{"id":60096250,"date":"2025-08-28T18:35:12","date_gmt":"2025-08-28T17:35:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dialogue.earth\/?post_type=photo_story&p=60096250"},"modified":"2025-09-25T17:58:25","modified_gmt":"2025-09-25T16:58:25","slug":"extreme-drought-forces-brazils-indigenous-people-into-cities","status":"publish","type":"photo_story","link":"https:\/\/dialogue.earth\/en\/climate\/extreme-drought-forces-brazils-indigenous-people-into-cities\/","title":{"rendered":"Extreme drought forces Brazil\u2019s Indigenous people into cities"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Of the 22 Indigenous Kokama families in S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama, a rural village in the city of Coari, Amazonas, only three stayed during the historic drought of 2024. The rest were forced to move to the city in search of healthcare, food and safety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Editor\u2019s note:<\/p>

This article is part of Dialogue Earth\u2019s Indigenous Voices fellowship. The eight fellows are Indigenous journalists and storytellers from across the Global South. The fellowship aims to foreground not just Indigenous issues, but also the storytelling, reporting and insights of Indigenous journalists themselves.<\/p><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

The extreme droughts of 2023<\/a> and 2024<\/a> disrupted the routine of the village. Its location on the banks of the Mami\u00e1 River, an Amazon tributary, means that if the river dries up, people cannot travel. It imposed a new way of life on them, divided between the forest and the outskirts of the city.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As part of Dialogue Earth\u2019s Indigenous Voices project, I set out to document how one community has been impacted by these extreme weather events.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I travelled the 100 kilometres from Coari\u2019s city centre to S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama by speedboat. My five-hour journey can take up to three days in the dry season. Lake Mami\u00e1 bathes the village but with much of it reduced to stretches of mud, coming and going is compromised \u2013 and with it, the daily life of the community.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Periods of drought are part of the Amazon region\u2019s natural cycle. Known as the \u201cAmazon summer\u201d<\/a>, the dry season occurs between July and November and is marked by a gradual reduction in river levels. The riverside and Indigenous communities are used to dealing with these variations. They adjust fishing, navigation and planting according to the rhythm of the waters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

However, what happened in 2023 and 2024 went beyond<\/a> this pattern: exceptional, longer, more intense and unpredictable droughts, aggravated by climatic phenomena such as El Ni\u00f1o (which warms the waters of the Pacific and alters rainfall patterns in various regions) and the advance of climate change. I spoke to Philip Fearnside, a climate change researcher at the National Institute for Amazonian Research (Inpa<\/a>). He says \u201cclimate models are clear in predicting \u2018unprecedented\u2019 droughts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Maickson Serr\u00e3o travelling the 100 kilometre-journey from Coari\u2019s city centre to S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama village, both in Brazil\u2019s Amazon state. During the intense droughts of the past few years, which have been aggravated by climate change, the community of this village has witnessed a drastic drop in river levels (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

According to Fearnside, the recent worsening of droughts has multiple causes: both El Ni\u00f1o and the Atlantic Dipole (a phenomenon that unbalances temperatures between the north and south of the ocean) are more frequent and severe with the advance of global warming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fearnside also points out that as deforestation in the Amazon progresses<\/a>, there are fewer trees releasing water vapour into the atmosphere. This reduces cloud formation and makes it harder for rain to fall on the forest again. As a result, he sees a trend towards more consecutive intense droughts, such as those that occurred in 2023 and 2024. This year, the drought that is beginning is expected<\/a> to be moderate. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama, the only source of drinking water is the Mami\u00e1 River itself. According to the locals, when the level dropped like never before in 2023 and 2024, the water became cloudy. It smelled and tasted of mud. Even so, the water was used for drinking, cooking, washing and bathing. It is only treated with chlorine, supplied by the town hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The villagers of S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama depend on the Mami\u00e1 River for drinking, cooking, washing and bathing. The water becomes muddy during periods of drought and local health workers say people get sick (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

