation.

“We learned awhile back that people pay more attention to us if we approach them in a fun way, instead of being all angry,” he explained. “So we’ve had to be more creative.”


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El Hatico cattle ranch: The problem is the solution

El Hatico cattle ranch: The problem is the solution

By Tracy L. Barnett

VALLE DE CAUCA, Colombia – When Alicia Calle, an environmental scientist with Yale’s Environmental Leadership and Training Initiative, first told me of El Hatico Nature Reserve, her face lit up for the first time since I’d met her an hour ago. We’d been talking about the state of the environment in Colombia, a subject with much to lament, given the spread of mining operations, cattle ranching, vast monocultures of sugarcane and African palm and coca, deforestation, water contamination, the same story throughout the Americas.

What is it that gives you hope, I asked her, as I do in every interview. It was then that she pulled out a booklet and started showing me photos of El Hatico.

“Let me be clear: I don’t like cattle farming; I think it’s created terrible environmental problems and social inequalities throughout its development in Latin America. But this is a place I’d really like you to see, a place that’s turned a major problem into a part of the solution.”

I looked at the photograph and thought I was seeing my grandfather’s farm in the Missouri Ozarks: clusters of russet-colored cattle peacefully grazing among shady forests of mature trees. Nothing like the razed expanses that stretched to the horizons, cattle farms I’d seen throughout the Guatemalan Peten, the Argentine Chaco, in rural Mexico and Paraguay.

Cattle farmers have cleared millions of acres of rainforest and tropical dry forest to create fields for cattle, releasing untold tons of carbon into a steadily heating atmosphere, causing a wave of droughts and erosion, eliminating wildlife habitat and degrading the rivers that flow through. An estimated 27 percent of Colombian land is now used for cattle production, and deforestation continues at the aggressive rate of 300,000 hectares a year, according to an article coauthored by Calle and others published this month in the prestigious professional journal Forest Ecology and Management.

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El Hatico, a nine-generation family farm that has become an oasis of biodiversity among the sugarcane deserts of the Cauca Valley in Southwest Colombia, chose a different path, and finally, industry and government leaders are beginning to take notice. Now, according to Calle, the El Hatico model is being replicated around the country through a new government program, and other countries are watching to see the results.

That’s how I found myself riding shotgun with Alicia’s sister, Zoraida, making our way through miles of sugarcane fields as she told me a bit of El Hatico’s history.

“We’re at a very exciting moment in the development of this system,” Zoraida was telling me. As a specialist in ecological restoration with CIPAV (Center for the Investigation of Sustainable Agropecuarial Systems), she sees El Hatico and its Intensive Silvopastoral Systems approach to cattle farming as a key component in the rehabilitation of degraded tropical lands. CIPAV has dedicated 19 years to this project, and she has never seen the receptivity that has opened up in the past year.

“Every year we’re receiving visits from two or three Mexican producers and technicians; we’re seeing farmers from Nicaragua, Panama, Brazil, Cuba and Argentina. They want to see how it’s possible to do what they are doing.”

Conventional cattle farming requires the application of 100 to 800 kilograms of urea fertilizer per hectare per year, costly imported fossil fuel-based fertilizers that create runoff into regional streams, degrading water quality and suppressing the fish populations. The tropical forests that once stretched the length and breadth of the Cauca Valley were felled more than a century ago for lumber and many hectares were converted to cattle farms; since then, the more lucrative business of sugar has supplanted most of the cattle, with even greater environmental impacts because of widespread herbicide and pesticide use.

Finally we are leaving the monochromatic landscape of cane and entering a promenade of graceful saman trees. An enormous bird swoops across the road in front of us, as if to welcome us to its world – a garrapatero, or yellow-headed caracara, Zoraida tells me.
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A flock of black ibises with their curving red beaks flutters by and lands on the lush grass in the forest at our left. A cluster of white cattle egrets alights amid the roan-colored cattle to our right.

“Oh, look, it’s a cocli,” exclaims Zoraida as a huge and magnificent pair of birds lands in a field along the way. These birds are also nearly extinct in the region. “These birds are almost extinct in the Cauca Valley – but here they have a home.”

We have arrived in El Hatico.

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We pull up to an elegant iron gate and Carlos Molina is there to greet us, the eldest brother in a family of six brothers and sisters who tend the heritage of their grandfathers and serve as agroforestry educators, agronomists and entrepreneurs. A tall, handsome man with an easy smile under his broad-brimmed straw hat, he’s delighted to learn of my grandfather, the agroforestry pioneer, and my mother, the organic farmer, and we connect immediately.

My grandfather passed away in April, and since then I have felt his presence with me strongly – especially on this day, as I invited him along for the ride. I think he was pleased with what he saw.

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Carlos showed us around the house first, a graceful relic from the late 1700s whose terra cotta tile roof had survived its 230 years with little damage, but some of the beams were beginning to bow, and workmen were carefully disassembling it, replacing the bowed segments and marveling at the integrity of the original structure.
“Look at this giant reed,” Carlos said, shaking his head in wonder at the strength of the caña brava, a local species used to build the roof. “Just as strong as it was 200 years ago.”

The same could be said for this family and its farm, which has held together through two centuries of revolution and armed conflict, drug wars and economic crises and climate crises, an oasis amid the storms.

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Soon we were joined by another of the Molina brothers, the equally charismatic Enrique, along with an agronomist and an environmental educator from Costa Rica who had come to tour the farm as well.
“The problem of the defense of the forests is of anguishing seriousness and the most terrible threat to the future of the region,” wrote Enrique and Carlos’ great uncle, Ciro Molina Garcés, in 1937.

By 1942, vast expanses throughout the region had been cleared by logging and cattle operations, as we see in the aerial photos that begin our presentation. By 1986, the landscape had been converted to a patchwork cane farms. Only the dark patch of Hatico remained as forest.

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Today El Hatico is a mixed-use farming operation; 32 percent is organic sugar cane; only 5.5 percent is pure hardwood forest, but another nearly 9 percent is native bamboo forest, while 12.7 percent is under what is called SSPI, Intensive Silvopastoral System by its Spanish acronym, and this is the part that is being closely watched by industry leaders.

