The Kayapó's Impact On Indigenous Culture

Kayapó’s media use is particularly extensive, has pointed out, and possessed a deep understanding of the performative function of representation. As a result, the scope and impact of the Altamira media event was stunning by almost any measure. Not only were the Kayapó organizers able to mobilize broad indigenous participation (more than 600, with additional support from NGOs, politicians, celebrities and citizen protestors) that lasted several days, but media reports of the protest were filled with traditionally adorned native Amazonians—an “indigenous” presentation of indigenous resistance made possible by the fact that the Kayapó evidently “urged other tribes to remove their western attire and decorate their bodies following their own customs”

(Fisher, 1994, p. 222).
This show of Amazonian resistance was seen and read about throughout the world, tapping into Western environmental anxieties and human rights concerns while reifying, in full tribal colors, the notion that native peoples were eco-conscious defenders of the forest. It also was credited with fostering the emergence of a pan-Amazonian indigenous identity (Conklin, 1997 & 2010; Fisher, 1994). Moreover, the emerging trope of environmental nobility also fit neatly into the Brazilian state’s new agenda of “development.” In fact, the indigenous-ecological coupling was in part fueled by Article 231 of Brazil’s 1988 Constitution, which clearly spelled out that indigenous lands were “originary,” that is, not just places for dwelling, but spaces for the “preservation of environmental resources necessary of indigenous peoples’ well being as well as land necessary to their physical and cultural reproduction, according to their uses, customs, and traditions” (Carneiro da Cunha & de Almeida, 2000, p. 321, emphasis in the original). Ecological projects, at least in theory, were now supposed to take place with and through the indigenous residents of the forest, not by displacing them.
During this time Amazonian indigenous activists also further transfigured the ways in which they presented their cultures to the world by adopting the “language of environmentalism” in concert with a better sense of how to use media to their advantage (Conklin & Graham, 1995; Santos, et. al., 1997). Much of this language drew directly from concepts, metaphors and key terms associated with Environmental Justice (Dryzek, 2005), as emphasis was placed on indigenous rights in relation to the land, community, cultural heritage, spirituality and residence. In short, environmentalism provided indigenous agents with an identifiable platform through which they could translate their concerns to an external audience while still maintaining a level of native indexicality. So, whereas the revival of indigenous costume increased their ability to be “seen,” the new “green” vocabulary gave these Amazonian communities powerful discursive tools to be better “heard.”
Within this politically charged context, “authenticity,” as Conklin (1997) points out, had “its rewards” (p. 711).
Rise of the Techno-Indigenous Amazonian
It is clear that during the 1980s-90s era of Amazonian eco-politics the indigenous communities that were the most media-savvy and most adept at projecting their indigenous culture to the outside world were best able to mobilize transnational and pan-Indian support.

However, it must also be understood that this moment within the region’s history was “created and maintained primarily through the circulation of media images and contacts with a small number of indigenous cultural mediators” (Conklin & Graham. 1995, p. 703). Undoubtedly during this period the Kayapó, the Yanomami and a few other tribes achieved a sort of special cultural currency within media networks and went on to develop strong media production trajectories.[i] But Amazonian indigenous groups that did not enjoy international media coverage, garner the attention of celebrities or profit from fair trade deals during this period had to find different avenues to confront forces that were putting pressure on their survival. This divide is where the availability of networked communication technologies and mobile media devices began to come into play, as access to these tools in the late 1990s and beyond opened up pathways for a broader network of Amazonian communities to seek recognition, build partnerships and register their cultures in the public sphere. Most noteworthy has been the place of computers, the Internet and global positioning systems (GPS) for Amazonian indigenous groups to establish greater