According to Valcineto Moreira, a community health worker, cases of diarrhoea and stomach pains multiplied during these two droughts \u2013 especially among children and the elderly. \u201cThe water gets very dirty, it looks like mud. We treat it with chlorine, but [people] still get sick,\u201d he says. No figures for these cases were found in public databases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Water, a source of life and sustenance, is now a risk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Challenges of city life<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Tandara Nunes, an Indigenous Kokama woman, left the community during the drought of 2023 when her youngest daughter fell ill. \u201cShe came down with malaria, but she didn\u2019t get well. Her immunity was already low. A week went by, two, and nothing,\u201d she says. The family had to travel for two days to get treatment in the centre of Coari. \u201cThere were no more boats. We had to go by canoe and push her through the mud,\u201d recalls Nunes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Most of S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama\u2019s community migrates to Coari during periods of drought in search of healthcare, food and safety. Relatives in the city can offer them shelter, but it sometimes means cramming three or four families into one room (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

In 2024, afraid of reliving the drama, Nunes moved to the city with her family before anyone got sick: \u201cMy middle son has asthma. We were already suffering with him, too. So, we all went.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During the most critical periods of drought, Indigenous residents in the urban centre of Coari can offer shelter \u2013 but not comfort. For many families from S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama, living in the city means cramming into relatives\u2019 houses, sometimes with three or four families in one room. Nunes\u2019s family took shelter in a room at an aunt\u2019s home on the outskirts of the city. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the city, everything costs money: transport, food, medicine, fuel. \u201cThere, if you don\u2019t have money, you don\u2019t eat. Not here [in the village]. We go after it,\u201d summarises Nunes. In the village, even with difficulty, there are fish from the river, a\u00e7a\u00ed fruit, locally produced flour and bartering between neighbours. In the city, without a stable income, the risk of starvation is real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The Mami\u00e1 River provides fish even in difficult times, whereas in the city everything costs money (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n
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An Indigenous S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama villager harvests a\u00e7a\u00ed for his community. Despite having to migrate to the city during the droughts, the families Maickson Serr\u00e3o spoke to say the forest remains their home (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

To cope with the high costs of urban life, Indigenous families who move temporarily to the city organise themselves collectively. They pool what little they have to buy basic food baskets, share food and help each other in any way they can. Most survive with the support of the federal government\u2019s social assistance programme, Bolsa Fam\u00edlia, which becomes their main source of income during this period. The average amount<\/a> received by families through the programme is BRL 688<\/a> (USD 126), which is less than half the country\u2019s minimum wage<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Despite the difficulties, the families I interviewed made it clear that going to the city is temporary. The forest \u2013 and all its challenges \u2013 remains their home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Constant threat of malaria<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Malaria is one of the main health threats in S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama, especially during periods of drought<\/a>, when conditions become ideal for the proliferation of the mosquito that transmits it. When the river is low, puddles and stretches of still, shallow water appear \u2013 the perfect environment for the insect to breed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Valcineto Moreira (right) is the only health worker in S\u00e3o Jos\u00e9 do Uruburetama. He carries out preventative work to counteract malaria, one of the village’s main health issues (Image: Raphael Tavares \/ Dialogue Earth)<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Moreira, who lives in the community himself, recalls the difficulties of being the only link between the residents and the public health system: \u201cIt\u2019s preventative work. We collect slides [of blood for diagnosis], we make visits, we monitor. But in the drought, there are areas you can\u2019t get to. It’s muddy; it\u2019s far away; the boat can\u2019t get through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the drought of 2023, Moreira was prevented from returning home \u2013 and his absence had consequences for the community. He had left his wife and children in the village and travelled by canoe to the centre of Coari to buy food. In the meantime, the river level dropped so low his boat could no longer pass. Moreira was only able to return three days later in an aluminium dinghy provided by friends. \u201cI found 17 cases of malaria and my wife lying on the sofa, sick,\u201d he recalls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n