Flooded: Development, Democracy, and Brazil’s Belo Monte Dam

FLOODED

NATURE, SOCIETY, AND CULTURE

Scott Frickel, Series Editor

A sophisticated and wide-ranging sociological literature analyzing nature-society-culture interactions has blossomed in recent decades. This book series provides a platform for showcasing the best of that scholarship: carefully crafted empirical studies of socio-environmental change and the effects such change has on ecosystems, social institutions, historical processes, and cultural practices.

The series aims for topical and theoretical breadth. Anchored in sociological analyses of the environment, Nature, Society, and Culture is home to studies employing a range of disciplinary and interdisciplinary perspectives and investigating the pressing socio-environmental questions of our time—from environmental inequality and risk, to the science and politics of climate change and serial disaster, to the environmental causes and consequences of urbanization and war making, and beyond.

For a list of all the titles in the series, please see the last page of the book.

FLOODED

Development, Democracy, and Brazil’s Belo Monte Dam

PETER TAYLOR KLEIN

RUTGERS UNIVERSITY PRESS

New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Klein, Peter Taylor, author.

Title: Flooded : development, democracy, and Brazil’s Belo Monte Dam / Peter Taylor Klein.

Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021041973 | ISBN 9781978826137 (cloth) | ISBN 9781978826120 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978826144 (epub) | ISBN 9781978826151 (mobi) | ISBN 9781978826168 (pdf)

Subjects: LCSH: Belo Monte (Power Plant)—Social aspects. | Dams—Social aspects—Brazil—Pará (State) | Hydroelectric power plants—Social aspects—Brazil—Pará (State) | Sustainable development—Brazil—Pará (State) | Xingu River (Brazil)—Environmental conditions. | Pará (Brazil : State)—Social conditions. | Environmental policy—Brazil.

Classification: LCC TK1442.B45 K55 2022 | DDC 621.31/2134098115—dc23/eng/ 20220124

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041973

A British Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Copyright © 2022 by Peter Taylor Klein

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is fair use as defined by U.S. copyright law.

References to internet websites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

www.rutgersuniversitypress.org

Manufactured in the United States of America

For Stephanie

CONTENTS

Prologue

Introduction

PART I: HYDROPOWER, RESISTANCE,AND THE STATE

1Dams and Development

2Booms, Busts, and Collective Mobilization along the Transamazon

3Democratic Developmentalism

PART II: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF DAM BUILDING

4The Living Process

5The Fight for Recognition

6The Law, Activism, and Legitimacy

Conclusion

Acknowledgments

List of Abbreviations

Notes

Index

FLOODED

PROLOGUE

I was in the back seat of the public defenders’ pickup truck, speeding down the newly paved Transamazon Highway. It was October 2012, over a year after construction began on Belo Monte, which would become one of the five largest hydroelectric facilities in the world. We were heading from the city of Altamira, the closest urban center, toward one of the dam’s construction sites. At the time, I had spent twelve months in Brazil during the previous three years. I was in the midst of my research on how dam construction was transforming the region’s social, political, and environmental landscapes, and was particularly interested in the challenges and opportunities people faced in making claims for their livelihoods in this context.

Andreia Macedo Barreto, one of the two public defenders in the truck, asked me to put on music to soothe her as she drove. Andreia was a committed, fierce supporter of dam-affected communities. Born and raised in Belém, the capital of the forested northern state of Pará, she cared deeply about the region and the people who lived there. When the public defenders’ office of Pará first opened a branch in Altamira in late 2011, she was happy to be reassigned from a smaller city in the region to the dam construction’s center of action. As a public defender, Andreia’s job was to offer legal support to people in vulnerable situations or who could not afford it, but she went above and beyond. She worked tirelessly to advocate for the people who would be displaced and the farmers, fishers, and others most affected by the dam. She partnered with activists, fellow lawyers, sympathetic government officials, and others who could help support the causes she most cared about.

