This is the story of our world:
For the first time ever, more than half of all people live in cities. Cities are simply something that didn’t exist for most of the human era – indeed, what we now mean by city has scarcely existed for a hundred years.
For the first time ever, most humans live within a landscape that was constructed almost entirely by and for humans. And cities are on the rise.
As just one example from around the world out of hundreds we could choose: Lima, Peru in the early 20th century was a relatively typical Latin American capital. After an illustrious history of geopolitical importance as a major Spanish colonial seat, Lima’s population had just topped a million in the year 1900. Now considered the 16th largest city in the world and 3rd largest in Latin America, Lima’s population has just surpassed the 10 million needed to be called a megacity. In just over a century, the transformation has been total.
But Lima is a capital and a former colonial seat, so perhaps its recent rise to metropolis status is unsurprising. For a more dramatic example of the unprecedented speed and span of urbanization around the world we can look to the Peruvian Amazon to Iquitos, capital of Loreto region and frontier city of close to a half million that has sprung up in a century. The circumstances of Iquitos’ rapid growth are unique to Iquitos – the rubber boom created the largest city on the globe not connected to the rest of the world by roads – but the fact of its urban burgeoning is representative of an overwhelming trend repeated around the globe.
We can learn a lot about the world from Iquitos’s example. In the era of cities, this relative newcomer’s rise has been concurrent with the destruction of its nearby forests, picked over for valuable timber and rubber, felled mostly to open up land for farming (crops need sunlight, the rainforest is an obstacle to be removed). In a familiar way, the the destruction of forests is fueling the fires of progress.
On a human level, cash economies have penetrated into areas where barter and cashless self-sufficiency were very recently the norm. Traditional mechanisms for obtaining food and healthcare have quickly eroded. The setting of prices for goods and services that previously stood outside of a black-and-white valuation system often occurs with a sort of violence toward the have-nots. Traditional people are marginalized in the transaction, and expected to catch up or perish. Indigenous identity measured by whatever indicator is being eroded swiftly.
Loreto’s story is a microcosm of vast processes affecting the whole globe, and not just in the sense of urbanization. Iquitos is a mirror of the world in which we live, unique to our time. In this young city just a few degrees from the equator, the weather is not as it once was. Droughts are becoming more frequent, as are unusually violent storms and floods. Age-old agricultural practices have become unreliable as if by black magic. The connection is not lost on farmers between the overall trend of a drying climate and the loss of vast areas of tropical rainforest in the last brief decades.
Often overlooked, a principle underlying factor in urbanization is desperation. As elsewhere, many people have moved to the city because the rural predicament became untenable, sometimes tragically so.
When I first visited the Peruvian Amazon in 2003, I heard stories that were familiar to me from other places in the world. I heard about a younger generation estranged from traditional ways and suffering from previously rare mental and physical diseases. I heard about the almost universal perception that the loss of trees has worsened the severity and damage of storms and droughts. I heard about languages dying out and places that were once considered holy desecrated to bulldozers. I felt echoes of a legacy of colonial oppression which could well be described as collective trauma.
This is the story of our world.
And I saw people doing something about it. I met foresters and farmers, women and men who have overcome extraordinary hardship and have seen a better way. I saw the spark of inspiration in people’s eyes and it was a sign in itself of healing having occurred. I met some of the skilled indigenous farmers and artisans of the Ampiyacu River basin who decided to take a leap of faith and start planting some of their most endangered tree species. I met young forestry students who wouldn’t stand to see their favorite trees from childhood go extinct.
In these many years since, living in the Amazon of Peru I have seen, well, more. Burgeoning nurseries stocked with hundreds of native medicinal tree species. Highly trained forestry technicians alongside medicine men – both with their hands in the dirt. People going out on a limb to plant trees that nobody has really even tried to plant before, knowing they’re doing the right thing. (You can hear more about their work in our past project reports.)
Our world is full of extreme forces, some of which are cataclysmic. But when I see what is possible with the work of our human hands I feel hope for the future of the story of our world. Cities can become intensive gardens again, and perhaps they will have to. In a crowded world, people will only need more plants that heal. Perhaps more of us will work toward a better way. Perhaps we will yet assume the mantle of responsible stewardship for the world that we as humans are uniquely capable of healing or harming.
This could be the story of our world.
Thank you for supporting the work of Camino Verde in Peru, and thank you for all the ways you help make the world a better place.
And that's not all. Want to find out more? Please drop us a line! We'd love to hear your thoughts on what's happening in the Amazon. Thanks once again for your support. Onward together we go
My friend Luis says he hardly notices it, clearing his throat sharply. See, Luis lives right next to a hard-working family that makes its living by producing charcoal, right here in the Peruvian Amazon. There’s a local market for hardwood charcoal, which city dwellers and rural folk alike use for home cooking. Though it’s not the only source of fuel (Peru is rich in natural gas, used for kitchen stoves and even as a fuel for cars in the country), charcoal is relatively cheap and easier to deal with than firewood.
But what Luis and his neighbor don’t know is that charcoal production takes a heavy toll on public health. Living in close proximity to charcoal production is linked with a variety of chronic respiratory ailments. The wood gases and particles released during the processing of most artisan charcoal impact human health, especially children and pregnant women. Whenever it is they want to have children, Luis and his wife won’t have the luxury of moving away from this invisible menace.
The charcoal producers aren’t exactly the picture of big toxic offenders. Born in the highlands and fleeing to the rainforest to escape the terrorism of the Shining Path in the early 90’s, the couple in charge of this family char operation is welcoming and friendly. We get to talking and you can tell these are hard-working people. What they do is actually a form of recycling. They pick up small leftover pieces of lumber from sawmills and carpentry shops – where they represent a waste that’s often burnt, to ash. The carboneros rightfully claim to turn it into something more useful.
