I blame it on the Piccadilly Line. You see, living in London makes you think that every other city’s public transportation system will move at the same speed as the unwieldy web of train lines that huffs and puffs beneath the ground of the UK’s capital. It was then a surprise when, by the time I raised my eyes from the newspaper I’d brought from the airport, I found out I’d overshot Sol, where I was meant to have an appointment, and was indeed getting near to Embajadores, two stations down. Things were indeed quicker than on the Metropolitan line, I thought with a smirk as I alighted.
The most practical-minded of travellers would’ve simply changed platform and hopped on a train going the opposite direction, but I chose otherwise. Studying a map I decided that Sol and Embajadores lied at a close distance between one another – barely a thumb separated them, I measured – and considered to go overland. It was something I frequently attempted in London, mostly to be met with utter failure. Up I went.
Between me and Sol was an old acquaintance, Lavapiés. The streets were more vivacious than I remembered and there weren’t riot vans disgorging marauding police officers like last time; still, a few things remained the same. The same varied humanity, the same jumble of shops of all kinds and, finally, the same vibrant street art.
I walked up a cobbled street, aiming loosely for Tirso de Molina, singing between half-closed lips a cumbia that I’d heard for the first time on a colectivo between Cuzco and Ollantaytambo, in Peru. Deprived of a phone capable of having Shazam it’d taken me months to track it, but eventually I succeeded. Surprisingly enough, Chicha Libre were all gringos, but still, their Primavera en la selva sounded like the real deal, and locals were evidently digging it. En la selva amazónica no hay primavera it repeated, mantra-like, and so did I, thinking of the Amazon rainforest I’d seen from high up, from a plane. En la selva amazónica no hay primavera. There’s no spring the Amazon forest.
It’s at that point that I saw the little indio, plastered on a wall in company of a pill making the tu es loco gesture, an All-Seeing-Eye with wings and tiny legs, the silhouettes of two boys playing hide-and-seek and, obviously, a sort of Pinocchio surmounted by the word seven. Still, the reflection of the morning sun didn’t quite allow me to read what it said. On I walked. En la selva amazónica no hay primavera.
Another junction provided shade and a better view of the young indigenous girl. Serious, adorned with amulets and tribal face paintings, she looked at me from the other side of the road, the writing below her stern gaze proclaiming La Amazonia No Se Vende. The Amazon’s not for sale.
The phrase reminded me of something of my university years. The faculty of Modern Letters had a La Amazonia no se vende: sedefiende exhortationspray-painted on its walls for a while, a brief international interlude amongst the usual invective against cops and the G7; a slogan that I tried, without success, to marry up to the Inti Illimani’s El pueblo unido. But it didn’t say anything else to me besides that.
Later, meeting done, I was back at the airport. Barajas had recently, reluctantly, joined the 21st century and begrudgingly started offering free Wi-Fi. Ignoring the steadily climbing tally of emails in Outlook, I took it to Google and searched for my little Amerindian face. I found her on walls all across the Hispanic world, from Mexico to Madrid, a web of visual connections originating far away, in the Peruvian Amazon.
Her life as an unnamed symbol started in 2008, with the first Amazonian strike. Huelga amazónica. Amerindians from the Peruvian region of Loreto, in August of that year, took it to the streets to protest against their government. The reason? The articles did delve into that, but just seeing the region’s seal, featuring an oil derrick, offered a hint.
Oil and gold were the new scourges of a region whose indigenous population that had been already subject to ostracism, forced relocation and murder campaigns by settlers. The government, they lamented, had given carte blanche to companies to build highways, oil fields, mines, hydroelectric dams, with little if any regard to the safeguard of the environment. Pollution ran down the rivers and into the bloodstream of the indigenous tribes; in one of them, the Achuar, 90% of the populace was found to be suffering from heavy metal poisoning.
Again in 2009, the people of the jungle went on strike. Two months of occupation erupted in clashes when the army broke the picket lines in Bagua region, resulting in 30 deaths amongst police officers and civilians.
How did it end? Alas, I don’t know. With my embarrassingly bad Spanish it took almost one hour to read half a page and, by the time boarding started, I’d only arrived to 2013, when one of the Amerindians organisations, named Aidesep, signed a contract with Petrobras – yes, the same company behind the corruption tsunami that had swallowed two presidents in Brazil – to ensure cooperation between communities and developers. The article ended wondering if this deal was for the greater good, or whether it’d end up with a few lining their pockets with plentiful baksheesh, leaving the destitute firmly at square one. I didn’t know the answer as I boarded the plane home, and I don’t know today, but if I was a betting man I know where I’d put my cash.