The high speed at which Andreia was driving confirmed she was tense, slightly nervous that we were running late but more anxious because of the stakes of the conciliatory hearing to which we were going. This meeting was intended to resolve demands being made by fishers, boat captains, farmers, riverine communities, and Indigenous people. A month earlier, a small group of two dozen people who fished for a living—none of whom had ever before engaged in political protest—had begun fishing in a prohibited zone near the dam’s construction site, as a way to call attention to the changes to the river that were upending their way of life. After three weeks of this protest, other groups joined the fishers. Together, they stormed the construction site under cover of darkness and rainfall, taking control of heavy machinery and ordering all workers to leave. For over a week, they occupied the site, halting construction and calling on high-level officials to hear their demands and provide compensation for the negative effects of dam construction on the lives of traditional communities. In an effort to end the occupation and resume work on Belo Monte, which was Brazil’s largest infrastructure project being built at the time, the officials had finally agreed to meet the protesters to discuss these claims.

All the major players would be at the meeting. Top-level representatives from Norte Energia, the construction consortium building the dam, were the targets of the protests. At least one director of Norte Energia would respond directly to the claims protestors were making, in hopes of striking a deal to halt the protest. A federal public prosecutor based in Altamira, along with representatives from Brazil’s land reform and Indigenous people’s agencies, would facilitate the conversation. Officials from other federal agencies would provide input and expertise. Andreia was charged with representing the non-Indigenous groups, including the fishers, boat captains, and riverine communities. Indigenous leaders would speak for themselves, but they requested that two lawyers affiliated with a nongovernmental organization attend.

I had been to Altamira on four separate occasions since 2010 and had been living there for the four months leading up to the occupation. I rented an apartment in the central part of the city and worked to develop rapport with activists, lawyers, people impacted by the dam, government officials, representatives from the energy consortium, and private companies subcontracted to work on the dam. I developed particularly close relationships with the public defenders and some of the social movements, but I was careful to seek out a broad range of perspectives. I wanted to understand the complexities of the debate over the dam and its impacts, as opposed to the reduced, everyday language of for or against the dam that dominated media coverage and surface-level conversations. I attended protests and street rallies, at which I spoke with the leaders and participants, in order to understand the motives, passions, and emotions people had in opposing the dam. I interviewed public defenders and public prosecutors. I contacted prominent business leaders and chatted with small-store owners. I attended the meetings of an innovative forum for sustainable development that the federal government created to bring together regional civil society actors with municipal, state, and federal officials. I spoke with local workers’ unions that I knew were important throughout Brazil in supporting marginalized populations. I developed partnerships with professors at the local university who were familiar with the changing dynamics in the region. I joined the fishers as they began their protest and visited them throughout the month, sleeping in hammocks next to theirs on remote islands on the Xingu River.

My efforts to engage a variety of people and perspectives paid dividends. Social movement organizations welcomed me as a member of their groups, inviting me to attend private meetings, cook meals together, and participate in a wide range of other events. Similarly, public defenders gladly allowed me to follow their work, as when Andreia invited me to the hearing and other outreach activities. I also met with a few managing directors of Norte Energia, despite their reluctance to sit down with outsiders, and officials at all levels of government gave me their time. Relationships such as these gave me access to important events like the conciliatory hearing.

In the truck, Andreia turned off the Transamazon Highway onto a recently widened dirt road on which hundreds of small-scale farmers had once lived but which now provided access to many of Belo Monte’s construction sites. The roads were in much better condition than when I had visited the area six months previously—a result of the construction process—so Andreia could maintain her high speed, sliding into corners like a rally driver. We soon came to a stop at a checkpoint marking an official entrance to the construction area. One of the guards checked our identifications and explained that we had arrived early. Rather than wait for others to arrive, Andreia wanted to speak with the protestors, in hopes of clarifying the list of demands of those she represented and developing a strategy for the hearing. The guard escorted us through the site, driving his truck in front of ours. We soon reached a long, straight road, which indicated we were on top of the dam that stretched all but a few hundred meters of the nearly four-kilometer width of the Xingu River. To the right of this land bridge, which was upstream of the dam, small islands and patches of forest dotted the expansive river. To the left, the river had dried considerably, leaving undulating terrain but little water. After leading us for nearly two kilometers down this road, the guard stopped to turn around, presumably to avoid conflict, as he told us that the occupiers of the site became agitated when Norte Energia officials or security guards went further.