Intriguingly enough, Luis is happy to help himself to the charcoal dust which is itself refuse to his carbonero neighbor. That’s because Luis is an organic farmer, and charcoal dust is great for the soil. When used in agriculture, it’s called biochar. Some specialists believe biochar represents a revolution in organic farming.
So the problem isn’t the what, it’s the how. People need charcoal, and producing it from discarded materials is actually ideal. But what if the neighbors could create this needed product in a way that doesn’t affect the health of the community.
In fact, there are just such environmentally sound ways of producing charcoal, in which emissions are minimized and a net carbon negative effect is reached (the carbon in charcoal is held in a very stable captured form, at least when used as biochar). One of these environmental techniques is found in the Adam Retort oven, an appropriate technology design made from materials readily found at low cost in most developing countries. Developed in East Africa by Dr. Christoph Adam, the retort that bears his name is now found all over the world – and, for the first time ever, in Madre de Dios, Peru.
Camino Verde’s first Adam Retort was constructed last month, thanks to your support. Located at our La Joya Forestry Nursery, the oven will provide charcoal for our nursery soil mix and to farmers who want to try it out. With carbon partners and GlobalGiving donors alike, we can now measure in pounds or kilograms the actual amount of carbon captured in stable form for hundreds or even thousands of years. Biochar is a stable carbon sink, and along with reforestation is one of the world’s simplest, most cost effective methods to pump carbon out of the atmosphere.
Now you can neutralize your carbon footprint in a totally transparent way. Your donation goes directly to production of charcoal that traps CO2 for centuries to come. No joke. This ancient technology is more important now than ever before. Please drop us a line if you want help calculating your carbon footprint.
We’re grateful for your support. We truly couldn’t do it without you. Please read on for brief headlines from the rest of Camino Verde’s programs in the Amazon of Peru.
The first half of 2017 has seen our models for Amazonian regeneration reach a previously unimagined scale of impact. Our trees are growing and our reach has grown. Here’s a quick run down of what we have accomplished so far this year:
All the best from the Amazon of Peru. Together we're greener and stronger.
It’s the rainy season in the Peruvian Amazon, and I mean rainy. All morning the precipitation has blessed us, spritzed us, showered us. Standing ankle deep in the clay of a slippery riverbank, at this point we don’t know, don’t want to know, what is sweat and what is rain. Mud caked hands pass along an unlikely cargo – tree seedlings in their black planting bags are handed up the shore like a line of ants.
The plants are hoisted out of a large wooden canoe and passed up the steep escarpment. And passed again. And passed again. Today a thousand seedlings will move through our hands, newborn trees of different species of the Amazon. It’s just a day in the life of rainforest reforestation, but today is a special day – today these trees are coming home.
A volunteer from Pennsylvania hands me the seedlings two by two, and an intern from Tennessee is next up the riverbank and receives the plants from me. She in turn hands them to a man from the Andes, working for the year in the jungle, who makes a joke to lighten the mood as the plants pass on to a young man from the Amazon and finally to don Salomon, farmer, landowner, steward of these thousand trees. And then we do it again, hundreds more times this morning.
At the top of the bucket brigade line, Salomon inspects the new arrivals with a keen eye – after all, he’s a sort of father to these trees. A few mistreated seedlings are discarded and the plants are grouped by species, filling up the yard around Salomon’s modest jungle abode. There are enough trees here to reforest one hectare (about two and a half acres), and we’ll be back to plant them all tomorrow.
Some of the trees are for fruit, including familiar names like cacao and açaí – and less familiar ones like camu camu and inga. Others are forest giants, some day to stand a hundred feet above us. Some provide exquisite aromatic essential oils. All the species planted are native. This polyculture represents what we call an agroforestry system: a forest that we plant, that provides for us. Salomon has opted to plant this polyculture because he knows that growing trees is ultimately less work than growing annuals like corn or rice or cassava, and less destructive in the long run to the forest that surrounds and interpenetrates his farm.
On a day like today, covered in mud and soaked from head to toe, I’m reminded of the disconnect between words and their meanings. For example, listen to these words: we reforest the Amazon. We plant trees where once there was rainforest. I say these things to whoever will listen on a regular basis, and it sounds good enough. But the words don’t necessarily do the best job of describing what we actually do, what we actually did on a day like today.
Today we scrambled up and down a muddy riverbank carefully carrying delicate tree seedlings, a job no machine or robot can effectively do, a task uniquely suited for caring human hands. Today we shared jokes and encouraging words as our muscles flexed, then strained, then ached. Today we put the stubble back on a couple acres of a once forested landscape shaved bare. This is Amazon community ecology. The story of the day isn’t about the number of pounds of carbon these trees will capture over their lives, though that’s important too. The story of the day is one of sharing, of laughter, of the promise of new beginnings.
This is Camino Verde - a green way back to symbiosis with nature. Hands working together to restore the Amazon, despite the challenges and the rainstorms. People returning seeds to the forest – and reaping the tenfold rewards. The ones doing the real work are these tiny plants that will turn into mighty trees. We’re just grateful to help them on their way.
This year Camino Verde will plant over 10,000 trees in the Amazon of Peru, at our reforestation center and with partner farmers like Salomon. Our work is supported and inspired by you, and we’re grateful for your interest in what we do. Please consider renewing your support for Amazonian restoration today.
In celebration of the many gifts forests give,