DIAMONDS OF THE AMAZON

This is a story of fraud, a story of greed and a story of violence. It is also a story of the most beautiful place on earth.

By Daniel Eilemberg
Photos by Douglas Engle

The rain pours, as it does every evening during rainy season, turning the dirt roads in this part of the Brazilian Amazon into mud pits. As midnight approaches in Machadinho D’Oeste, the loggers, farmers and cattle ranchers that make up most of the town take refuge for the night. The streets are dead, save for the water rushing through and the sound of raindrops pelting tin roofs. The only activity takes place deep inside the Hotel Santa Cruz, a run-down, unremarkable joint if not for the federal police vehicles and armed men standing guard outside. They play cards and smoke cigarettes, occasionally swatting at the oversized mosquitoes. Inside, Valmir de Jesus and his cohorts huddle over a plastic table laden with maps, GPS systems, portable computers, radios, firearms and an assortment of paperwork and equipment.
They are preparing for the day ahead.
De Jesus, an affable man with a sloppy demeanor, leads the discussion. His team is composed of environmentalists, public prosecutors, bodyguards and a pilot, all with the same sense of shared mission and urgency. De Jesus is the general manager of IBAMA, Brazil’s federal environmental agency, overseeing the states of Matto Grosso and Rondonia. A grizzled “tree-hugger,” he knows the area inside out and is acutely aware of its shortcomings.
“Most of the economy of this part of Brazil is illegal,” he states matter-of-factly. “Timber, diamonds, mining, slavery and contraband make up for most it,” he says, adding, “Something must be done.”
De Jesus wasn’t always the conscientious green knight he is today. He moved to Rondonia 27 years ago, when Brazil was under dictatorship. Back then, the military-led government gave land away to anyone who would take it, essentially as a means to maintain national sovereignty over its territory, which was largely impenetrable, uninhabited jungle. Much like the west in America, the area was colonized by those with the desire and ability to survive this harsh environment.
De Jesus, a young man from the state of Spiritu Santo, near Rio de Janeiro, moved here with the dream of having his own ranch and cattle. The dream was quickly shattered when he saw the devastation this mass migration brought. “I discovered the wealthiest place on earth, filled with the most miserable people.”
He decided he wanted no part of this problem, instead choosing to be part of the solution. He became one of the first environmental activists in the region, if not the country, fighting the local and federal governments to stop the destruction of the Amazon. For years, he saw his efforts fall on deaf ears, until five years ago, he was hired by the Ministry of the
Environment to head its enforcing arm in one of the most problematic regions in the country.
Amazingly, as a federal employee, his fight with local governments has only intensified. They blame his crusade against illegal timber and mining operations for high unemployment and a deplorable local economy.
Judging by the trucks filled with heavily armed men that accompany him everywhere, local politicians aren’t the only ones who’d like to see Valmir fail, or worse. To date, four attempts have been made on his life. Ranchers and local “entrepreneurs” are most likely behind the attacks, as de Jesus has become more than a nuisance to their operations. Tonight we meet in his makeshift headquarters, as we prepare to embark on one of the largest environmental operations in the region’s history. Judging by the firepower involved, this is no ordinary fight to save trees; it is a war.

The Diamond Rush
The battle lines were drawn in April 2004, when army and federal police flocked to the area surrounding the
Roosevelt Reserve in the state of Rondonia, near the border with Bolivia. The authorities were investigating rumors that the Cinta Larga Tribe had massacred over 100 miners.
The ill-fated garimpeiros–as artisan hand-miners are known–came from Espigao D’Oeste, the last frontier town before entering the reserve, home to the largest mining community in the area. Twenty-nine bodies were found, most of them unrecognizable after being shot, beaten and gutted in search of diamonds that may have been swallowed to smuggle out of the reserve.
The miners blamed the Indians, the Indians blamed the authorities, and the authorities were hot in pursuit of corrupt businessmen suspected of providing the Indians with guns. A balance had been broken–and the gems were the cause.