We continued to the end of the land bridge, where hammocks hung on a few abandoned construction vehicles and two large open-air tents provided shade in the otherwise barren terrain. Andreia handed me a video camera, asking me to record anything that seemed important. As we stepped out of the air-conditioned truck, the sun, heat, and humidity made me feel like I had entered an oven. A few leaders of the group of fishers, a journalist from the south of Brazil, and an activist from a local social movement that had been financially and logistically supporting the protest led us to a small boat that would take us to the nearby fishers’ camp on a small island. I had spent two days in the camp the previous week, just after the occupation had begun, and when the boat pulled up to the island a few minutes later, I immediately recognized many of the people on shore. I was struck by the fact that the protest had ballooned from two dozen people to over two hundred and was impressed that they managed to house and feed everybody in their makeshift camp.

Andreia quickly said hello to those she knew, before she gathered twenty people in a circle to finalize their demands, decide who would represent each group, and discuss their strategy. In the list of demands, all the groups included financial compensation for loss of work due to the construction. Each population had specific claims as well. Riverine communities wanted official recognition of their lands as traditional communities, which would provide them with additional rights and opportunities, and were asking for compensation for disruption to their livelihoods caused by the dam. People living close to the dam wanted immediate relocation, due to construction-related explosions, increasing security concerns, and transportation challenges. The fishers complained of reduced fish populations, the boat captains wanted compensation for the reduction in their workload, and together, these two groups demanded that Norte Energia stall the final closure of the river until the transportation system was complete and adequate. After Andreia helped the group clarify these demands, they chose about ten leaders to represent the protestors and bring their concerns to the hearing. The meeting concluded, we ate a quick lunch, and we took the short boat ride back to the public defenders’ truck.

Back on the land bridge, a minibus had arrived to take the representatives to the meeting. A small group of a dozen Indigenous people and the two lawyers who would provide them legal counsel, as well as a few journalists, had gathered near the minibus. A delegate from the federal police stood with a stern look and a bulletproof vest worn over a dress shirt and slacks. He barked orders in a commanding voice, insisting that only one member of each group could attend. This set off a frenzied debate, with Andreia, the other lawyers, many protesters, and even the journalists pleading that they needed more representation at the meeting. In a symbolic representation of the state’s opposition to the interruption of construction and the ability of government actors to dictate the terms on which negotiations would be carried out, the police delegate would not budge on the issue. Each group was forced to leave a number of leaders behind.

The public defenders and I, along with a journalist and the two other lawyers, piled into the truck for the drive back to the other end of the land bridge, where the hearing would be held. One of the lawyers, who worked for a large foreign nongovernmental organization, suggested I remain at the encampment because the Indigenous groups had not authorized me to attend. The public defenders insisted that I stay, once again giving me their video camera and asking me to film the proceedings. I was relieved to have a job to do and grateful the public defenders were helping me.

We drove to the middle of a large dirt area the size of a football field, on which were four open-air tents that would provide shade from the midday sun. The atmosphere at the meeting site was even more tense than it had been at the minibus. There were more debates about who could participate, who would be allowed to attend but not participate, and who was authorized to film the meetings. Andreia insisted that I be able to use their camera, arguing that anybody who wanted to film should be allowed to do so. Norte Energia officials responded that only their camera should be in use during the proceedings. Later, the head of Norte Energia’s communication team explained to me that they needed to be careful with who has access to the video of such an event. It could be manipulated and used in the wrong way, she argued, suggesting they wanted to control the narrative after the agreements were made. The primary Indigenous leader indicated that he wanted restrictions on filming as well, so despite strong arguments from the public defender and journalists, most of us with cameras had to pack them up.