visibility and direct control over cultural defense.
As with the past, non-profit organizations have been highly involved in this initiative. For example, the Amazon Conservation Team (ACT), founded by noted ethnobotanist Mark Plotkin, developed the idea that isolated indigenous communities could help achieve many of their goals of cultural survival if they were trained to employ geo-mapping technologies to register biodiversity, map ancestral lands, and preserve their cultural knowledge of forest ecosystems. Partnering with local governments, ACT helped indigenous communities in Brazil, Colombia and Suriname to use global positioning systems to monitor and conserve forest ecosystems and map and catalog their cultural territory (Butler, 2006). The Western press and related sources in the blogosphere took notice of this rise in the techno-indigenous Amazonian, especially in relation its change agents. In the vast majority of these sources, emphasis is placed on how Google Earth or some similar GPS technology has enabled indigenous communities to patrol their lands via satellite, and thus more easily identify illegal encroachments and take action to stop environmentally destructive activities such as gold mining (which causes river contamination, mercury pollution and sedimentation) and logging (leading to deforestation). For instance, Smithsonian Magazine’s story, “Rain Forest Rebel” (Hammer, 2007), describes a team of Suruí, former military cartographers and anthropologists working together to create a map designed to preserve the community’s cultural, historical and environmental memory. Much of the article is placed on how Chief Almir, the “political activist, environmentalist and the first member of his tribe to attend a university” was “fighting to save his people and the rain forest they inhabit” (Hammer, 2007). Later in 2007, the San Francisco Chronicle published the story, “Google to harness satellite for an Amazon tribe: When the Brazilian government failed to defend his tribe against loggers and miners, the leader found a high-tech ally” (Epstein, 2007), and then followed up in 2009 with the piece, “A Google partnership to save an Amazon tribe and rainforest” (Temple, 2009). More recently in 2010 Spiegel Online International issued the report, “Using The Internet to Save Rainforest: How an Amazonia Tribe is Mastering the Modern World,” (von Mittelstaedt, 2010), in 2013 The Washington Post provided “Brazilian chief uses technology to help save his tribe and curb deforestation” (Forero, 2013, March 27), which was recast by National Public Radio as, “From Stone Age to the Digital Age in One Big Leap” (Forero, 2013, March 28), and in 2014 The Guardian article entitled, “Indigenous leaders empowering communities through social enterprise” (Cahalane, 2014, April 14).
As the titles and pitch of these reports reveal, agency shifts back and forth from external teachers and technology providers to the indigenous stewards of the forest armed with the technological tools and know-how to engage in cultural cartography.

Judging from these media frames, achieving proficiency with communication technology, not through partnerships with the state or even NGOs, is the path that indigenous communities need to follow to not only protect their interests, but ‘master the modern world.’ If there is any doubt about this, images that accompanied the reports generally relied on the predicable juxtaposition of key codes: a community member dressed in indigenous garb holding a laptop or some other high tech communication device framed by a backdrop of lush forest. The Ecologically Noble Savage resuscitated and now merged with and empowered by modern, portable communication

technology.
But as with the partnerships created and media narratives circulated during the more activist era of the 1980s and 90s, the ties between cultural survival, politics and environmentalism and the motivations of those involved is much more complex and multilayered than such imagery or cover stories about residents of the “stone age” leaping to the digital age suggest. Few initiatives have the capacity to expose this underlying complexity as much as how the recent surge in indigenous ethno-mapping has been used to pursue forest carbon trading opportunities.
Forest Carbon and the Paiter-Suruí
Carbon trading is based on the notion that polluters who are either unable or unwilling to reduce their own carbon output can “offset” their emissions by investing in projects that sequester carbon. Outlined as part of the Kyoto Protocol, this process was conceptualized as an actionable international approach to mitigate global warming by permitting industrialized nations (what Kyoto labeled “Annex I” countries) to earn offset credits through projects realized in developing countries (“non-Annex I”) (Gorte & Ramseur, 2010). It also took into consideration the motivation of businesses in concert with the realities of anthropocentric climate change. The basic idea is that CO2 emissions can be curbed globally if businesses are incentivized to voluntarily pay for carbon management projects.[ii]
Not surprisingly, large swaths of tropical forests were quickly identified as target areas for carbon market development because, not only were they under assault from logging and other industries, but also because these ecosystems are among of the planet’s largest carbon storehouses (Bonan, 2008). Thus investing in the world’s tropical forests is an attractive offset option especially when compared to more expensive investments (e.g., renewable energy or carbon capture) or the prospect of waiting for mandatory caps set by state agencies, they are inexpensive solutions that generate high-volume offsets. Actors, typically from Annex I countries, earn carbon credits by paying for forest ecosystems to be left alone, which are predominately in developing parts of the world. Significantly, investing in forest conservation not only keeps carbon “stored” by halting deforestation but also mandates that the “seller” develop a sustainability plan based on transparent and verifiable criteria that not only keep forests standing as major carbon sinks but that actually animate further reductions in deforestation and degradation (e.g., afforestation and reforestation). In Brazil, focus is also on the impact that carbon reduction will have on different stakeholders, especially each plan’s local sustainable development contribution (Reis, 2009).
REDD+ is the pilot program that has since evolved into the center of this global initiative. In many ways, investing in REDD+ is a smart business move for companies interested in projecting values of social responsibility. Nature has value for an increasingly eco-curious public, and since many captains of industry have slowly come to the conclusion that there are profits to be made by associating oneself with sustainability (Daily & Ellison, 2002), the protection of tropical forests seems like a more attractive investment than a business merely reducing a given company’s own pollution. However, the concern for many in the financial sector was, in trying to convince buyers of the non-timber value of forests, how could carbon be made more “charismatic” (Daily & Ellison, 2002). Here is where the presence of Ecologically Noble Savage resurfaces with market value, because, as one carbon trade observer put it, “not all carbon trading is created equal” (Zwick, personal communication, June 6, 2013). And within the carbon market, “indigenous” carbon is especially charismatic.
As can be seen through various direct references from the previously mentioned reports, the most widely covered case involving ethnomapping and carbon trading has been the story of the Paiter-Suruí and their college-educated leader, Chief Almir Suruí. The media attention this community has received is warranted. Indeed, considering the broader historical forces that shaped and enabled the Suruí’s turn towards market-driven eco-stewardship (e.g., the rise of indigenous rights in the late 1980s in Brazil; growing global concern for the Amazon in 1980s and 90s; the rise in portable, user friendly media technology in the 1990s and beyond), this story has many possible beginnings. But given the community’s newfound status as “carbon seller” and as a global example of local-national-global conservation and indigenous rights, perhaps the most appropriate starting point is September 7, 1969—the date when the Suruí made “contato” (first contact) with Westerners.
Before 1969 the tribe was considered “uncontacted,” having interaction only with the occasional rubber tapper who stumbled into their territory. But thanks to the construction of 2,000 mile, World Bank financed Trans-Amazon Highway, this isolation was to quickly end (Butler, 2006; Hammer, 2007). To help facilitate the building of the highway and end Suruí warrior attacks on roadbuilders, the Brazilian government’s Indian affairs agency initiated a plan to establish contact and build relations with the tribe. This was reportedly performed though the offering of machetes, pots, axes, mirrors and other assorted goods to drawn the Suruí from the forest. Once contact was achieved the result was, in no uncertain terms, catastrophic for the community, decimating the tribe from 5,000 to a few hundred, victims of age-old foes of indigenous peoples, like measles, chickenpox and tuberculosis (Butler, 2009; Forero, 2013, March 27; Hammer, 2007). To make matters worse, the new highway brought with it easy access to the forest’s bounty, and thus a stream of settlers from the cities with fraudulent land titles in hand. In fact, because of these events the region devolved into the antithesis of what anyone would consider a realm of conservation, becoming rather “like the Wild West, a place where loggers and settlers penetrate Indian land, where traffickers smuggle cocaine and where hired pistoleros have killers Indians who were in the way of development” (Forero, 2013, March 27). Not surprisingly, for the Suruí the post-“first contact” period became etched in their cultural memory as a time suffering, marked by eroding community life caused by disease and loss of life, bloody conflicts with settlers, alcoholism and ecological degradation (Butler, 2009; Forero, 2013, March 27 & March 28).
But with time it also emerged as a period of learning and cultural recalibration. Speaking at the 20th Annual Bioneers Conference in San Rafael, California, Chief Almir offered:
Today we are 1,300 Surui. Before first contact we were 5,000 and that really woke us up, because we knew if we didn’t do anything our way of life could end. We became even more worried, when we saw that our forest would go with us. And so we had to find a way to create dialogues with the rest of the world, to find a way for our future. One of the ways we found we could communicate was through the Internet and through technology (Temple, 2009).