“When we talk to agricultural producers, they look around and say, oh, this isn’t good. Our fathers and grandfathers taught us you have to cut the trees down,” Carlos said. “But I tell them, look around; see for yourselves. We have 80 percent canopy cover here, and look at the quality and quantity of this grass. And this is with zero chemical inputs. Conservation and production do not compete; they work together.”

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In terms of cost, the El Hatico balance sheet comes out shining. Due in part to improved production and in part to a greatly decreased cost in inputs – zero agrochemicals, zero soy supplements for the animals because of the higher nutritional value of their grazing plants, and greatly reduced irrigation costs and the associated electricity bill – El Hatico shows that conservation is good business.

In addition, the Molinas point out, they are providing priceless environmental services: carbon fixation, oxygen production, hydrogen cycle regulation, productive capacity of the soil and conservation of biodiversity.

But what really captured the attention of industry leaders was the production at El Hatico during the drought of 2009-2010, brought on by El Niño, which devastated producers throughout Latin America. In 2009, El Hatico actually had higher production than the year before – a result that was virtually unheard of throughout the industry. “And this was without irrigation,” emphasized Carlos.

Now it was time for the tour. Carlos and Enrique led us out the cast-iron gate and down the shady lane, where a pair of magnificent coclis were grazing in the tall grasses nearby. Enrique spoke of the challenge of transferring the family’s values to each new generation in an era when most young people leave the farm for other opportunities in the cities.

Here at El Hatico, each child on his or her third birthday is placed on a horse for their first horseback ride. The horse continues to be a tool to connect the children with the farm, and on their first communion they are presented with a small mare.

“It creates a sort of an addiction,” Enrique explained, “but a healthy addiction – it sensitizes them to the family heritage. These three elements – equine, human and natural environment – are a supremely beautiful way to provide environmental education for the children.”

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Indeed, the tour of the entire farm is a supremely beautiful educational approach for all of us. The next stop is the under the enormous spreading branches of the grandfather saman tree that Carlos and Enrique’s father planted 70 years ago and has become a symbol of the farm.

Much of the resistance to agroforestry for grazing comes from the idea that broadleaf plants are a weed and must be eliminated, Carlos explains. In fact, shade eliminates the most problematic broadleaf plants, and the native plants provide good, high-protein forage – “so the ‘maleza’ becomes a ‘bueneza,’” he jokes, using a play on the Spanish word for weed (maleza = weed, mal = bad, Buen = good).

Back on the lane to the highway, a flock of fulvous whistling ducks takes flight and the visitors grab for their cameras. I realize I’ve seen more birds here at El Hatico than I’ve seen on several birdwatching expeditions during my journey.

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I learn many things on this tour; one is that organic sugarcane can be just as profitable as its chemical-assisted counterparts, and can be companion-planted with other crops. Part of the Molinas’ sugarcane work crew was hard at work when we arrived: a flock of hair sheep, grazing on the weeds that grow up between the rows, eliminating the need for herbicides. When they first began experimenting with the sheep as a means to control weeds, they were very careful to use moveable fences to protect the fledgling cane plants from the animals. One day, however, the fence got knocked down, and the pastor observed, to his surprise, that the sheep didn’t touch the cane – only the broadleaf plants around and between the rows.

In the beginning, the neighbors worried that the sheep would escape and create havoc in their fields. Now, Enrique says, they’re getting a different type of phone call from the neighbors, who want to borrow the sheep for weed removal in their own parcels: “’Send in the contractors!’ they say.”

Perhaps more importantly is the Molina’s alternative to the slash-and-burn approach to waste management that predominates throughout the industry. At the end of each growing season, most cane producers burn their fields, leading to air pollution, vast amounts of carbon pouring into the atmosphere, and destruction of healthy soil ecology, requiring more chemical inputs for the next crop.

Instead of burning, the Molinas use their cane waste to produce a ground-protecting mulch that is returned to the soil with each new season. This biomass is laid between rows and protects the soil moisture, drastically cutting down on the need for irrigation, Carlos explains. He picks up a handful of the brown grassy mass in the irrigation ditch and wrings a stream of water from it to demonstrate its capacity to hold water.

“This was the system we used until the 1960s, when they started burning – because that’s what they used in California and Hawaii,” he explained.

Under normal conditions, it costs a cane grower $300,000 per hectare per year to irrigate, Carlos said. The Molinas were able to irrigate their fields for much less.

Nowadays, Carlos says, visitors to the farm leave enthusiastic about making a transition on their own farms. “People no longer see us as romantics,” he says. “They see us as pragmatics.”

The sun sets quickly here in the tropics, and the insects and treefrogs sing a farewell chorus as we reached the old homestead. Carlos and Enrique shared a farewell song with us as well, one that was written for El Hatico by a friend who is a songwriter.

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The Molinas shared with us a sumptuous buffet of typical Colombian cuisine, including fresh orange juice and crispy fried plantains from their own farm, and saw us off with hugs and an invitation to come back soon. As we walked to our car, I looked up and saw a cloud passing the moon. Somewhere out there, I thought, Grandpa was smiling.

El Hatico is open for agroecology tours. It’s less than an hour from Cali and is well worth the trip. Contact CIPAV at rnhatico@cipav.org.co for more information. Meanwhile, here’s the virtual tour.


Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Saving paradise in the Maya Mountains of Belize

Saving paradise in the Maya Mountains of Belize

(Above: A forest ranger patrols the Central River in the Maya Mountains, Toledo District, Southern Belize (Photo by Chris Hamley)

By Lee McLoughlin

Editor’s note: I visited the Maya Mountains, San Miguel and San Pedro Colombia in March of this year and the natural beauty of the area took my breath away. I was distressed to hear of plans to build a hydroelectric dam here and had hoped the community organizing efforts had put a stop to it. Unfortunately, Lee McLoughlin of the Ya’axché Conservation Trust contacted me recently to let me know that the project is a destructive reality, and one that the community and the conservation trust have teamed up to fight. What follows is a guest article by Lee and three excellent videos sponsored by the Ya’axché Conservation Trust. – Tracy L. Barnett

MAYA MOUNTAINS, Belize – The Toledo District of southern Belize is blessed with rich natural and cultural resources. Along its spine runs the rugged Maya Mountains, a largely uninhabited refuge for a wide variety of threatened and endangered species including jaguar, Baird’s tapir, howler monkey and the iconic scarlet macaw. The Maya Mountains are part of the last remaining relatively intact block of forest within the region – The Selva Maya – stretching from Belize to Guatemala and Mexico.