The seemingly small, but intense, debate over who was authorized to record reflected the tone of the proceedings for the subsequent two days. Everyone attempted to exert power at any opportunity. People disagreed about even the smallest of details, and shared as many opinions as there were people present. A few participants who did not know me had suggested that I leave the meeting area, but as I returned the camera to Andreia, she told me to stay and explained to the others that I was accompanying the public defenders’ office. After the group decided that I could stay but not film, I went to the back of the tent. Lined up next to me were Norte Energia’s director of socio-environmental programs, the police delegate who was still clad in his bulletproof vest, and a woman who looked as stern as the officer. She immediately demanded to know why I was at the meeting, clearly suspicious of my presence. I briefly explained that I was a social scientist from the United States conducting research. In a forceful tone and what seemed like a single breath, she introduced herself as the director of the regional federal police and immigration office and asked me a pointed question: What type of visa do you have? Thankful that I had successfully navigated Brazilian bureaucracy, I responded that I had acquired the proper research visa. She quickly said, Ok. You can stay, but you are not authorized to use a camera and you must remain silent.

It was an auspicious exchange, given that the meeting was central to my research. I could witness direct negotiations between the government, Norte Energia, and groups that felt harmed by dam construction, and the meeting showcased how politics and claims making were being realigned in the region. In the year since construction had started, activists and groups that had worked closely together for decades in struggles for justice and against the dam were no longer speaking with each other. The fishers’ protest, the occupation, and its aftereffects would provide clues into the reasons why social and political networks had fractured and how they would reconfigure. It would also provide an opportunity to examine the mechanisms through which new people were engaging and new alliances were forming. Most of the fishers had never been particularly engaged in politics and activism, the public defenders’ office was new in the region, and the public prosecutors in Altamira had just begun to play a central role in the conflict. Federal and state government officials had only started paying attention to the region because of Belo Monte but were already deeply enmeshed in the local debates over future development of the region and compensation for the impacts of the dam. I was interested in how these actors that were new to the conflict would engage one another and the longtime activists who had helped shape the region over the previous generation. Additionally, the consortium of public and private entities building Belo Monte was responsible for projects to mitigate the negative effects of construction and compensate people who were adversely impacted. How would this consortium respond to demands? Furthermore, opportunities to deliberate and participate in decision-making forums were becoming ubiquitous, and the use of the rule of law to make demands was on the rise, but how these forms of engagement could lead to change was less understood. The conciliatory hearing provided an opportunity to examine these dynamics and to witness the mechanisms through which people made and responded to claims.

The substantive part of the meeting finally began in the middle of the afternoon, with the representative of FUNAI, the federal agency responsible for policies related to Indigenous people, reading the demands being made by Indigenous groups to everyone in attendance. Each point was discussed in great detail, and as the debates continued, I soon realized that the Indigenous issues would take center stage for the day. The afternoon passed without any discussions of the demands of the other communities, and darkness eventually forced the end of negotiations for the day. After a great deal of debate about where to convene the following morning, everyone agreed to meet at the same location.

A few minutes after we left, Andreia picked up two reporters who had no ride back to the city. Guards then stopped us at a checkpoint to wait for the nightly explosions—used to break up rock—to be completed, as it was not safe to pass any closer. Over the subsequent hour, from 9 P.M. to nearly 10 P.M., a series of loud, earth-shaking blasts made it clear why nearby residents were eager to move. We then resumed our hour-long drive back to the city, but because of the reporters in the car, the public defenders were reticent to share substantive reflections about the proceedings.

