An Indigenous journalist’s experience of entering the belly of Cop where time does not flourish, it is consumed
I
feel as if I’ve been swallowed. And in the creature’s stomach, I walk with the sensation of being drowned. My nose hurts, with the same pain we feel when we are struggling to breathe. That’s my perception of the blue zone of Cop30, the official area for the negotiations. The architecture makes me think of the stomach of an animal.
My eyes hurt, seeing so many people coming and going through the main corridor. This is the scene of a makeshift forest. On the walls are large paintings of a jaguar, a monkey, an anteater and a lizard. In the middle of the corridor are plants that resemble açaí palm trees, and below them, small shrubs. The place of nature within the blue zone is ornamental.
People are always running, never walking, always in a hurry. This accelerated rhythm, for a moment, courses through my body. For a moment I walk faster, think faster, breathe faster. The haste feels contagious. Then I realise: I can’t let myself be accelerated. My investigations aren’t rushed, my writing isn’t fast-paced, my listening isn’t either. The monster of haste from non-Indigenous society hasn’t entirely consumed me. I fear it nonetheless.
