Anthropology of Global Climate Urgency
Doctoral Network
Fieldwork update by Metztli S. Hernández Garcia - March 2025
The research focuses on two communities—Río Bermejito and Colonia Aborigen—in northeastern Chaco province, Argentina. Both are relevant places for the Chaco Indigenous movement as they represent two of the larger indigenous communal territories of the province.
Over the last thirty years, ethnic tensions have risen in both communities as conflicts over land stewardship and resource management—namely forestry, agribusiness, and cattle ranching—have confronted Indigenous groups and settler communities. Although Río Bermejito and Colonia Aborigen do not experience the highest deforestation rates in the region, their significance lies in how they shape local and global narratives on the loss of El Impenetrable.
Due to their unique socio-political dynamics and historical context, these communities serve as microcosms of the more significant issues at play. As deforestation advances, these communities find themselves at the crossroads of competing interests, including government policies, corporate extraction, development agencies, and environmental activism.
Their experiences challenge conventional notions of climate urgency, framing climate change as an imminent crisis and a historical process with lasting consequences. This perspective calls for mitigation and adaptation measures rooted in environmental justice. This approach involves reducing the impact of deforestation and ensuring that the burden of these actions does not fall disproportionately on vulnerable communities. It acknowledges present inequalities and anticipates future needs while addressing the enduring legacy of colonialism, sexism, racism, and other forms of social and spatial injustice.
Gente de Buena Madera is an ethnographic inquiry into the power dynamics that enable, sustain, and perpetuate deforestation in the Gran Chaco region. It explores the experiences of Indigenous communities, rural peasants, and low-income settlers who have long inhabited and depended on exploiting El Impenetrable Dry Forest. This research examines how deforestation is perceived, negotiated, and contested across multiple scales—from grassroots organizations and policymaking arenas to individual lived experiences.
Beyond documenting environmental loss, it explores how these communities, with remarkable resilience, navigate structural inequalities, develop adaptation strategies, and mitigate climate change's impacts. By centering their perspectives, the study unravels the socio-political and economic forces driving deforestation as a form of colonial violence that reverberates across time, reproducing imperial legacies and shaping contemporary struggles for land stewardship and environmental justice.
This research began as an inquiry into the narratives surrounding deforestation in El Impenetrable, seeking to understand how it is framed, experienced, and contested. As the study progressed, it became evident that deforestation in El Impenetrable is not a discrete or conspicuous event; instead, it has emerged as an ongoing, deeply felt process that permeates daily life yet often remains unarticulated. This realization presents a critical methodological challenge: How does one engage with the unspoken and the unspeakable?
To address this, the study employs an ethnographic approach that combines semi-structured interviews, life histories, and story-tracking—methods attuned to the subtleties of everyday life. These techniques allow for a nuanced exploration of how deforestation is perceived, negotiated, and embodied across multiple scales. Additionally, the research integrates drone technology to document environmental changes and complement local narratives, offering a multi-layered understanding of the landscape's transformation. By focusing on the lived experiences, affective responses, and material traces of deforestation, the methodology seeks to uncover the tacit dimensions of environmental transformation, bridging structural analysis with lived realities.
"They stole the forest," the woman laments as she recounts how every Algarrobo tree was stripped from her land. Sexism and ageism shaped her attempt to report the crime to the authorities, whose response only deepened her victimization. They dismissed her claim, insinuating that she had abandoned the land—leaving nearly a million pesos up for grabs. Her sorrow is tied to the wood's commercial value and the time and care invested in nurturing the trees—nearly four decades since her mother first acquired the land. Now, her grandchildren will never see them grow.
Nonetheless, what struck me the most was that those who stole the forest remained unnamed. In a place like Chaco, where nearly every interaction is marked by ethnic tensions, this was the first time the perpetrator had no face—neither Indigenous nor settler. It wasn’t a matter of ignoring the fate of the wood or who the usual suspects were when it came to unauthorized extraction. Instead, it was about navigating a gray area, where accountability blurred, and the usual distinctions no longer applied. Indigenous people and low-income settlers were most likely involved in the heights as laborers. A guide must have been issued by the local obraje, whose job is to purchase trees directly from the forest before processing them into lumber for sawmills and carpentries.
Once stripped from the forest and processed into manageable pieces, the wood leaves town with no trace of its origin—except for a guide issued by the obrajes, which, granted authority by state officials, regulates its own documentation. This guide certifies compliance with all regulations, legitimizing the extraction on paper, even as the reality on the ground tells a different story. Transported on trucks along the same dusty roads that had carried timber for generations, the wood went to sawmills and factories, where its transformation began.
In Machagay and Quitilipi, where industrial-scale carpentry thrives, the logs that once stood in El Impenetrable were turned into beams, panels, and furniture—objects destined for homes, offices, and businesses far beyond Chaco. By the time the wood reached its final destination, its history had been erased. The scars left behind in the forest, the labor of those who felled the trees, and the invisible transactions that enabled its extraction no longer mattered. What remained was a finished product—polished, varnished, ready for use—disconnected from its origin.
The Cycle Continues
For those in the town, the cycle continued. The obrajes would acquire more trees, the sawmills would process more wood, and the workers would keep laboring in an industry that barely sustained them. The wealth generated from the timber trade accumulated elsewhere, reinforcing a long-standing economic structure in which value was always extracted but never returned. Meanwhile, the local population watched as their forest disappeared, little by little. Year after year, familiar landscapes were stripped bare, the towering Algarrobos and quebrachos vanishing from the horizon. With each tree lost, so too disappeared the shade so desperately needed, the fruits that once fed them and their flock, and the certainty that the forest would always accompany them.