The next day, I met Andreia at her office in the late morning, still unsure whether I would be allowed to attend the meeting. Shortly after I arrived, one of her assistants handed me a piece of paper. The one-page document included guidelines for the second day of the hearing, which a judge had outlined, presumably in order to avoid replaying the confusion of the first day. The guidelines indicated that the meeting would focus on the agenda of the riverine and fishing communities, that federal police would once again provide security, that a military police helicopter would be available to provide aerial transport, and, most importantly for me, that outsiders were permitted to attend. Soon after, I was once again in the pickup truck, as the public defenders would not entertain the idea of being transported by helicopter. Andreia was much more relaxed, as was Artur, another public defender. He had learned the first day that he was overdressed with a suit and tie, so he arrived in more comfortable short-sleeved button-down shirt and slacks.

When we arrived at the now familiar blue tents, the atmosphere was also more relaxed than the previous day (though the negotiations would become heated later in the afternoon). Nobody wore bulletproof vests, few requested observers to leave the area, and everybody generally understood how the proceedings would take place. As the official start time approached, people were clearly anxious to begin, but some of the facilitators from the previous day had not yet arrived. I then heard the familiar hum of a helicopter approaching. The last time I had seen this helicopter, it was circling above the protestors just after the occupation started, presumably with Norte Energia officials and police assessing the situation. At that time, a half dozen Indigenous men, their bows drawn, pointed their traditional arrows toward the helicopter as a warning not to land. Now, it landed without incident a hundred yards from the tent, and I expected to see a few federal land reform officials who were assigned to mediate the conversation get out. To my surprise, Thais Santi, the public prosecutor who had only recently been assigned to the agency’s office in Altamira and who would help facilitate the meeting, appeared from the helicopter’s doors.

In her mid-thirties, Thais came from the south of Brazil. She was filled with energy and determination to support dam-affected people. Like me, her tall frame and light skin made her stand out from most of the people who were from the region. Some public prosecutors were known for their support of marginalized populations, often confronting the state and other powerful actors. Similar to the public defenders’ office that Andreia worked in, the public prosecutor’s office, while a government-funded institution, operates largely outside of state control. Public prosecutors bring cases against individuals, companies, and the government, often with the goal of enforcing social and environmental regulations and protecting vulnerable groups. Many activists hoped that Thais would become an advocate for the Indigenous and other traditional communities that faced the impacts of dam construction. I had spoken with her on a few occasions, and she seemed determined to align herself with groups fighting for justice and with people facing the worst impacts of dam construction. Given her stance, I was surprised to see her emerge from the helicopter, because many protestors viewed the helicopter as threatening and representative of opposition to marginalized populations. Thais’s arrival in the helicopter caused some protesters to worry that she would not become the advocate that people felt they needed. In addition, during the first day of the conciliatory hearing, she had asserted that she was not representing any particular group; rather, she was there to facilitate proceedings, in order to ensure a fair meeting for everybody. She had only recently moved to Altamira, so I wondered if she was unaware of how these behaviors may come across to activists and protestors. Or, perhaps she was skillfully building her credibility and legitimacy, in order to best serve disadvantaged groups in the future. Regardless of her actions in that moment, over the subsequent months and years, fears about Thais’s allegiances would be fully allayed, as she became a crucial supporter of dam-affected groups.

Shortly after Thais arrived, the facilitator from the land reform agency announced that the meeting would commence, and they began by addressing each of the six items on the agenda of the traditional communities. The facilitator read the first of the items: Riverine families living near construction areas should be relocated immediately, due to the explosions, security concerns, and transportation difficulties in those areas. Andreia, the public defender, then prompted Alberto, the unofficial leader of the fishers’ protest, to speak on the topic. In his mid-sixties, Alberto had the weathered hands and face of somebody who has spent decades working on the river. Born in a municipality close to Altamira, he moved as a young child to protected Indigenous lands and lived there for over thirty years, as one of his parents was Kayapó. By the time dam construction began, however, he no longer lived on demarcated lands and was not entitled to the compensation Norte Energia provided to Indigenous groups. Instead, he made demands as a fisher, a profession he had been legally registered in for about fifteen years and an activity he had been doing for much of his life. I had traveled up and down the river on his simple narrow wooden boat with a long outboard motor, and it was clear he knew the river like the back of his hand. He navigated the dangerous waterfalls and swirling pools with ease, and seemed content on the water. Alberto was not content, however, with the ways the government and Norte Energia were treating the fishers. According to Alberto and many of the fishers who protested with him, he developed the idea of organizing a group to fish in the prohibited zone and he served as a strong voice throughout the protest, unafraid to confront people. While he spoke and fought for the rights of the fishers, he also embraced his Indigenous identity. At important events like the conciliatory hearing, he wore a beaded necklace and painted lines on the top half of his body and cheeks in a display of his indigeneity.

