January is high summer in the Atlantic Rainforest. The temperature roves above 35°C and the humidity is at least 80%. The forest is dense with life, a swirling, panting, solid mass of life, so sensual that one feels one could lean back, even fall, and not touch the ground but be cushioned by the millions of plants and creatures there. The air is hotter and even heavier deep within the forest, were no wind reaches. There may be a gap, near a natural pond, and there the fierce sunlight streaks down to the water in vivid, glistening beams. Butterflies are at their most numerous, ant hills at their highest, birds and monkeys at their loudest, tempests at their wildest. Nature is exultant at this season.
When I lived and traveled in South America, it seemed the right time to read Darwin's Voyage of the Beagle, since so much of what he described was what I was seeing around me. In that book I found a passage that I think best gives the sense of the abundance of the life of the Atlantic Rainforest, as seen from the ship off the coast:
"…vast numbers of butterflies, in bands or flocks of countless myriads, extended as far as the eye could range. Even by the aid of a telescope it was not possible to see a space free from butterflies. The seamen cried out "it was snowing butterflies," and such in fact was the appearance.”
The coast of Brazil runs more than five thousand kilometers. Along all of that incredible length was once the Atlantic Rainforest, in its entirety more than one million square kilometers. Today, 95% of that vast forest has been destroyed, burned to make grazing land or farmland, logged for the wood, bulldozed for mining. More than half of the destruction has taken place since the Second World War. That works out to a bit more than 80,000 square kilometers stripped every year, roughly 60 Scotlands wiped out.
Small, very small patches remain, remote islands of desperately threatened species in an ever rising sea of tarmac and concrete. Some of these patches have been declared protected areas by the government, though there are no police to enforce that protection. One area, the one closest to where I lived, was declared a World Heritage Site, which had the result of bringing more eco-tourists. One or two patches have been purchased privately by wealthy people and are being replanted, as with the Instituto Terra founded by the great photographer, Sebastião Salgado. The Nature Conservancy has a campaign "Plant a Billion" trees, aimed at replanting this rainforest. The Prince of Wales has launched his Prince's Rainforests Project to help all rainforests. Can a significant portion of the exquisitely beautiful Atlantic Rainforest be brought back? The organisations trying are of course optimistic, believing that even though many animal and plant species have been lost forever, the many that remain can multiply. But will it ever snow butterflies again?
In a small patch of preserved forest a few hundred kilometers north of Rio, I was strolling one of the footpaths on a very hot January day. Ahead of me were two elderly couples, Brazilians, walking slowly. Above and around us were birds of radiant bright colours and no fear. Many of them were in a single small tree, barely more than a shrub, and on the ground below it. The people in front of me approached the tree and began speaking more excitedly, their soft voices becoming audible.
"Pitanga!"
"Oh, I have not seen pitanga since I was a child."
The tree and ground were covered with a small, bright, red-orange fruit that the birds had been enjoying until we came along. The couples stooped and gathered and tasted and exclaimed, closed their eyes and smiled with pleasure. I came up to them and they encouraged me to try this fruit I had never seen before. It is only a centimeter or less in diameter, the shape of an oil lantern's globe. I timidly tasted and found myself smiling with delighted pleasure too. The others grinned and nodded.
"It's good, isn't it?"
The taste was a mixture of both sweet and peppery, a bit like jalapeño preserves, and warm from the sun. I had a few more. The others took off their hats and filled them, stripping the tree. As we walked away in our bliss, I turned back. There was not a single fruit left for the birds. And there you have it.
The drawing of pitanga above is taken from the page for December in
The Big Field : a Child's Year Under the Southern Cross.
©2011 Anne Morddel
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