This was no ordinary tree. Tidy diagonal scars ran up and down its trunk in tightly organized chevrons. The lines were as parallel as the black, red, and white stripes of the São Paolo FC jersey that Sebastiāo da Silva Lima wore as he led us through the thick Amazon foliage one hot May morning. 

Da Silva Lima, 37, approached the 100-foot-tall tree wielding a bladed wooden tool called a cabrita. With several smooth strokes, he carved another scar beneath the others. White fluid oozed out of the trunk like blood from a wound, coursed through the new channel, and flowed into a small cup on the ground. That’s raw latex, da Silva Lima explained, and this was a seringueira rubber tree. 

Da Silva Lima is a seringueiro, or rubber tapper. He harvests latex Monday to Thursday, starting at 5:30 a.m.—a late start, as he describes it, to avoid onças, or jaguars. A Portuguese interpreter translated the harvesting practice as “cutting,” but explained that seringueiros use a less violent word: riscada, which describes how one would cross out a word with a pencil.

Rubber tapping runs in da Silva Lima’s family. His father, who died three years ago, was a seringueiro, da Silva Lima explained with tears in his eyes. His kids—Pedro, 7, and Eric Davi, 12—are learning, too. They joined our walk and each took a practice turn at a rubber tree. But the family tradition faces an existential threat: Deforestation, climate change, and exploitative market forces endanger their way of life. 

While most rubber in the early 20th century came from the Amazon, most companies now source rubber from monoculture plantations in Southeast Asia. Out of work, many Amazonian locals have turned to cattle ranching, which in Brazil accounts for 72% of the nation’s and 24% of the world’s tropical deforestation. Felled trees leak stored carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, and reduced tree cover limits the forest’s carbon-capturing abilities to accelerate the climate crisis. The forest—and the rest of the world, especially the Global South—pays the price.

But there are inklings of resurgence for wild rubber. The shoe company, Veja, sources 20% to 40% of the rubber in their sneaker soles from Amazonian seringueiros like da Silva Lima. They pay them up to five times market value, so the ancestral practice is competitive with cattle ranching, and to compensate rubber tappers for the environmental benefits of an intact forest. 

Beyond Chico Mendes reserve, Brazil’s government promotes a bioeconomy, which involves selling forest products like rubber, açaí, and Brazil nuts traditionally harvested from the Amazon. Some scientists argue that the bioeconomy is critical to meeting Brazil’s Paris Agreement climate goals. Indeed, President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva spearheaded bioeconomy negotiations when the nation hosted the 2024 G20 Summit, and it’s on the docket when Brazil hosts COP30 this November.

But can capitalism, even a fettered form of it, really save the rainforest? The idea is controversial. Still, the seringueiros need it to work. Even 79-year-old Raimundão Mendes de Barro, a seringueiro and union leader who laments the concentration of wealth in the global elite (“Here in the forest, thank God nobody is rich,” he said), has bought into his community’s partnership with Veja. With the Amazon and climate at stake, failure isn’t an option.

***

Twelve-year-old Eric Davi pointed out the abundant wildlife as we hiked through the forest. The precocious preteen handed me a husk of a seringueira seed and pointed to a sapling that would sprout from it—a seringueirinha. He spotted a caterpillar covered in spike-like hairs, chimney-shaped mushrooms emerging from fallen branches, and a thick mat of moss, which he photographed and posted on his Instagram story. “Cuidado,” he warned of the caterpillar. “Não,” he answered when I asked if the mushrooms posed a threat, too. 

Such a connection with the rainforest is the norm here in the Chico Mendes Extractive Reserve, which makes up 2.3 million acres and is home to over 10,000 residents. Established in 1990, it’s the largest extractive reserve in Brazil, a system of publicly owned lands that permits sustainable natural resource extraction by traditional populations like seringueiros. 

The well-being of the forest and its people here are intertwined. That’s been clear since the reserve was founded. Its namesake, Chico Mendes, was a renowned conservationist and human rights activist during the late 1900s. At the time, many seringueiros were mistreated and trapped in debt bondage by monopolizing rubber barons. “We were very exploited by the landlords of rubber,” said Mendes de Barro, who is Chico Mendes’ cousin and vice president of the Rural Workers’ Union of Xapuri. “Seringueiros were slaves to their landlords.” 