According to a report published by the partnership Africa Canada, entitled “The Failure of Good Intentions,” in 1999 the first diamond was discovered in the Roosevelt Reserve, home of the Cinta Larga Indian tribe. Named for the broad belts in their traditional garb, the Indians had a brief but bitter history since coming in contact with the Western world in the late 1950s. A population of 5,000 was quickly decimated to about 1,000, largely due to the diseases and massacres brought upon them by rubber tappers in the 60s and 70s. It’s a sour memory for the 650 Cinta Larga that remain today, and one they are not eager to repeat. But sitting on one of the largest diamond deposits in the world has its price.
Since the discovery, the Indians have seen their sovereignty over their ancestral land threatened once more. Thousands of garimpeiros flocked to the area searching for luck. Soon, their quiet community within a natural reserve in this remote stretch of Amazon was flanked by lawless mining colonies, a Brazilian New Frontier of sorts, filled with bars, brothels, guns and greed.
While the Indians hold title to the land, mining in a natural reserve is illegal, even for them. Nevertheless, illegal mining ran unchecked, and if anyone was going to exploit their land, the Cinta Larga wanted a piece of it. Having no training or equipment to run their own mines, they settled for an entry fee and a cut of the take.
But as miners flocked to the area, competition for the stones became fierce and chances of hitting the jackpot slimmed. Newcomers became reluctant to pay the fee. In 2002 the Indians asked FUNAI—the Brazilian Indian agency—to remove the miners. By 2003 most were gone, and the Cinta Larga took up mining themselves. According to the report, over $25 million in gems were mined each month by the Indians and sold on the international black market.
Meanwhile, thousands of newly arrived miners starved for work, having left everything behind to try their luck at the reserve. The more daring or desperate ones ventured back in. Keeping them out required drastic measures, and that is exactly what the Indians apparently took.

A Sour Game of cowboys and indians
Since the massacre, the Indians have lived in siege. They seldom leave the reserve for fear of being attacked by resentful miners, yet they have become dependent on the outside world for survival. Police checkpoints have been set up along the roads leading into the reserve to prevent tribe members from bringing in any equipment that could be used for mining. Unfortunately, gas, generators and other basic items required to survive, are often confiscated for fear they will be used for mining. It is a frustrating situation for the Indians, who feel as if they live under an economic embargo.
“We are prisoners in our house,” says Chief Pio, a former Cinta Larga Cacique who was in charge of the tribe at the time of the massacre. “Before white men came, we could teach our children about traditional [means of survival]. Today, our young ones must battle the pressures of both worlds.”
The adjustment has not been easy. Only 30 years ago the Cinta Larga had no contact whatsoever with the outside world. Marcos Aripuana, a Purinai Cacique whose mother married Chief Pio, now lives with the Cinta Larga. Unlike his adopted tribe, the Purinai have a long history of dealing with the white colonizers, who came into their territory back in 1910, as well as with the Brazilian government. That experience has made him invaluable for the Cinta Larga in negotiating with the government a constitutional amendment allowing them to mine in the reserve.
“We will never live like we used to,” says Aripuana, recalling that only two generations ago the Indians were masters of their land. “My grandfather used to tell me when I was a child, ‘The world is ours, the earth is ours,’ because back then, as far as they were concerned, no one else roamed the earth.”
For young Cinta Largas the story is no longer so. “Now we believe the world is big, and we need to be educated,” says Aripuana, adding, “We need to be trained, and make our rights be respected. We need to accept what the world has become and better ourselves so we don’t come into society at a disadvantage.”
But education in these remote parts of the Amazon is hard to come by. Currently there is schooling in the reserve, but only up to the fourth grade. After that, kids must leave the reserve to continue their education. Few come back, and more often than not, they do so as a last resort, when drugs, alcoholism or prostitution have already taken a toll on the young population.
Employment is also an issue. Traditional means of survival are no longer enough to sustain the tribe. Yet, other than diamond mining, there is little they can do.
Prior to the massacre they could still mine the land. It was illegal back then, too, but the national spotlight hadn’t yet been pointed in their direction. Back then, they fueled the black market with top quality stones. With no formal training in geology, they were taken advantage of by local merchants. Yet despite receiving a fraction of the stone’s market value, millions of dollars still poured into the reserve.
The money was used to buy new mining equipment, build new houses for the chiefs outside of the reserve, acquire 4x4 vehicles, and according to the authorities, purchase weapons on the black market, a charge for which Chief Pio faces prosecution.
But the Cinta Larga remain hopeful. A proposal created by the Indians was sent to the Justice, Mining and Environmental ministries at the beginning of the year. It was then passed on to a congressional committee. Although it has since made little progress, with the committee’s support the proposal could lead to a constitutional change that will allow the Indians to do sustainable mining in the area.
In the meantime, however, tensions remain high. According to Aripuana, at least 10 Indians have been killed since the massacre, yet these murders have received little if any media coverage. No one has been arrested, and the details of the massacre remain muddy.
Most official reports point to the Indians as the executioners, but Aripuana isn’t so sure. Disputes had erupted among the garimpeiros illegally mining the reserve, and many carried guns to protect themselves from other miners, who often robbed them of their finds. Many Indians believe it was one of such disputes that ended in the massacre.
“There are many versions about the massacre,” he confides, “but no one really knows what happened.”

