Company in the indigenous village, Amazon

In an indigenous community of the Amazonian rainforest, the line between family and community becomes blurry. The  village consists of five inhabitants, all of whom are related by blood or marriage.

Every November, tribe members flock to the maloka, the hut-like structure that houses activities from food production to celebrations, to give thanks and remember their ancestors. Part of the ritual involves jumping on a log decorated with the painting of an anaconda, creating a sound so formidable that it echoes through the jungle to Leticia, the small Colombian port on the banks of the Amazon. During the rest of the year, the sounds of the jungle are interspersed with salsa tunes from a battery-operated radio, the mumblings of a parrot and the conversation five people can create.

Salento, Zona Cafetera

Wedged between a cloud forest and a valley of wax palm trees, the highest palm trees in the world, lies Salento, a village of no more than 4,000 permanent residents.

It is possible to walk and feel like you have seen every face before. 4,000 people in Salento can create the kind of vibrancy that is missing from a university campus on a snowy February Monday morning. A couple is dancing in the middle of the main square, men are playing chess by the church, two younger boys strum a guitar by an arepa stand. Salento is tucked away in the Zona Cafetera in such a way that it remains unknown to many travelers. In this quasi-isolation, its residents seem to live in bliss.

View from the coffee finca, Salento

Coffee finca

At the coffee finca, the bean tastes as sweet as a blueberry when picked directly off a tree. Five men work here without many modern amenities. Peeking into the lifestyle of a coffee farmer or a man in his mid-70s living in an Amazonian indigenous village makes one feel privileged and voyeuristic at once, as if you are experiencing a slice of the world steeped in beauty and at the same time invading a sacred space with curiosity. And yet, one wants to ask:

“Do you feel like you are missing anything? What do you long for but do not have here?”

In Salento, the men at the coffee finca laugh nervously and respond “Girls. Company. Someone with whom to dance rumba.”

In the Amazon, the 22-year-old son of the Chief of the tribe says he cannot think of anything – but quickly adds, “It is nice when people come to visit. It is nice to talk.”

Life in conflict and post-conflict zones can be isolating, nostalgia-inducing, lonely. Few are immune from the yearning for companionship, from the aid worker to the indigenous Amazonian. The stoicism and self-sufficiency of Salento or the Amazon are one charmed glimpse into navigating the solitude.

Roxanne is currently designing and implementing projects in communities of conflict worldwide. For more about her experiences in Colombia, check out her blog.

Before that moment, I had never been faced with an environmental experience that brought me to tears.  I grew up in a very outdoorsy family; camping, hiking, backpacking, and eco-tourism were the general theme of our vacations.  But watching a couple hectares in the Amazon Basin of Bolivia burn before my eyes was absolutely beyond my comprehension.  It was an experience in nature I’d never really even thought about before.

Earlier the same day, I met members of an indigenous group that has occupied this unprotected section of the Amazon for hundreds of years, ever since their ancestors began recording history.  These communities know the land better than anyone, and their entire lives are tied to the rainforest.  The fires are typically set to clear a portion of the rainforest for the provision of more land used for growing crops.  After a section has been cleared, its soil allows for only about three years of crops.  After those three years, it will be another 15 years before the soil is fertile enough again.  Thus, every few years, more of the rainforest is being cleared in order to provide room for growing crops.

Despite the harrowing image I witnessed, I felt incredibly defensive of both Bolivia – a country I have come to love – and the indigenous people responsible for the burn.  What I find so extraordinary about the most successful human beings is that they possess a remarkable capacity for compromise on the issues they care most about.  These leaders accomplish what they do because they are willing to give concessions in order to promote the greater cause.  It takes extraordinary character not to run to perpetrators in rage, but approach them in peace.

As my husband and I sat on the boat watching the fire glow, I felt my sense of rage give way to peacefulness.  When we entered this world, it wasn’t perfect, and when we leave it, it won’t be.  With whatever resources we have available to us, we must do the best we can; and often, the most harmful thing to our cause is our own passion for it.  We talked about how one day my husband would come back and teach the indigenous better fertilization techniques that would improve their lives while also protecting the nearby rainforest. Solutions are there, but they require seeing issues from both sides.  Progress can never be realized when staring from the outside looking in; it requires standing on both sides of the river.