Central River in Bladen Nature Reserve (Photo courtesy of Ya’axché Conservation Trust)

In addition to the Maya Mountains’ value as a conservation area for threatened, endangered and endemic species it also provides services such as clean air and of course fresh, limestone filtered water to rural communities. To help protect these freshwater resources a large portion of the Maya Mountains are under some form of protection. The most strictly protected area in this block is the Bladen Nature Reserve which is co-managed by Ya’axché Conservation Trust and Belize Forest Department. Bladen protects the headwaters of the Monkey River and the Central River (Rio Grande tributary) where the river drops through sinkholes and emerges out of springs as it makes its way through the underground limestone cave systems on its way through indigenous Mayan communities and then coastal Creole communities before reaching Belize’s World Heritage Barrier Reef. The communities of San Pedro Columbia and San Miguel, in the upper Rio Grande watershed, are particularly dependent on these rivers as a source of drinking water, for washing and for irrigation for subsistence agriculture.

In November of last year Ya’axché Conservation Trust discovered that Belize Hydroelectric Development (BHD) had conducted an illegal ‘feasibility study’ for a proposed hydroelectric dam within the pristine, strictly protected Bladen Nature Reserve. This development was taking place without any prior consultation with the communities that would be affected by the dam and in addition Ya’axché, as co-managers of Bladen, were not informed. The communities of San Pedro Columbia and San Miguel mobilized to form a commitee and numerous meetings were held to allow people to voice their opinions. People were overwhelmingly against the development, especially since the same company had previously established a dam on the San Miguel river on community land without any tangible community benefit. Ya’axché decided to take the community opposition a step further and is now involved in litigation against BHD and the Forest Department who granted them the permit.


Community meeting in San Pedro Columbia (Photo by Chris Hamley)

What this illegal development showed was a complete disregard for the human rights of the indigenous communities living downstream and the rich ecology of the Maya Mountains. Ya’axché realized that it was necessary to give a voice to those communities who would be most affected by developments such as this. To ensure this voice is heard Ya’axche requested permission from Ajax films to publicize ‘Saving Paradise’ and later collaborated with Ajax films to create ‘River to Reef’.

Saving Paradise from Ajax Films uploaded by Ya'axché Conservation Trust on Vimeo.

The first film, ‘Saving Paradise’, is the story of the opposition of Toledo communities to the proposed hydro dam and the five-day expedition to the site of the ‘development’ in the remote upper reaches of the Maya Mountains. It enabled the community members and Ya’axché to show those who could not make the long trek, the damage that had been caused by the developers. This included the bulldozing of a road, clearing forested slopes, blocking waterways and creeks and clearing helicopter landing pads. ‘Saving Paradise’ also shows the series of community meetings which followed the ‘feasibility study’ and particularly the passion and organization of the communities in opposition to this dam.

The second film, ‘River to Reef’, is all about the relationship of modern Belizeans to their water resources, it highlights the impacts that we have on our watersheds on individual, community and commercial levels. Importantly it not only demonstrates the negative impacts but also shows those committed individuals who are making small changes in their community to achieve healthy watersheds and coastal reefs for future generations. The film is currently being shown on Belizean Television, on the internet and, most importantly, in schools and communities.

River to Reef from Ajax Films uploaded by Ya'axché Conservation Trust on Vimeo.

For more information on the fight against the dam please check out the blog, Let Our River Flow. For more information about the activities and protected areas of Ya’axche Conservation Trust, including the 100,000-acre Bladen Nature Reserve and the 15,000-acre Golden Stream Corridor Preserve please visit the Ya’axche Conservation Trust website at www.yaaxche.org or write to cmichaelangelo@yahoo.com or nicrequena@gmail.com. And to lend your voice to the cause, write to Belize Prime Minister Dean Barrow at cabinet@btl.net, or call him at (501) 822-0399; and write a letter to the newspapers, Amandala (editor_amandala@yahoo.com) and the Belize Times, 3 Queen Street, PO box 506, Belize City, Belize.

And to close the subject with a smile, check out this short video by a group of Toledo High School students, Damn the Dam! It’s priceless.

Damn the Dam! from Ajax Films uploaded by Ya'axché Conservation Trust on Vimeo.

Why Big Oil doesn’t need to spill to kill

Why Big Oil doesn’t need to spill to kill

(Above: Arrows belonging to uncontacted peoples, believed to be Mashco-Piro. Taken during a FENAMAD trip to Tayacomme, Manu National Park, Peru. © FENAMAD


Jorge, Murunahua man, who was shot in the eye by loggers on first contact in 1996, Breu, River Yurua, Peru. © Survival International

By David Hill

Editor’s note: David Hill is a former researcher at Survival International, an organization that has taken the lead in defending the rights of the increasingly embattled indigenous people of the planet, especially those who have taken a stand in defense of their native land. For more information, to sign up for alerts and to lend your name to the cause, see www.survivalinternational.org.

PERUVIAN AMAZON – The tragic Gulf of Mexico oil spill, which led to the death of 11 people, has generated enormous concern about the environmental impacts of oil exploration and exploitation. But what about the social impacts? What about oil operations that can decimate whole groups of people? As reserves dwindle and prices rise, oil companies are moving into increasingly remote parts of the planet – some so remote, like the Peruvian Amazon, that they are inhabited by indigenous people who have no contact with the outside world.

These ‘uncontacted’ tribes, numbering an estimated 100 worldwide, are extremely vulnerable to any kind of contact with oil crews. The reason for this is simple: they have lived so isolated from other people for so long that they have not developed immunological defences against outsiders’ infections or viruses, including the common cold and flu. It doesn’t take much to start an epidemic: a brief encounter between an oil crew member and an ‘uncontacted’ man or woman, a hand on a shoulder, the exchange of a t-shirt. The fact is, colds kill.