Truth, it seems, is in the eye of the beholder, and versions the event abound. The coin’s flip side was to be found in Espigão do Oeste.
Today the town is anything but a boomtown. Since federal police came to the area, they have closely monitored mining activity. What once was a lively town bustling with activity, the hub of the black-market diamond trade, is today an eerily deserted ghost town. ‘For Sale’ signs line the front yards of nearly every street and the only ones doing business are the local bars, where out-of-work garimpeiros gather to drink beer, play cards and reminisce of better days.
Locals are highly suspicious of strangers, and talk of diamonds has become taboo.
However, when it comes to the massacre, everyone is an expert. According to Goiano–a local garimpeiro who spoke on the condition of anonymity–between 70 and 300 people were massacred that day by the Indians. As he tells the story, another miner pipes in. “It was definitely 100,” he states matter-of-factly. A heated argument ensues, but on one thing they concur: The Indians were behind the killings.
Goiano and his cohorts are some of the few remaining garimpeiros in town who still believe things will go back to normal. They are waiting it out, hoping to be allowed back in. So far that hasn’t happened, and they are running out of household items to sell to survive. “How can you live in a city like this?” he asks rhetorically, adding, “There are no jobs. You can’t even make a living in crime, because there is nothing left to steal.”
But it wasn’t always like that for Goiano, who became a miner when he was 12. He moved here from his native Goias seven years ago, and made a decent living mining the reserve until two years ago, when it all stopped.
While he’s not entirely fond of the Indians, he’d like for them to be allowed to mine the land. If they are granted permission, they’ll need professional garimpeiros to help, and that means employment for him.
In the meantime, he has no choice but to mine illegally. “I was in the reserve a couple of days ago,” he says. “People still go in. Not as much as they used to, but we need to work.” He’ll go back in tomorrow, and if that proves fruitless, again the following day.
Miners go to work at their own risk, knowing that the Indians are entitled to protect their land, but that they don’t have the right to defend themselves. “I have faith in God. He will protect me in there,” Goiano says, only half-believing it. “Some leave laughing, others in a bag. In the end we’re just trying to survive.”