When cattle ranchers arrived in the mid-1970s and threatened to tear down the forest, Mendes led seringueiros in resistance. They staged nonviolent empates, or standoffs, putting their bodies between chainsaws and trees to prevent deforestation. To them, the labor movement and environmental movement were inseparable. Mendes’ activism earned him international recognition, but it cost him his life; on December 22, 1988, a local cattle rancher murdered the 44-year-old Mendes with a 20-gauge shotgun at the back door of his home in Xapuri. 

Mendes’ impact has outlived him. “We have better living standards,” said Mendes de Barro, citing the way people dress, their education, and their access to technologies like cell phones. “People [from cities] used to call us idiots, donkeys… but today our children are equal.” 

But the battle is far from over. The ever-worsening climate crisis threatens the forest and its denizens. In 2024, the Amazon had its biggest fire in two decades and its worst drought in half a century, fueled by climate change.

Rising temperatures and erratic rainfall patterns reduce rubber productivity, said Sebastiāo Aquino, 46, president of the agroforestry cooperative, Cooperxapuri. Fluctuating river levels can also complicate product transport, he said. 

Seringueiro’s livelihoods are impacted, too. Mendes de Barro recently dug a well to maintain access to water at his home. “This could be complete collapse. We’re going into June now. Just look how hot it is,” said Mendes de Barro. “Whatever happens here will reflect on the country you come from.”

With the forest more at risk now than ever, the struggle for the dignity of the Amazon’s people has ramped to fever pitch, said Maria Araújo de Aquino, a leader of Black and women’s social movements in the Chico Mendes community. “Forest preservation goes beyond planting trees,” she said. “It’s about the cultural rescue of this population.”

***

Pastures sprawl outside Chico Mendes reserve. Slashed and burned trees smolder on the ground, the smell of smoke inescapable. Brazil nut trees tower above cows and grazed grass—illegal to fell, but often unable to fruit without beetle pollinators and their natural habitat.

Harrowing as the visual is, it’s hard to blame cattle ranchers for taking up their line of work. The government makes the business easy—and lucrative. 

Brazil’s government subsidizes the beef industry with 123 billion reis ($2.2 billion today) per year in tax incentives, credit, and debt relief. About a quarter of the nation’s beef gets exported, mostly to China, though this year, the United States has already imported 272,000 metric tons of Brazilian beef worth over $1 billion. This is all for a product that produces 50 times more greenhouse gases pound-for-pound than coal—by some estimates, the worst climate-polluting substance in the world.

Seringueiros don’t wish to end cattle ranching altogether. Many of them, including Aquino, have cows, which they hold as savings. Instead, they want to see an agricultural model that works with the forest, not against it. But it’s hard when the economics favor clear-cutting. 

Veja is seeking to flip that script, first by creating a market that makes rubber tapping economically viable again. Several seringueiros told me the work would be impossible without the company. “But this investment alone is not enough,” Araújo de Aquino said, partly because rubber is a six-month business, and Veja is only one buyer. 

“The dream we have as a company is for other companies to be inspired by us,” said Sebastião Pereira, production chain manager at Veja. In addition to rubber, families can earn a living from harvesting other natural forest products like açaí, Brazil nuts, wild bee honey, or medicinal products like vinho de jatobá. A robust portfolio would provide “true transformation for these families,” he said.

It’s not easy for companies to pay the premium Veja does, though. Compared to the market price of 64 cents per kilogram of rubber, seringueiros who produce for Veja receive up to $3.27—a more-than-five-fold difference—depending on how well the rubber tappers care for the forest, rubber trees, rubber quality, and community cooperative. Additionally, Veja contributes up to an additional $2.54 per kilogram of rubber toward community development, with projects including community centers, solar panels, and water pump kits. 

“It’s a natural tendency to go to cost reduction,” said François-Ghislain Morillion, co-founder of Veja. “Sometimes we have to say: No, this is a non-negotiable.” 

