Minas Gerais, the state I am living in, is on fire. Black clouds of smoke scarring nature mark zones of human stupidity. Because frankly, that is mostly what it is.
Many mornings whilst having my watermelon and home-made yoghurt comprising hippy breakfast on an outside table in the morning sun, small grains of perfectly black ash sink down upon me. Where do they come from? I look around, I see nothing. It could be carried by the wind from fires more than hundred kilometres away. However, there has been no day so far that I did not see a single fire from frightfully close by.
Minas Gerais is situated behind a vast mountain range seperating the coastel area of Bahia and Rio de Janeiro from the inland state. Rainclouds coming from the ocean get stuck behind this mountains, meaning that winters are dry, dry and dry. In my three months here, I have only seen it raining ones. And as there are no laws prohibiting people of burning their waste and equally no laws prohibiting people from being stupid, fires are abundant.
It was only the other night, that after a party, in a forest on a hill that shapes our view, a small fire was started. I completely understand why they did it. I mean there is nothing funnier than, after a cachaça drenched, Shakaria filled night, setting your own house on fire! Not much later the entire slope was covered deep orange, making a light so bright it faded stars and illuminated my bedroom. The sound was frightening, sounding like a train of firework explosions. It did not last long until the fire brigade arrived (actually I took quite very much very long) and the fire was completely (actually not at all) put out.
The threat of apocalyptic fires is ever present, but it doesn’t seem to worry a single Brazilian. Fires are made, regretted and put out (or not) every day and night. And it is hard to say if the reason is ignorance or the indifference that characterizes the Brazilian people.
Whilst clearing a garden of my father-in-law with his gardener, something needed to be done with the sheer amount of dead leaves we collected. Setting fire to it, was the answer the gardener had in mind. “It will be very dangerous making a fire here,” he said, however, “because these trees are too close.” He pointed at them. They were cork dry. Accidentally setting fire to them could easily mean that it would spread far beyond our control. But before I wanted to tell him, in a Portuguese he reluctantly understands to move the pile, the fire was already made. Nothing happened. But it is this attitude, I believe, that causes it all.
But I am still alive. Tanned, but not scorched. (Red actually. Like all gringos).
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