Sticks, Guns and Slaves
The Bell Helicopter rushes inches from the jungle canopy, presenting a terrific bird’s eye view of the dense vegetation below. Over the noise of the rotor, with a smile so broad it touches the edge of his Ray-Ban aviators, Capt. Hoffman proudly relates, with vivid details, his previous four crashes. He assures us no one’s ever been hurt.
Focused on the task at hand, Valmir de Jesus and his environmental crusaders stare intently out of the windows and into the canopy below. They are patrolling, searching resolutely for those who would commit crimes against the environment.
From above, the damage to the Amazon is disheartening. Outside protected areas, which are few and far between, scant trees remain. Pristine jungle has given way to massive deforestation, cattle ranches and illegal mining operations of gold, tin and diamonds.
De Jesus repeatedly orders the helicopter to land, handing out court orders and penalties to the unsuspecting cutters and miners who weren’t expecting this green crime-fighter to drop from the sky.
As lunchtime approaches, the pilot heads back to base-camp at Machadinho do Oeste, flying over the Jaru National Reserve, a dense and vibrantly green stretch of jungle that stands in stark contrast to most of what we’ve witnessed so far. It is here that de Jesus’s team makes the grimmest discovery of the day.
Virtually invisible to the untrained eye, a dull reflection shines through the dense canopy. De Jesus is the first to spot it and he knows immediately what it is: plastic tents. He bounces on his seat with excitement as he barks orders for Capt. Hoffman to land. Finding a clearing in dense jungle is no easy task, however. A dirt access road about a mile from the sighting will have to do.
Before the chopper even touches down, de Jesus and company are jumping off, running into the thicket. It’s hard to keep up, but the thought of being left alone is enough to push me forward, keeping them in close sight.
An intense fervor is awoken in de Jesus by the sighting, but even up close the reason for such interest is confounding. Under the sheets of black plastic is a makeshift camp. Two or three families currently live here, but the camp is deserted now. Judging by a small fire that burns under one of the tents, and the half-cooked lunch, the inhabitants must have left in a rush.
Miles of nearly impenetrable jungle surround our current location. We are, literally, in the middle of nowhere. It is a dangerous place to be, not to mention nearly impossible to escape.
“That is exactly the point,” he explains. “They are not supposed to find their way home. They are slaves.”
Slave workers, as they are known here, are generally drafted by Gatos—professional recruiters that target small towns with few employment opportunities. They arrive with enough alcohol to booze-up the entire population. Drinks flow freely and promises of employment are made. Entire families are loaded on trucks and taken to these remote locations. Once there, they can’t find their way back and know that even attempting to would be suicidal. They are forced to work in deplorable conditions for months at a time before being returned home. Unlike traditional slaves, slave workers receive remuneration, but they are forced to buy their food and supplies from their employers. By the time the work is done, the ones that survive are returned home as penniless as they left.
The practice is widely used in this part of the Amazon, both in mining and timber.
However, there is little de Jesus can do. It is an employment issue, not an environmental one, so it’s out of his jurisdiction. Using the fuel in their supplies, he sets the camp on fire in the hope that the Gatos, realizing they’ve been found, will return the slaves home.
The flames crackle as they engulf the camp. A fuel tank explodes turning the half-cooked lunch into roast. We watch as the camp burns down, but when the crackling intensifies de Jesus shouts for everyone to take cover. A hidden stash of ammo has caught fire. The guns, however, are gone. It’s a faithful cue that it’s time to head back, and a dour reminder of a war far from over.

