How brutal wildfires, violent rivalries and controversial reforestation are transforming rural Mexico
.jpeg?width=1200&auto=webp&trim=0%2C0%2C0%2C0&ssl=1 "How brutal wildfires, violent rivalries and controversial reforestation are transforming rural Mexico")
At 4am I wake in my hammock. I slip into a pair of work trousers and muddy boots and stand outside Don José’s house in the pitch black.
Within minutes, I’m picked up by a quad bike and we drive towards the village hall in Cinco de Febrero, a tiny hamlet in the south-east Mexican state of Campeche on the Yucatán peninsula, about two hours’ drive from the nearest city.
Outside the building, groups of men gather with large machetes and loaded rifles. I recognise a few of the local farmers, standing in caps and large rubber boots as they shiver in the early morning cold. It seems like the plan to confront a rival village, legally or not, is finally coming to fruition.
There has been talk in the community for days about splitting men up into night watches to look for arsonists in the jungle borders of their land. Now we’re facing a three-hour drive on quad bikes through dense forest to get there.
I’m staying with Don José, the most senior elder of Cinco de Febrero and a farmer whose family have been in Campeche for generations. I was told to set my alarm if I wanted to tag along on the raid. When I wake to the sound of crickets and monkeys, José is already out of the house and gathering his forces at the village hall.
This flurry of dawn activity is all linked to fevered speculation over the cause of rampant wildfires that have ravaged the land in recent years.
A few days earlier, I attend a meeting of locals convinced that the cause of this destruction is the people of Laguna Grande, neighbouring farmers allegedly hooked on arson.
As I wait for the discussions to start in a breezeblock building in the sweltering heat, I gaze out at the horizon. In the far distance, clustered next to a series of hills, I see rows of fire-blackened tree stumps rising out of the mist.
In the foreground, I spot dense clusters of orchard saplings sprouting fruits and flowers. A hundred yards away, contrasting sharply, is the Tren Maya, a recently-built high speed railway screeching across the land — cutting it in two.
Cinco de Febrero itself is very small, with no more than 800 to 900 people. It is made up of flat-roofed houses, some painted in vivid chalky primary colours. Others are more utilitarian, grey blocks with simple iron roofs, tucked in amongst the green of the jungle.
The village sits within a vast lowland tropical forest that fades out to scrubland on its edges. The land beneath the settlement is made up of karst limestone that sucks water underground, causing incredibly dry seasons that explode into forest fires.
“I’ve heard it’s all very political. I’ve heard the narcos might be involved,” says Jorge, dressed in a straw sombrero and white vest, musing on the fires. He is an elder of the village, his title, an epithet of respect from days gone by; still, he’s keen to hold forth.
Several young men outside the hall, clutching rifles and machetes or sitting on motorbikes, cast aspersions on Jorge’s fears. “There are no narcos here,” they tell me — Campeche is one of Mexico’s safest states: out of the way of drug cartels’ smuggling routes. Instead, insist the youths, the wildfires are almost certainly being caused by Laguna Grande.
Based on the evidence gathered by the men, Laguna Grande has taken to felling trees and building charcoal ovens on Cinco de Febrero land, accidentally sparking wider conflagrations in the forests. There are many theories as to why one village might invade another’s land to fell trees and produce charcoal.