But even with money on its side, the revival of wild rubber tapping may face an impasse in the Brazilian zeitgeist. “What is difficult to compete with is the culture, because if you talk to any kid,” Morillion said, “his dream is to be a cattle rancher.”

Even Aquino’s child, 11-year-old Maison, and Eric Davi—both sons of seringueiros—showed me YouTube videos of Brazilian bull-riding rodeos as we walked through the forest. 

“It’s a bit like country music, let’s say, but the Brazilian version,” Morillion said. “At least economically, now we are really competing.”

***

The idea that companies can preserve a forest might reek of greenwashing—and the bioeconomy certainly has its critics. 

Some products may be considered niche. For example, açaí is a roughly $1.5 billion industry, just 0.07% of Brazil’s GDP. Can the market really help support the 30 million people living in the Amazon? 

If niche markets grow, cheaper monocultures might proliferate and further devastate biodiversity, according to Dr. Ricardo Hausmann, an economist at Harvard University. Development of roads to move the products would knock down forests, too, he wrote in a plainly titled op-ed, “The Bioeconomy Will Not Save the Amazon.”

Even Morillon is uncomfortable with the idea that companies can save the rainforest. “We are never claiming that if you buy a pair [of Vejas], you are going to contribute to preservation… that the company can be the savior of the forest,” he said. However, Veja states on its website that “our goal is to enhance the economic value of the forest in order to protect it” and that it “works to keep the Amazon rainforest alive.​”

While Veja is often cited as a case study in its bioeconomy negotiations, Morillion is ambivalent about how talks play out. Brazil, he said, emphasizes an “agribusiness framework” that overlooks fair trade and compensation for workers. 

But current extractive models need to change, and Morillion insisted that politics, companies, and public interest all play a role in shifting the status quo. 

“At first I thought I was fighting to save rubber trees, then I thought I was fighting to save the Amazon rainforest. Now I realize I am fighting for humanity.”

Chico Mendes
conservationist and human rights activist

Indeed, Brazilian President Lula is at the forefront of the conversation. Brazil’s G20 summit last year saw the development of “high-level principles” on bioeconomy, which were acknowledged by global leaders in the conference’s declaration. These include, among others, sustainable socioeconomic development, climate mitigation, and biodiversity conservation. His government seems keen on advancing the conversation at COP30 in Belém, Brazil this November. 

Although there are plenty of avenues for error, it’s hard to discount the benefits to the environment and economy when things go right. Since Veja began monitoring deforestation in Chico Mendes reserve four years ago, compliance with deforestation laws has increased from 60% to 86%, Morillion said, though he emphasized that much of that might be credited to Lula’s policies rather than Veja.

Rubber-tapping families have benefited from an estimated 71% increase in income between 2018 and 2021. They also have better access to education, clean water, and more. Starlink even provides internet connection in the deepest neck of the woods. (“Thanks, Elon,” Morillion joked.) 

Still, not every seringueira tree I saw in the rainforest was thriving. One had been overharvested, the cuts too deep and frequent. It would probably die, da Silva Lima said. Another rubber tree had a vine wrapping endless loops around its trunk. It looked harmless, said Pereira of Veja, but it’s actually suffocating the seringueira. 

We drove past endless pastures as we left the rainforest in the bed of Aquino’s truck. The treeline in the distance marked the front line of deforestation. We watched our heads for branches as we drove through the forest. But here, you don’t have to worry, Aquino said. The forest is largely dead and gone. 

I coughed as we passed one ranch where freshly felled trees still burned. My mind returned to the rubber tree being suffocated by the parasitic vine: Each year, like a tightening belt, the joint fires of climate change and agribusiness cinch one notch closer to seringueiro communities. What happens here will be reflected in your country, Mendes de Barron had warned.

Leaving Chico Mendes reserve, deforestation advancing all around me, the namesake conservationist’s words echoed in my mind: “At first I thought I was fighting to save rubber trees, then I thought I was fighting to save the Amazon rainforest,” Mendes once said. “Now I realize I am fighting for humanity.”

Biome

Join our membership community. Support our work, receive a complimentary subscription to Atmos Magazine, and more.

Learn More