These spears were left by the uncontacted Indians as a message to bar outsiders from entering.
© Marek Wolodzko/AIDESEP

This is no exaggeration. Time and time again first contact has wiped out 50% or more of entire Amazonian tribes. The Nahua, in south-east Peru, are one example. After first regular contact in 1984 following exploration by Shell on their land and the subsequent influx of loggers using the tracks and paths cut by Shell’s oil crews, more than half of the Nahua died in the next few years.

‘Many, many people died,’ remembers one of the survivors. ‘People dying everywhere. People left to rot along stream banks, in the woods, in their houses.’

Oil companies often acknowledge the danger their work poses to ‘uncontacted’ tribes, but continue to operate anyway. Shell did just that: ‘a cold could easily turn into pneumonia and be fatal,’ said one Shell plan. So too Mobil in the 1990s when they explored in Peru: ‘these populations are very susceptible to respiratory and Western diseases. . . for which they have no natural resistance.’ More recently, Barrett Resources admitted contact was ‘probable’ and could be ‘disastrous’, but that did not stop French company Perenco from taking over their operations, in northern Peru, in 2008.

Worse, some companies actually encourage their crews to establish contact with the tribes and even provide specific phrases to use. Some of these would be comic if the consequences weren’t so potentially tragic. Barrett recommended saying things like: ‘We are people just like you’ and ‘Is something disturbing you?’ Repsol-YPF, currently working in the same region, has suggested this: ‘Use a megaphone to inform the natives in the local languages why we are there and that it is not the company’s intention to interfere with their activities.’


Abandoned hut, believed to be Mashco-Piro, taken during FENAMAD trip to Tayacomme, Manu National Park, Peru. © FENAMAD

Other companies take a different tack and act as if the tribes didn’t exist. That is what Perenco has done. In a report to Peru’s Energy Ministry outlining the potential impacts of a pipeline it currently intends to build in northern Peru to help transport an estimated 300 million barrels of heavy crude oil from the Amazon to Peru’s Pacific Coast, there is plenty of detail about the ‘contacted’ indigenous people in the affected region, including village locations, potted histories, and even demographic statistics. And the two ‘uncontacted’ tribes who live there? No mention, absolutely no mention, of them at all.

Another tactic is to argue openly that the tribes really don’t exist, or that there is no evidence for them. ‘This is similar to the Loch Ness monster. Much talk but never any evidence,’ said a Perenco spokesperson when confronted by a British journalist last year. ‘We have to conclude that the existence of uncontacted tribes is extremely improbable,’ a spokesperson from Repsol-YPF, operating in the same region as Perenco, told Survival. ‘According to information provided to us by Repsol, there is no evidence of un-contacted people,’ said ConocoPhillips, Repsol’s partner in northern Peru.

The tragedy in the Gulf of Mexico led to renewed calls for offshore drilling to be banned altogether, so why not the deepest Amazon too? Ignore what the companies say. There is actually a huge amount of evidence for the existence of ‘uncontacted’ tribes in these regions, and by operating there the companies are, in addition to violating international law and the UN’s Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, exposing the tribes to unknown diseases which could decimate them. No rig explosions required. Big Oil doesn’t need to spill to kill.

Click here to join Survival International’s campaign to stop oil exploration on uncontacted tribes’ land in Peru.


Temporary shelters built by an ‘uncontacted’ tribe in southeast Peru. © ACCA/Survival

In Magui’s Words: Interview with Paraguay’s Magui Balbuena

By Tracy L. Barnett

My interview with Magui was so packed with passion and pathos that I had to share it all. The story behind it is here:

Magui Balbuena: Campesina leader takes on Monsanto

Now for the interview. It’s long but it’s worth every minute.

Tracy: Can you tell me a bit about the current environmental situation in Paraguay?

Magui: Ten years ago we formed CONAMURI and we began to organize for the rights of women, and one of the principal rights of women is food sovereignty, the right to a clean environment, agrarian reform, working in alliance with other groups.

In terms of the environment, it’s pretty complicated because of this model that was applied in Paraguay about 40 years ago from a group of foreigners who at first cultivated conventional soy. Several years ago, five or six varieties of transgenic soy from Monsanto were approved for cultivation, and international companies mainly from Brazil have already been planting these seed to test the Paraguayan soil. The government historically does not represent the rights of the rural people, and it easily accepts proposals that come from outside the country. So the parliament approved the cultivation of transgenics, and these companies have been planting many other varieties, and neither the state nor the organizations responsible know how many varieties of transgenic soy are really being planted here.

Paraguay has a good climate, which is why it is unfortunately one of the victims of transgenic soy. They have destroyed an immense quantity of forest. The soil doesn’t rest, because in between crops they plant “interlude seeds” so the soil is always being used, and they employ a whole technological package that uses ultramodern equipment, and they come with the seeds and the agrotoxics that are then applied throughout the countryside. This destroys everything. These machines that are bigger than a building sometimes, in a few days an area what was forest is nothing but red soil, everything devastated, and the plantings begin. They have destroyed entire communities. We don’t have exact data or statistics but they have eliminated more than 200 communities through this model in various ways.

One way is buying the land from campesinos, these families who have been completely abandoned by the state; they leave and go to the city. These lands that are bought by the companies, regardless of whether it’s 10 or 20 hectares, the next day it’s completely devastated and within a week they are cultivating soy.

Then they begin to fumigate the other families that didn’t want to sell their land or plant soy. Then they begin fumigating, and everything begins to die. They start poisoning the domestic animals, the chickens, the corn, the manioc, the fruit trees, and the family gets desperate and everything is destroyed by the pesticide. The campesino begins to get desperate, people get sick, the women miscarry their babies.

It begins with pulmonary effects and skin diseases; then they end up selling their land. So if they don’t want to sell, another thing they do is they rent their land. They rent eight hectares and keep two for their home and their animals and with this money supposedly they can survive. But what happens is that they’ve opened the door for the transgenic soy and once they’ve begun they can’t get rid of the poison. There’s no way to undo it. The campesinos who rent their lands have soy up to their front doors of their houses, so they can’t plant anything more, and they are stuck with this situation for three or four years because everything is made by contract, and the soil after fumigation becomes useless.

