On Brazil’s remote Amazon Coast, conservation is daily life. In fishing communities shaped by tides, mangroves, and centuries of self-organization, people are rethinking what conservation means and who it serves.
In this conversation, Rare President Caleb McClennen speaks with Dr. Roberta Sá Leitão Barboza, an ecologist at the Federal University of Pará who works with coastal fishers to build community-led governance, and Professor Josinaldo “Tio Bill” Reis, a professor and organizer from the Federal Institute of Pará whose work centers on social organization and co-management in Amazonian marine reserves. Together, they explore how power, knowledge, and justice intersect in conservation — and why the next frontier of environmental change may begin not in pristine forests, but in the lived wisdom of communities that have never separated nature from survival.
Caleb: When people picture the Amazon, they usually think of endless green forest. But many forget that the Amazon also has a coastline — an intricate world of mangroves, estuaries, and fishing communities where freshwater meets the sea. Thousands of families depend on these ecosystems for their livelihoods, yet they rarely appear in mainstream conservation stories.
1. Why do you think the Amazon coast is invisible to so many people? And what makes it such an important place to ‘rethink’ conservation?
Dr. Roberta: The invisibility of the Amazon coast is rooted in historical and geopolitical factors. The Amazon most people learn about — in schools and in the media — refers to the dense inland forests of terra firme. Because of this dominant, urban-centered view of knowledge and policy, much of the population remains unaware of the Amazon and its inhabitants.
These coastal-marine peoples, or “peoples of the tides and waters” (“povos das marés e das águas,”), as they call themselves, live in close relationship with the coast. They are true guardians of coastal socio-biodiversity, responsible for conserving these environments through their daily practices. For this reason, it’s essential to rethink conservation from a coastal perspective, grounded in their lived experiences and efforts to preserve their ways of life.
Prof Josinaldo: As Dr. Roberta notes, this invisibility stems from historical, geographical, and political factors that have long pushed the region to the margins of national narratives and policy.
The image of a “green Amazon” dominates the collective imagination and academia. At the same time, the “blue Amazon” — home to the planet’s largest continuous mangrove belt — remains overlooked and rarely recognized as integral to the biome.
That began to change with the creation of Marine Extractive Reserves (Resex Marinhas), thanks to a major alliance between UFPA in Souré and Bragança, actions of the Mangrove Dynamics and Management in North Brazil (MADAM) Project, the establishment of the Federal Institute of Pará (IFPA, and the work of NGOs and local organizations. Together, they’ve helped bring visibility to a region where conservation and culture are inseparable.
These coastal-marine peoples, or “peoples of the tides and waters” (“povos das marés e das águas,”), as they call themselves, live in close relationship with the coast. They are true guardians of coastal socio-biodiversity, responsible for conserving these environments through their daily practices.
2. Who gets to define what nature needs, and how is that changing?
Caleb: That brings us right to the heart of it. Conservation is often presented as a technical exercise — involving biological assessments, geographic data overlay, threat mapping, and then prioritization of interventions. When conservationists draw lines on maps — reserves, no-take zones, protected areas — who decides what gets protected and who gets displaced? How does that play out in the everyday lives of Amazonian coastal communities?
Dr. Roberta: In the past, decisions about protected areas, zoning, and their rules of use were centralized among scientists, managers, and government officials, resulting in limited participation from the communities most affected. Creating sustainable use conservation areas, like marine extractive reserves, that employ deliberative councils and management tools, has begun to change this. However, these changes need to gain momentum.
The power struggle over land and sea occurs asymmetrically. That’s why concepts like spatial justice are so important — to redress the unequal distribution of conservation’s benefits and costs. The participation of extractivists in decision-making processes is urgent. We need participatory tools such as community mapping to equalize representation.
Prof. Josinaldo: Historically, what nature “needed” was decided by outsiders — technicians, managers, and bureaucrats working far from the coast; They almost always operate from a top-down logic, distant from local realities. But in Marine Extractive Reserves, this has been changing. Local fishers bring their lived experiences into decision-making spaces. They know the cycles of the tides, the timing of species, and the signals of the mangrove.