Yet no one dared denounce the all-too-familiar cycle; after all, sustaining an economy—even one built on deforestation—is no small achievement in a place marked by famine. This is how deforestation becomes entangled with another silence—the experience of extreme poverty. In 2007, the Nelson Mandela Center first denounced the dire conditions of the Qom people in Chaco, describing the situation as a "genocide by neglect" as tuberculosis and malnutrition spread unchecked across the region . In response, Argentina’s Supreme Court established a precautionary measure mandating the provision of food, water, and essential services to address what the Chaco Ombudsman had called a "silent, progressive, systematic, and inexorable extermination."
Nonetheless, malnutrition and preventable diseases continue to claim lives, particularly among Indigenous communities, where access to healthcare, clean water, and adequate nutrition remains precarious. The death of another Indigenous infant in 2015—under similar conditions—made it painfully clear that the situation had barely improved . As of February 2025, the Chaco Ombudsman continues to denounce the crisis, issuing reports that highlight persistent neglect and systemic abandonment . Yet, despite legal mandates and official interventions, the reality on the ground remains unchanged: communities still face hunger, disease, and the slow erosion of their lands and livelihoods.
At community level, the precautionary measures remain a point of contention. It is widely seen as little more than a political instrument—a tool to secure votes rather than a genuine effort to address the structural causes of hunger and deprivation. From the most critical perspective, it has fostered a parasitic relationship with the national state, as these food programs rely on federal budgets, leading some to argue that they allow people to "muck off the state without working." Other dissenting voices denounce that the measure has served as a strategy to neutralize Indigenous claims for historical restitution, offering short-term relief while avoiding deeper discussions about land rights, autonomy, and reparations
Silence that is felt
As we prepare dinner, the Argentine president appears on national television, holding a saw and delivering a speech about reducing government spending and allowing the market to regulate itself. This provocative scene resonates differently across the region. For some, it symbolizes efficiency and economic freedom; for others, it is a grim metaphor, a reminder that what is being cut is not just bureaucracy but also social protections, environmental safeguards, and the livelihoods of those most vulnerable.
—You know, my mom died of hunger. —
We sit in silence. There isn’t much I can say.
This lapidary statement sets the stage for a deeper conversation—what does it mean to live in El Impenetrable?
Most households here have livestock in various capacities, and some, particularly Indigenous families, also grow crops—mainly watermelon and pumpkins (zapallo). However, with water scarcity, "there is just enough to survive, but never enough to thrive." People rely on precautionary measures designed for the El Impenetrable region to provide food and water. At specific points in time, these programs have also included housing and even furniture, like beds and tables, filling the gaps left by stark poverty. Likewise, national welfare programs, which have become known simply as "plans," provide a steady—though minimal—income, offering a fragile lifeline in a landscape of economic precarity.
—People tend to forget how this part of the world looked 30 years ago—
Nowadays, the town is blooming with commerce, but it only truly comes alive on "plan days"—the days when people leave their fields, come down to the city, cash in, and spend the little they have. Once that money is gone, everyone returns to the fields, and the town falls silent until the next cycle begins. The dream of becoming a merchant is deeply ingrained in the local imagination—a vision of escaping the fields, building something permanent, and no longer depending on the land, rain, or forest. Yet, for most, it remains just that—a dream. In reality, only a few succeed, usually outsiders, as most businesses cannot withstand the irregular rhythms of life in El Impenetrable.
Historically, this fast-paced commerce has been a constant in the region. Once dependent on "estancia" payment days, when forestry labor provided a steady—though exploitative—source of income, it was later followed by cotton and sugar and is now tied to "plan days." The flow of money has always been intermittent, its cycles dictated by external cash injections, leaving the town in a perpetual state of boom and quiet. Hence, when money is urgently needed, people would inevitably resort to forestry—regardless of whose land the trees stand on— the cycle again.
, including their lives.
As of 2024, the process has been dented following a denunciation by Argentine environmentalist lawyers who exposed what they called the "Deforestation Mafia of Chaco." The accusations pointed to collusion between provincial authorities, the forestry sector, and agribusiness, holding them responsible for the ongoing destruction of the forest. Additionally, the denunciation highlighted irregularities in Chaco’s Ordenamiento Territorial, including the lack of Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC) from Indigenous communities.In response, a national judge ordered a precautionary measure, halting all forms of forest production, effectively freezing the industry while investigations unfold.
In Resistencia, the provincial capital, local authorities and politicians argue that the "middle people"—small and medium-sized enterprises—will suffer the most, as forestry and agribusiness have long been the main economic drivers in a region. Meanwhile, environmental activists applaud the precautionary measure but insist that it is not enough, calling for permanent policies to protect what remains of the forest. However, deep in the communities at the heart of El impenetrable. A few fines have been paid, and the business continues as usual. Forestry production has (and will) not stop.
People sell trees, wood is being processed, and cargo trucks can be seen on the highway. Yet, no one dares to speak. What cannot be named— still can be seen, heart and felt, but can't be discussed. The trucks keep moving, their cargo freshly cut, unacknowledged yet unmistakable. The scent of wood, palo santo mainly, fills the air, a silent testament to an industry that, despite legal restriction, never honestly stopped. In the sawmills, the machine roars, blades slice through the logs, that on paper doesn't exist. At obrejes, men work as they always have, indigenous and settlers, hand in hand despite their differences. In town, commerce hums, is indifferent, and uninterrupted. Money flows, but no one speaks of its source. The cycle persists, so does life. It is an unspoken agreement, not born of fear nor ignorance, but of survival. To name it is to confront it— and that’s means risking everything.
