Dona Laura (Laura Mercês Guimarães da Silva, 73) carefully puts a wooden bowl into the big nylon bag filled with corn. Half full, she takes it out and goes into the kitchen; she puts some into a pot which is already on the gas stove, and then goes into their back yard and opens the chicken coop. She strews the rest of the contents evenly onto the ground. Two roosters and 40 chickens peck wildly and fight for every grain of corn while in the kitchen, a steady popping emanates from the pot. After the corn has been distributed, she goes back into the kitchen. The kettle is boiling and the pot now pops only intermittently. She pours the popcorn into a bowl, pours hot water into the coffeepot, sits down and begins with breakfast: salted popcorn and coffee.
Florisvaldo (31), one of their nine sons, storms into the kitchen. He is looking for the harness for the donkey. Before work he wants to quickly cut cactuses for his four remaining cows. Since 2010 the yearly average of rain is down 70% in the Pintadas region. For 11 months now he has had to feed his animals cactuses since the Caatinga has dried out. Mandacaru cactuses (Cereus jamacaru) are dominant with their height of up to eight meters. They stand alone in the shaggy, thorny landscape. Their hard thorns are 18 centimeters long and represent a serious danger to animals and people alike. Florisvaldo quickly attaches the single-axis cart to the donkey; he flings two poles armored with knives into the cart and drives out into the Caatinga. On the 53 hectares that he shares with his brothers, not a single cactus remains. Today he is searching for fodder on land which belongs to his neighbor, who lives in São Paulo. He needs two full-grown cactuses to fill his wagon. Several strong hacks are necessary in order to fell one of the cactus arms – the pieces fall dangerously close to him. He always has to jump back so as not to get hurt. Afterwards, the long thorns are manually cut away using the machete and the mandacaru is then lifted onto the cart.
He hangs his straw hat and his machete on the corral in front of his house. His wife Virlene (24) comes out through the doorway holding his one-year-old son Fredy in her arms. Florisvaldo gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, swings his leg over his moped and roars off, leaving a long cloud of dust behind. Once per week he helps his brother Lauro in the upholstery workshop, which guarantees him a regular income during the drought. Virlene goes behind the house and checks the precipitation gauge. It is empty. She wipes off the solar cell with a cloth. There is a meter-high concrete stake in front of the house; it was put there by the regional energy provider 20 months ago, but the cables have still not been laid. So they use the 12-volt solar cell in order to at least have lights in the house.
Virlene and Florisvaldo had started planting maracuja with the help of the Fundação Rureco and four international aid organizations. The solar cell ran the pump for the drip irrigation until the rain stopped 18 months ago. Florisvaldo is studying to become an environmental technician; evenings, he tries to keep up with his online course by using the mobile telephone freshly charged at the upholstery workshop as well as an old laptop. Today the connection is bad; it is not possible to download the worksheets. He sits down in front of his mother’s house with Virlene and tells them both stories about Lero Preto, who could catch bullets in his mouth; about Lampiao, Maria Bonita and their gang of bandits; and about the Lobishomen, a bald-headed werewolf-like creature that hunts women.