Another thing that happens is that they accept the technological package that the company gives to them on credit, and then they’re in debt. The companies prepare the land, they sell them the seeds, the equipment and the pesticides, then they are in debt and they end up selling the soy to the company that sold them the seeds to pay their debts. These are the ways they take over the campesino’s land. More than 15,000 families each year abandon the countryside for this situation, and it keeps increasing. There are communities that have been completely abandoned. I’m from Caaguazú, and in my department, entire communities have disappeared. Sometimes all that’s left is the cemetery, in the middle of the soy field.

Where there were streams, chapels, schools, now there is nothing but soy; everything has been razed. In some communities they had to close the schools because so many campesinos had left for the city, and they had to let teachers go. The impact in the countryside is grave.

Our rivers and streams that cross the communities and the soy fields, they throw everything on top of them, they bury them, and what was a week ago a beautiful stream is now nothing but a soy field.

The wetlands, too, they are using canals to drain the wetlands. In the bigger rivers that remain, where the fish were food for the campesino families, have all been exterminated; there’s not a single fish in the rivers.

Some of the bigger rivers they’ve dammed, like Itaipu, to make these enormous lakes, and the soy growers wash their equipment and the chemical containers in the lake. Now this lake, too, displaced many campesino communities when they built it. But a contract was signed with Brazil, and great extensions of land were covered with the waters that were flooded with the dam. But now the campesinos who live along the lake depend on it for their living. It used to be full of fish, thousands and thousands of fish, and many people lived from the fish.

But nature suffered a huge impact from the creation of these enormous artificial lakes. Until a little while ago I lived in Arsenio Baez, named for our compañero martyr who was assassinated in the struggle for the land in this settlement, by assassins, and our community ended up in Lake Itaipu.

Many communities in that way were destroyed by Itaipu. Our house was about 700 meters from the Itaipu dam. This lake has suffered so many fish kills because they take the big tanks they use to fumigate with poisons and wash them in the lake and their wastes spill out in the water so the fish die. There is a struggle now in my community that has organized to pass a municipal ordinance that they are trying to pass in many communities to make them free of transgenic soy. But we were persecuted so severely, they almost killed my brother in law.
So we moved because the situation had become so unsustainable because of the assassins that were paid by the soy growers, and we found a place 400 kilometers to the north toward San Pedro.

So it had been two months since we had moved to the new community; it was a really small and beautiful community, and we’d gotten this land with a lot of struggle and a compañero was assassinated for this cause. But it was impossible to resist the attacks of the soy growers. They have their defenders in the community, the politicians who do their work and provide financial resources, surely, it’s all very dirty business. Well, to lose a family member in this struggle was too much, so we decided to leave the threat behind.

So, well, these are some of the experiences that have been very painful for us. We thought that our community with 362 hectares, with 150 houses and small farms, that we could live without this contamination, but it was impossible because there were people who had five or six hectares who wanted to rent or sell their land, so we were working to try to get an ordinance but the government is Colorado (the conservative party which was allied with the dictatorship), which is also with the soy growers, and cultivates with the Brazilians.

So we opted to leave and continue our struggle in another community far away.

There were so many experiences – there was the child who was fumigated by a German Brazilian in Itapúa when he crossed the edge of the soy field so as not to walk in the street. This child was carrying meat and other food for the family. They cooked it and by the afternoon everyone in the house was poisoned. This was Jan. 3, 2003. On January 6 they fumigated again because 15 meters away there was another piece of land with transgenic soy and so they began another fumigation and so the child received a third impact.

He had already crossed along the field on his bicycle, then eaten the poisoned food, then another fumigation after three days of convalescence, so they took all the children to the hospital but Silvino died on the 7th of January, he died of extreme chemical intoxication. His little brothers and sisters were taken to the toxicology center of the hospital in Itapúa. They took their blood samples and the analysis showed high levels of glyphosate (Round Up). There were three poisons that they found; these people mix the agrotoxics, which is prohibited, because there’s no way to control the strength of these poisons, and it had a phenomenal effect.

After the children were taken to Asuncion they were treated for several months. The mother was pregnant and lost the baby; she almost died from the problem, and all the children were sick and couldn’t go to school; the whole family was impacted tremendously.

CONAMURI filed a lawsuit; during this process we felt it was obligatory to take the case it to court. There were two trials and we won both of them because the impact was so great. There were 49 witnesses, and each trial lasted a week in the tribunal of Itapúa.

I remember when Monsanto brought glyfosate to the market, they had a festival in the community where they had a video that said you could drink glyfosate, that it was safe and couldn’t kill anyone. But this trial was very powerful.

These soy growers use the technological package that Monsanto and other transnational companies bring to Paraguay because it’s a very profitable, secure business because they dedicate themselves not just to cultivation but to the sale of the equipment and chemicals, which is what really makes a lot of money.

In the second trial, the big soy growers’ cooperative, an organization with real economic power, threatened us and CONAMURI. People said it was like the ant against the elephant, and with the monster that is Monsanto that represents the exportation model of Paraguay – a model so damaging and predatory, that is causing effects so disastrous to our land, that is creating damage at every step, but the Silvino case was the first case of death from agrotoxics, and that’s why it was so important because it has stayed in our Paraguayan justice system. It showed that yes, agrotoxics kill. We don’t know how many thousands of cases there really are because they have the justice system in their favor, the police in their favor, the investigators in their favor, the parliament, the executive branch – they have absolute power here, so that’s why this unequal struggle with Silvino is so important, because it shows that we can win with courage and valor in the face of these powerful interests we are fighting with our lives.

We want to live, we struggle to live in harmony with nature but others from outside invade our territory and threaten and expel us and maintain us in these conditions. The system makes us live under this extreme poverty and people are afraid to speak out or we will lose our health care and our crop assistance or help for our living quarters. In this country that is so rich, there should not be a poor person in the country with all the fresh water, the forests, the climate that is so favorable; they say now that we have mines of petroleum other natural riches and these are the people’s patrimony but they are exploited completely by foreign dark interests who are in favor of death, and they are taking the power in our country.