Their knowledge reminds us that conservation is not just about following rules; it’s about dialogue. Nature speaks through the crabs, the color of the water, and the wind’s direction. Listening to those signs connects conservation to everyday life and our sense of identity.
Their knowledge reminds us that conservation is not just about following rules; it’s about dialogue. Nature speaks through the crabs, the color of the water, and the wind’s direction. Listening to those signs connects conservation to everyday life and our sense of identity.
3. What does “community-led conservation” really mean — and what barriers remain?
Caleb: It is increasingly accepted that conservation must be “community-led,” but on the ground, participation can be temporary, performative, and not allow for durable change. What does shared power look like — and what stands in the way of it?
Dr. Roberta: True shared power is complex. It means communities not only have representation but also an authentic voice — one that holds deliberative positions and maintains open communication between leaders and the broader community.
Despite progress in coastal area management and conservation, significant challenges remain. One is ensuring community participation in decision-making spaces, especially for women. Participation often requires women to interrupt their work and care routines, resulting in lost income. Meetings are typically held in urban centers, often far from rural communities and out of sync with local realities. Without addressing these barriers — especially for women — participation risks remaining symbolic rather than transformative.
Prof. Josinaldo: Shared power begins when those who live from the sea are recognized as those who best understand and protect it. In the Atlantic Amazon’s Marine Extractive Reserves, co-management aims to value local knowledge, strengthen associations, and promote shared responsibility for natural resources.
Yet significant barriers persist: weak community organization, bureaucratic inertia, unequal power between communities and environmental agencies, scarce resources to strengthen social organizations, and ongoing resistance to recognizing traditional knowledge.
Even so, “community conservation” and co-management continue to advance the idea that sustainability must be built from within communities, not imposed from the outside.
4. If we measured conservation not in hectares but in human terms — in trust, dignity, or knowledge shared — how would that change the story we tell?
Dr. Roberta: It would transform the lives of people who sustain these environments yet benefit least from formal conservation outcomes (and are the most vulnerable to the effects of landscape changes). Measuring conservation success through trust, dignity, and shared knowledge aligns conservation with socio-environmental justice, empowering traditional peoples, improving quality of life, and strengthening engagement — while also reducing environmental pressure.
Success, in this sense, would be based on reciprocal relationships, friendship, intergenerational learning, and the autonomy of traditional peoples in decision-making spaces — not in boundaries drawn on maps. It’s a vision of coexistence and respect along the Amazonian coast.
Prof. Josinaldo: Hope is my guiding principle — that’s why I’m a teacher! If success were measured in these human terms, conservation would focus on rebuilding relationships between people and place, strengthening communities, and preserving care practices passed from generation to generation.
Recently, a crab fisher in Bragança told me, “Not much has changed for me. I still catch crabs in the mangrove every day. But now I don’t catch condurua. What’s changed is that now people see us. With the Resex, they know we exist, that we’re the ones who take care of everything here.”
In this evolving context, traditional communities are gaining prominence. We would recognize that protecting nature also means protecting ways of life, knowledge, and affections that sustain life itself. The value of the maretório — the lived “territory of the sea” — could be measured not by excluding human uses, but by the collective well-being it sustains. That is, changing how we measure conservation could change the very meaning of what it means to conserve. “Praise be to the Tide that carries in its womb the flower of faith from the seed portion” (Vergara Filho).
Caleb: Thank you both. What you’ve shared reminds me that conservation’s future depends not only on science or policy, but on humility — on learning from the people who live closest to the ecosystems we seek to protect. The Amazonian coast shows us that the knowledge to sustain nature already exists in the rhythms of daily life, in cooperation, and in care.
If we want conservation to endure, we must keep shifting power — listening more deeply, sharing decision-making, and ensuring that local leadership defines what success means. That’s the real transformation.
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