Kimberley 64, the Ghost Miner and the African Connection

In May 2000 a United Nations resolution was drawn up in Kimberley, South Africa in an attempt to prevent rebel armies in Africa from using diamonds to finance their operations. These “blood” or “conflict” diamonds, as they came to be known, became an important source of financing in some of the most violent conflicts in recent history, including those in Angola, Congo and Sierra Leone. The Kimberley Process Certification Scheme (KPCS) was initially adopted by a consortium of southern African nations, and in 2003 was implemented by Brazil and 40 other participating nations.
The system is designed for participating countries to monitor local mining and certify that stones have been mined legally. But detractors argue that corruption has turned the process upside down and it can no longer be trusted as an international standard in countries like Brazil.
“Brazil’s diamond sector is in crisis,” says Shawn Gerald Blore, a research associate commissioned to head an investigation into Brazil’s certification irregularities. “Fifty percent of Brazil’s diamond production comes from fraudulent or highly suspect sources; one in two Brazilian Kimberley Certificates is probably false.”
The case of Fabio Tadeu Dias de Oliveira is a perfect example.
According to Blore’s investigation, a man identified as Dias de Oliveira and a partner applied for a Mining Permit in 2003 to explore an area just north of Diamantina. Certificates where issued on June 30, 2004, and eight days later, Dias de Oliveira sold 6876.92 carats of diamonds to a company called Morgan Mineração Industria a Comercio. Three weeks later, those diamonds were sold again, this time to Primeira Gema Commercio Importação Exportação. The company’s owner, Hassan Ahmad, was a Sierra Leone native of Lebanese descent who had been residing in Brazil since 1999. Ten days later the diamonds were sold to Sam Diamonds in Dubai for $2,969,228 U.S., ten times the amount supposedly paid by Morgan Mineração only a few weeks earlier. The same day Primera Gema applied to the National Department of Mineral Production (DNPM) for a certificate, and on August 19 Kimberley certificate 64 was issued.
According to Blore, whose work was sponsored by Partnership Africa Canada, a Canadian organization aimed at building sustainable development around the world, there are several inconsistencies in the official record. First of all, Morgan Mineração is a company that specializes in mineral pigments used in steel manufacturing, and has never bought or sold diamonds.
The second inconsistency is in the disproportion between the amount of diamonds initially mined and the time frame in which they were first sold. Fluvial diamonds are hard to find, and it would take months to produce such a quantity of diamonds. Furthermore, Blore visited the site where the diamonds supposedly came from, and found no evidence that it was ever mined, for diamonds or anything else.
The clincher came when Blore tried to track down Fabio Tadeu Dias de Oliveira, the miner who applied for the permit and produced the diamonds. “Fabio never possessed any diamonds, never did any diamond mining, never once left the city of São Paulo, and was in any case dead, long before he began a postmortem career mining and selling diamonds.”
Fabio Tadeu Dias de Oliveira had died on July 17, 2001, the day of his 24th birthday. “After his death, Fabio’s fortunes improved quite markedly,” Blore found. According to the Brazil Mining Yearbook, this deceased person was the sixth-largest producer of diamonds in Brazil in 2004, accounting for 8.14 percent of the total national production.
On paper at least, Kimberley Certificate #64 verified the legitimacy of the 6876.92 carats and made them eligible for trade on the international market. As Blore’s findings point out, the reality was quite different.
The DNPM, which is charged with Brazil’s Kimberley Certification, is aware of the problems. The agency estimates that shipments valued at U.S. $46 million were exported using fraudulent Kimberley certificates over three years. From a total of 147 certificates issued since Brazil joined the Kimberley process, at least 49 are believed to be fraudulent.
On February 10, Hassan Ahmad was taken into custody. According to police, the diamonds he exported come from three different sources: Brazilian Indian reservations, illegal mining sites within Brazil and conflict zones in Africa. He was questioned, but released later that day. He still faces charges, but no arrest has been made to date.
The investigation resulted in the suspension of all rough diamond exports from Brazil. Shipments resumed in September, after a six-month hiatus, following the introduction of new regulations for Kimberley certification. The new regulations, however, pose an even greater challenge.
Most of them require miners to register and give regular updates of their endeavors, via the Internet. Such computer-based initiatives are out of touch with the reality. “The basic problem is that most of the mining is done on land that they have no legal mineral claim to,” explains Blore, who has little faith the new regulations will have a significant impact. “Not only can they not register stones found on land, they have no claim to, but most of these miners have little, if any, education. Many of them don’t know how to read and write, not to mention access the Internet.”