Since Almir’s ascension as a village chief, which began while he was still a teenager, the community has organized itself to move away from the post-contato period of suffering and exploitation to purposefully pursue greater cultural sovereignty and the strategic defense of its lands. According to Ecosystem Marketplace, to do this, in 2007 Chief Almir approached Forest Trends (publisher of Ecosystem Marketplace), a Washington, DC-based environmental nonprofit organization. It was through Forest Trends that he learned about REDD+ and the tribe’s carbon ownership rights. This was followed by a Suruí vote in 2009 to enact a moratorium on logging, and establish a working relationship with Idesam (Instituto de Conservação e Desenvolvimento Sustentavel do Amazonas/Institute for the Conservation and Sustainable Development of Amazons) to measure, verify and report the impacts of the Suruí actions (Zwick, 2013). In 2010, another Brazilian interest, FUNBIO (Fundo Brasileiro da Biodiversidade/Brazilian Biodiversity Fund) partnered with the community to establish the Suruí Trust Fund, which was created to ensure that income from the project is managed responsibly and transparently. Finally, FUNAI (Fundação Nacional do Índio/National Indian Foundation) endorsed the Suruí effort as a model project (Zwick, personal communication June 6, 2013).
This period of relationship building and consultation has also been marked by the tribe’s creation of a progressive vision of the future (the 50 year, “Plan de Vida”). The generation of this plan has involved convincing the tribe’s members that the immediate financial return for selling off their forest resources was ultimately a road to cultural ruin, and that a more thoughtful approach to resource management needed (Petersen, personal communication June 13, 2013). It also required a splitting up the Suruí into four differ groups to live around the Sete de Setembro Reserve, the 6,000 acre territory (three times larger than Manhattan) that the Brazilian government set aside for the tribe in 1983 (Hammer, 2007). In addition, the Suruí employed more confrontational tactics, such as obstructing logging roads, chasing off miners and loggers, and calling out corrupt or lazy officials of the government agencies that are supposed to defend their indigenous rights (Petersen, personal communication June 13, 2013). But arguably their most effective measures to move into a new phase of community life was realized though the utilization of new media technology to map their territory, register their cultural knowledge, and catalog illegal logging, while projecting a progressive image of indigenous rights and resource stewardship.