The destruction is so great, and the effects in the countryside. I want a serious institution to come to Paraguay and see how many children of the countryside have cancer, how many women and young people have cancer, and how much it’s increased. The majority of cases come from those parts of the country where they’re using these agrotoxics.

This is the situation, nobody makes a sound or asks, Why there are so many cancer cases? Where do these people come from?

There’s a threat that’s growing stronger by the day; we now have 2.5 million hectares in soy, with production coming to 10 mill tons. Every year they take more of the campesinos’ land, more forests are destroyed, more wetlands and more waterways destroyed. We think it’s closer to 5 million hectares but the state doesn’t want to see it, and doesn’t want to see how many dead are resulting… people come to the hospital and ask the doctor, why is he sick? He can’t say in the documentation that it’s because of the agrotoxics; doctors say it’s prohibited to report that. They say it’s diabetes, a fever, a headache, any other diagnosis besides poisoning from agricultural chemicals. And it’s so expensive to do a study and the consequences are so serious, here the people just die. They’ll say, “Oh, he died of a cancer or a stomach problem or a headache or whatever.” This is the fruit of the exposure to agrotoxics.

In places where one goes crossing from my department, Caaguazú, all the way to the border with Brazil, up north to Conception and over to San Pedro, it’s all full of soy fields. Thousands of people crossing this area are being intoxicated on a regular basis because they are fumigating there.

Tracy: How do you know when you’re being exposed to agricultural chemicals?

Magui: I feel a headache, then my chest feels like it’s opening, and my lips feel thick. I just feel bad, my stomach hurts. Many children have a cough and say they feel bad on the bus, but they don’t make the connection with the fact that two meters away they are fumigating 200 hectares of soy. It’s terrible the violation of the laws that is occurring – because here there are environmental laws to protect the community, which say there have to be barriers of protection, and there’s a law that says on the borders of communities and highways you’re not supposed to fumigate, but the Brazilians don’t care, they don’t respect the law.

Tracy: How is the spread of soy affecting the indigenous people of Paraguay?

Magui: Last year we had a community in a very remote area in the center of the country, where in three months more than 12 indigenous people died from intoxication. What does the media say? That’s another huge problem, the media defends the soy growers because they are in favor of the industrial agriculture model. The press says the indigenous people died of malnutrition, not intoxication; they report that they died of worms or of parasites. In another case in Alto Parana, in an indigenous community, the Brazilians bought the land and said it was owned by the state.

They took over the indigenous ancestral community, they took the title and said, “This is ours, you have to leave. Here’s a bus.” The indigenous people said, “No, we are not going from here. We’re not leaving our community.” The Brazilians left, and within a few hours, an airplane flew over and fumigated. This day four indigenous people died.

When they went to take the sick ones to the hospital, they found they were being followed by the employees of the soy growers, who said to the tribal leader, “Take this money. Say you didn’t see an airplane. Say that nothing happened.”

There was a big contradiction because the tribal leader was saying there was no plane, and another one said there was a plane but they weren’t fumigating. Then another said there was a plane and they were fumigating us. Another said it was water they sprayed. Another said, no, it was poison.

So the soy growers made a disaster of the indigenous people. And this is what they do. That’s what they did, too, in the community where 12 died.

In the Alto Parana, the situation was so serious the minister of indigenous affairs and several investigators went to the community to investigate. The minister said, this is intoxication. Then the soy growers sued the minister and said you have to take it back; you have to say the indigenous people weren’t intoxicated.

The minister took refuge with the World Health Organization, and the case is still going on.

Here the industrial agriculture export model is terrible for our country. The people who live in the city don’t realize the gravity of the problem in our country. But the majority of our population continues to live in the countryside. Our life is the countryside, our way of eating, our way of living, and we want to continue to live in the countryside; our roots are in the countryside.

That’s why we’re organizing ourselves for food security, giving workshops and talks and community radio programs and organization of women in defense of the Mother Earth.

We work for the consciousness of our people so they will stop using these toxic chemicals and start cultivating in a way that’s organic so the food can once again be healthy and this will also affect the people who live in the city. We all depend on the food that’s grown here. But the soy is not for Paraguayans, it’s for the pigs and the cows and the birds that feed the people of the United States and Europe.

The impact keeps going; the propaganda the media writes, the radio, the television makes a big impact because we don’t have the ability to fight this propaganda, this orientation of the mass media that is distorting the information and orienting the minds of the people to consume junk food and cultivate products for export only. So our young people all go to Argentina or Spain or the big cities. Many people have left and are sending money back to the grandmother and the mother so these people don’t produce anymore. Sixty percent of the people who live in the countryside are people who are 40 years or older. The consequences are that in Paraguay we have 650,000 homeless people in the outskirts of the city, and they are all campesinos. They have no employment, no land for cultivation, and they fall into drug addiction and prostitution. Some young men end up being male prostitutes even though they’re not homosexuals, they take that lifestyle because there are no other opportunities, they see no future.

Tracy: What is the role of women in this struggle?

Magui: Most organizations now have a women’s section, which usually has a very low profile, don’t have much influence in the organization. It’s a big challenge for our compañeras in mixed organizations. But the women have reacted against this model. When they fumigate the soy, people make human barriers, they demonstrate at the headquarters of the soy producers, asking them to stop the fumigation. But this is against violent repression that women have suffered. Some who are pregnant have miscarried, some have been imprisoned and beaten, these women in defense of their habitat, their environment, the places where they live.

So after seeing this CONAMURI formed because of the inequalities that exist in every aspect – socially, economically, politically, the lack of women’s participation, their absence in positions of management. CONAMURI was born of this necessity. We also have focused our struggle in favor of agrarian reform for the campesinos and indigenous people, and this struggle for agrarian reform is primordial. Within this struggle for agrarian reform is the struggle for the environment, for the ability to produce healthy food, that is increasingly more organic instead of dependent on technology that comes from abroad – and to maintain our native seeds.

Tracy: What is the focus of your work right now?

Magui: The defense of our native seeds is primordial for CONAMURI. That’s why we founded Semilla Roga, house of the seeds, which we’ve begun with demonstration plots, because the House of the Seeds – in other words, a seed bank, but for us the word “bank” sounds bad so we call it a seed house. In Guarani it’s Semilla Roga. Roga is Casa, house. So we have a House of Seeds in my department which is Caaguazú, where we are beginning to rescue the natural medicines also, in a demonstration parcel, and in Semilla Roga we’re preparing silos, small and large, to preserve the seeds.