Alberto got right to the point: Why haven’t you, Norte Energia, compensated these families? He continued by explaining, in detail, why these problems were so disruptive to everyday life and then noted that the list of affected families was not complete. Andreia added that the fishers demanded that Norte Energia agree to convene more studies and a deadline by which the consortium would establish compensation. Andreia and Alberto used this kind of dialogue to clarify the precise concerns and requests that the fishers were making, as well as to oppose officials when they refused to agree to concrete plans. By working in this way, Andreia was striving to give voice to the fishers, who had been discounted through much of the process.

Later in the meeting, Andreia and Alberto explained the rapidly changing river conditions and argued that Norte Energia should compensate the fishers for lost income. A high-ranking representative from the consortium responded, We don’t have data that says river conditions have changed, and we don’t know how the fish population will be impacted. This was a common refrain from Norte Energia officials, who argued that fish populations had been decreasing before construction began and that long-term studies would be needed to determine whether and how much the dam affected fish populations. Alberto quickly rose out of his seat. That’s a lie! he said, and went on to provide a detailed example of the quantities he used to catch in a week compared to a year after construction began. The Norte Energia official calmly but firmly repeated, "We have no indication that things are changing in the river. We have no indication of what you are saying, no evidence of changes to the fish population in the region. Alberto remained standing to share his frustration with everyone there, exclaiming, Why does Norte Energia repeatedly diminish the experience of the fishers?"

After a half hour discussing this impasse, it was clear that Norte Energia would not, at that moment, recognize that reductions in the fish population were due to the dam. Thais suggested that the fishers take Norte Energia officials to the specific places where fish numbers had dwindled, explaining that researchers could study those particular areas. Alberto approved of this idea, exclaiming, Let’s set a date right now! Andreia guided the conversation so that they could determine the number of researchers and fishers that would gather together to carry out the studies. These studies, Thais made clear, would inform future discussions of financial compensation for fishers. Norte Energia was not agreeing to pay any fishers for now.

After the fishers had spent a month protesting, over a week occupying the construction site, and two days engaged in heated meetings, the outcome seemed disappointing but also predictable. It appeared to be another case of a marginalized population courageously confronting a powerful entity to make demands, only for those in power to placate those with grievances by making promises they were unlikely to fulfill. I was thus surprised when, as the facilitators typed up the agreement for both parties to sign, Alberto had a look of relief on his face. As we talked in the fading light of day next to the tent, he continued smiling, and it was apparent he felt he had been victorious. It’s not everything we wanted, but they listened to us, he said. I think they finally heard us. They were forced to listen to what we are saying. At the time, I could make sense of his celebratory attitude but I did not share his assessment. On the one hand, his positive take was somewhat understandable. Alberto had organized a significant mobilization, brought dam-affected people together, and forced the government and Norte Energia officials to engage in a conversation with them. After a tireless struggle, this moment must have brought great relief. On the other hand, I felt that the fishers had failed to achieve much. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely to me that they would see material or other benefits in the long term.

In fact, time would show that there were many more advancements made during the protest and the conciliatory hearing than I understood in that moment.

INTRODUCTION

After a remarkable three decades of controversy over Brazilian government plans to dam the Xingu River in the Amazon, Norte Energia began constructing Belo Monte in 2011. It became the fourth largest hydroelectric facility