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Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

A few of the younger kids in the cell step forward and wave hello to the boy from the Andes. I find my hand being shaken by a dozen unshaven walking skeletons.

“Welcome,” the bearded man says, gripping my hand firmly. “I am Ernesto. You are one of us now.”

“Thanks. I’m Jack Danielson. But who are you? And where am I?”

“This,” he says with an ironic laugh, running his eyes over the walls of the fetid concrete cage, “is what I like to call the future of the free and wild Amazon. I am the governor general. And you have just become one of our citizen-soldiers, which means, I’m afraid, that you will share our miserable fate.”

40

40

Ernesto introduces me to my cell mates, and one tale of woe is sadder than the next. There are four types of people one encounters in the Amazon, he explains, but only three were represented in this prison till I arrived.

First there are the native Indians who hunted and fished in the rain forest for centuries. There are several of them in our cell, from different tribes. He identifies one sad-looking fellow as a full-blooded Korubo chief. Their lands are supposed to be protected by the government, Ernesto says, but they contain valuable hardwoods.

A year ago, loggers penetrated deep into the exclusion zone, and the chief and his warriors defended their preserve with war clubs. Two Indians were shot and a logger was clubbed to death. Now the chief is here, wasting away, while Colonel Aranha uses his influence to help loggers raid the timber on the Korubo lands.

I can’t tell if the chief understands what Ernesto is telling me. He looks back into my eyes for a few seconds, his own face sad and resigned, as if he has accepted that it is his fate to die in this concrete cage and just wishes it would happen sooner rather than later. Then he turns away, and peers out the cell’s one tiny window.

Ernesto moves on to the second group, the Caboclos. They are of mixed Indian and European heritage, he says, and have retained some of their native survival skills. Many of them love the land and try to protect it.

Ernesto himself is a Caboclo. “I was raised in the forest, in Pará State, till I was twelve. Then I was shipped off to Rio de Janeiro for schooling. I studied law,” he tells me, “but what I really loved was taking pictures. I worked as a photographer for papers all over South America. And then I came home to use my skills to expose what was going on in the forests I roamed as a boy.”

He founded a group that tried to use modern technology to document environmental abuses. “Sometimes we took the pictures ourselves, and sometimes we gave the cameras to Indians and taught them how to use them.”