This has many objectives, and it has to be organically produced, without agrochemicals, and it’s been an intense work of awareness raising of the people at the grassroots, because we’ll be bringing seeds from six or seven departments to this Semilla Roga. And they’ll be able to take seeds as well, so the intention is to exchange seeds. For example if I have beans, and to the north on the department of Concepcion, which is about 300, 400 kilometers from Caaguazú, someone also has the same variety of bean, and they bring them and we mix them and improve the seed.

First we launched the campaign for the preservation of native seeds and plants. We’ve worked for three years now raising awareness in the community, through the media and whatever spaces they let us enter. We’ve printed posters such as this is one, which is for our seed campaign. It says “ñamombarete ñane ñemity el hagua tekokatu,” “Give strength to our crops so that we can have well-being,” is more or less what it means in Spanish.
After this, our poster for the Law of Corn… so we’re working on raising awareness of the need to care about our seeds, to mix the varieties and continue improving them, because many families have lost that diversity. They plant two or three types of beans or legumes, a grain or two, their corn, and everything else has been lost. So we’ve begun the rescue.

It’s really good because within this campaign we’ve organized various seed fairs at the departmental and national level, where we exchange seeds. And with Semilla Roga, that’s another idea, where we deposit as many different kind of seeds as possible, and people can take seeds from there. So they bring seeds, and they take them. That’s the objective; if someone takes 5 kilos of seed, they return 10 kilos. All the seed will not have patents, but like a birth certificate, with its name, its date, its origin and everything. So that’s the objective of Semilla Roga. After that we’ll launch the Semilla Roga-í, “í” being the smallest, in the communities.

We have four departments now where we’re working with demonstration plots, and we don’t have government support except for a little from some agencies that enables us to conduct the campaign. Besides that, the work is all volunteer – for the posters, materials for the workshops, for that we get a little support but we want to extend that support because Semilla Roga needs to be well equipped. We have to have airtight containers and flasks, and a well-ventilated space. The objective is to have the Semilla Roga in each department, with the demonstration plots and a program to collect and save seeds in each department. So that’s where we are right now, continuing the work of the past three years of awareness raising, building the Semilla Roja program and consolidating these advances. And that’s what we’re preparing these young people for – to be spokespeople for the seeds.

Tracy: What is it that gives you hope, Magui? What motivates you to keep on going?

Magui: We have now in the Congress a proposal for the Law of Corn, which is very hard-fought, being studied by various commissions, and Monsanto is cultivating transgenic corn secretly everywhere. Now for the first time Senave, the National Service for Control of Vegetation and Seeds, has been enforcing the law regarding this, and they are destroying transgenic corn in various departments, and we are supporting this work through various organizations. And the Brazilian agro-businesspeople have been passing out transgenic corn among the small producers to involve them so that they will end up buying it. So now this corn has to be destroyed, which has been planted by large producers as well as small producers, because it’s prohibited by law. And behind these Brazilian growers are armed civilians with shotguns, not letting the investigators enter, or the SENAVE officials, to destroy the crops. So there’s been this resistance, and the SENAVE officials have been very courageous. And now some of the investigators have stepped back and said they don’t want to accompany the SENAVE officials when they go out to carry out the destruction of the cornfields because they’ve been paid by the Brazilian growers.

Tomorrow there’ll be a seminar for more than 100 community, campesino and indigenous leaders to teach them about the law and how it can be applied. And we’re going to be supporting more actively SENAVE. Because SENAVE was always an agency that was controlled by the soy producers – we even have information that the growers paid the salaries of SENAVE, because supposedly the state didn’t have the money. And now things have changed because Miguel Lovera has taken charge, and he’s a person who for many years worked in the protection of the forests and the environment. He’s from the International Coalition for the Defense of the Forests, and he also has his own small NGO here. So now all the soy growers are demanding that President Lugo fire Lovera immediately. So that’s why when I had the opportunity in front of everyone at the Social Forum of the Americas I asked President Lugo to support Miguel Lovera in his effort to make use of the law and put everything in its place.

So we are following Senave and supporting them but the organization is still full of supporters of the soy growers, so it’s been very difficult. And this struggle will continue, it’s a very frontal struggle, because it’s a model that’s been supported internationally by the World Trade Organization, the World Bank, and the IMF, which enforces regimens aimed at securing their markets, conditioning the food supply for all of humanity for the sake of their profits, it doesn’t matter to them the destruction of the environment or that global warming continues to increase and the planet continues to become more dangerous.

I don’t know where they’re planning to live – probably they’re preparing another planet to live on, this small group of rich imperialists, but here on Planet Earth it’s going to be very difficult to live if we don’t see a change of attitude among these groups, the G8, the WTO, the World Bank, and the other big multilateral institutions, if they don’t realize that life is much more important than profits and begin to develop a harmonic relationship between humanity and nature, the great biodiversity that we have inherited on this planet and which is now being threatened by the actions of these corporations.

Tracy: What can supporters in other countries do to help?

Magui: It’s very important within the United States that people work from within to change the policy of domination and imposition on other peoples and that the United States, too, re-examine its model of production, and support the idea that we can all live together and everyone can have a dignified life, that Americans realize that their powerful country is generating war and destruction of the natural wealth of other peoples.

I believe that the people in the United States can work to increase the level of consciousness of the enormous responsibility their country has in the face of genocide and death that is being caused by the imposition of the model developed by this country.

I believe in the United States most people are really misinformed and receive false information about what is happening, and they believe they’re doing good things abroad.

I believe Latin America is engaged in a great struggle and Africa is engaged in a great struggle, in fact the whole world, and that we are beginning to work more in solidarity, joining our voices in defense of our Mother Earth, and so that humanity can continue to survive – but not in a calamitous state and a state of permanent threat but a humanity that can live in a dignified condition; that they begin to see that this great “progress” as it’s called has impoverished entire peoples throughout the planet, that this model is perverse, it generates death, so we have to change the model for a more sustainable, more just model where all can live harmoniously in conditions of equality, and this is the great dream of everyone who struggle for bien vivir, for a better life for everyone, for a better world, for a world in which we’re not all living in a constant state of war and struggle against the capital that imposes this model on us.

Magui Balbuena: Campesina leader takes on Monsanto

Magui Balbuena: Campesina leader takes on Monsanto

By Tracy L. Barnett

ASUNCION, Paraguay – I first saw Magui Balbuena at the Social Forum of the Americas – a small woman with a large presence, she was one of the masters of ceremonies at the event. The founder of CONAMURI, the National Council of Rural Workers and Indigenous Women, Magui has been a lifelong agitator for the rights of her country’s landless and impoverished farmers. Her work with campesino groups during the dictatorship landed her in prison and cost the lives of many friends and colleagues, and now she is a leading voice in the international campesino movement against the rapid spread of transgenic crops that has devastated the Paraguayan countryside.

“The campesino movement represents the best of our country,” a Paraguayan journalist friend had told me, and so I tracked down Magui’s phone number and gave her a call.

A friendly voice answered her phone immediately – it was gentle, not quite like the powerful voice I’d heard exhorting the crowds. I told her my mission and asked if she had a little time this week to meet with me.
“Can you come tomorrow morning between 7 and 8?” she asked. “That’s the only time I have available.”
I arrived at CONAMURI’s office at 7:30 and found a hub of activity. Magui was moving at the speed of light, organizing a workshop with youth leaders from all over the country, answering questions and fielding phone calls, one after another.

I looked around at the receiving room, barren of furniture except for two folding chairs. The walls spoke volumes, however, and I took a moment to read the collection of posters commemorating events and causes over the years, a gallery of hope and struggle.

Soja para hoy; hambre para mañana (Soy for today; hunger for tomorrow),” read one. “Ya es tiempo para soberania alimentaria – con una agricultura reciproca con la Madre Tierra (It’s time for food sovereignty – with an agriculture reciprocal with the Mother Earth)!” read another.

Finally Magui lighted on the other folding chair and gave me a warm smile and her full attention. “We always start our workshops with a mistica,” she said. “Would you like to watch?”

Claro,” I said. I had no idea what a mistica might be, but I was intrigued.

We chatted for a few moments as the group prepared; I shared with her my origins as the daughter and granddaughter of small farmers from the land of Monsanto, and a longtime opponent of genetically modified crops. She adopted me immediately as a friend and a compañera in the struggle.

Before our interview, though, she shared with me some devastating news. Her beloved 11-year-old grandson, Amaru, had been discovered to have a neurofibroma, a possibly life-threatening neurological condition, and she was waiting for news to know how severe the case was. Her daughter was coming soon to bring him so they could go together to the hospital. A roomful of animated teenagers awaited her presentation in the next room, and her phone kept ringing… but still she’d made time for me.

The workshop began at 8; I realized that she had meant, literally, that the time between 7 and 8 was all she had.
“We’re ready,” one of the compañeras called, and we headed out into the open courtyard. The youth gathered around a circle of youngsters, each one wearing a plastic poncho of a different color and a piece of paper bearing the name of what he or she represented: Earth, Air, Fire, Native Seeds… each with a bowl holding something that represented their chosen element. At the center, dressed in a black plastic poncho, was a peasant grim reaper, covered with the names of the campesinos’ worst nightmares: Monsanto, Cargill, ADM, biodiesel, transgenics, militarization.

Julia Franco, Magui’s comrade-in-arms for many years, led the group of youths in a procession. One by one, the poncho-garbed elements took their place in a procession that wove its way around the courtyard, singing a mournful dirge in Guaraní and forming a circle around Señor Monsanto. Quietly, without missing a beat in their mournful song, they each plucked a label from the Monsanto-branded reaper and gathered around. Señor Monsanto, like Oz’s wicked witch, slowly shrank to the ground and melted away.

After the mistica the youths took off their ponchos and took their seats as Magui took her place in front of the marker board and delivered a fiery analysis of the agro-exportation model that had deforested the countryside and impoverished the many while enriching the few. Her discourse flowed from Spanish to Guarani and back again, but her diagrams made her message clear: the transnational agro-exporting businesses are not their friends. She spoke from bitter experience; her community was one of those displaced by threatened violence from the soy growers in her area, who nearly killed her brother-in-law.

Magui’s biography, “Magui Balbuena: Semilla para una nueva siembra (Seed for a new harvest),” reads like a campesina version of I, Rigoberta Menchu. Told in her own words to Argentine writer Elisabeth Roig, she speaks of her early years, growing up in a family so poor she didn’t own shoes until the age of 13. She speaks of her father’s leadership in an early land occupation movement, risking his life to reclaim the use of communal lands that had been sold by the corrupt Stroessner dictatorship. She speaks of the agricultural reform movement that swept the country in the 1960s and ’70s, a movement she joined as a youth that tried to dignify the lives of small subsistence farmers and secure land rights, and of the brutal repression that followed, with fellow activists seized, tortured and killed in terrible ways.

She spoke of her own imprisonment and her miraculous release, her marriage to a fellow revolutionary and their flight to a slum in Brazil with their new baby and another on the way, of living in exile in miserable conditions in a strange land, nearly dying in childbirth and nearly losing both her children to strange illnesses.
She also spoke of returning to rebuild a devastated movement in the heart of the dictatorship, fighting for a voice in an organization dominated by men, and deciding to team up with her compañeras to continue to struggle for justice in the countryside, but as women. Ten years ago, CONAMURI (Coordinadora National de Mujeres Trabajadores Rurales y Indigenas), her current organization, was formed to solidify that struggle.

Nowadays the dictatorship is but a bitter memory, but its legacy lives on in the millions of landless peasants and indigenous peoples who cluster in shantytowns on the outskirts of the major cities. For Magui and her compañeros, the struggle continues, only the face of the oppressor has changed.

After her presentation for the young people and before her daughter and grandson arrived, we escaped to another space and I was able to ask her about that new, faceless enemy and its impact on the Paraguayan countryside. Her passionate plea poured out like a river for an hour and a half.

(In Magui’s Words: The full interview here)