Eight dead in Brazil hot-air balloon accident
It was the second fatal balloon accident in the vast South American country in less than a week.
'Eight fatalities and 13 survivors,' Santa Catarina state governor Jorginho Mello said on X.
Videos taken by bystanders and carried on Brazilian television showed the moment when the balloon erupted in flames above a rural area outside the Atlantic coast town of Praia Grande, a tourist hotspot popular for hot-air ballooning.
The basket carrying the passengers plummeted dozens of meters to the ground in flames. Other images showed some of the passengers jumping.
The 13 survivors were treated at hospitals, firefighters said.
Officials at Our Lady of Fatima hospital said of the five survivors treated there, three were in stable condition with minor injuries and two had already been discharged.
Information about the other survivors was not immediately available.
An investigation was launched to determine the cause of the accident. Weather conditions were clear at the time.
'I want to express my solidarity with the families of the victims,' Brazilian President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva said in a statement.
The pilot told officials the fire was sparked by a blowtorch -- used to ignite the balloon's main flame -- in the basket, Tiago Luiz Lemos, a police official in Praia Grande, told local media.
The pilot tried to bring the balloon down as soon as the fire erupted, 'and once it was close to the ground, he told the passengers to jump from the basket. But some of them couldn't do it and the fire grew,' the official said.
Four people were burned to death and four others died from injuries sustained in the fall, fire department official Zevir Cipriano Junior told reporters.
One witness told the Razao newspaper that he saw 'two people falling, they were on fire, the basket broke off and the balloon fell.'
Less than a week ago, a woman died during a balloon ride in southeastern Sao Paulo state.
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The Star
7 days ago
- The Star
Seeds of hope: Orang Asli woman farmer unites community through agriculture
In a quiet village by Lake Chini in Pahang, one Orang Asli woman is planting more than vegetables – she is cultivating unity, hope and a brighter future for her community. At Kampung Orang Asli Melai, the morning sun often catches 52-year-old Amai Maimun already knee-deep in her vegetable plots, sleeves rolled, soil under her fingernails and purpose in her stride. Around her, leafy rows of Hong Kong sawi, Brazilian spinach, okra and other vegetables flourish – a testament not only to agricultural know-how, but to perseverance, leadership and a mother's love. 'Amai' means 'aunt' in the Jakun language. To outsiders, Maimun may appear as just another farmer. But to the villagers of Kampung Melai, she is much more – a community mobiliser, chairperson of their farming committee, and a pillar of support who has helped transform a patch of what was previously swamp land into a lifeline for her people. Her story, like the land she works on, has been shaped by challenge and quiet determination. Indian lettuce is among the vegetables planted by Maimun. Maimun grew up during a time when the Orang Asli community could still depend heavily on the forest. 'Life was good then,' recalls Seliah, another farmer. 'We collected rattan, resin, wood and could make products out of them to sell and support our families.' But over the years, as land use and industries around their ancestral areas evolved, many indigenous communities, including hers, found their traditional ways of life increasingly difficult to sustain. The forests grew quieter, the rivers became shallower. 'We had to look for new ways to survive,' she says. For Maimun and the other Orang Asli people, the answer was farming – not just as a livelihood, but as a way to bring their community together and rebuild from the soil up. The land she and her neighbours began working on was once swampy and clay-filled. 'We had no choice,' she says. 'It wasn't ideal, but it was all we had and we were grateful for it. So we worked hard to improve it.' And change it they did, supported by the Foundation for Community Studies and Development (Focused), an NGO that empowers underserved communities, and the OA Organik cooperative, a social enterprise that promotes sustainable community farming. Through collective effort and persistence, they slowly turned the swamp into fertile land. Together, Maimun and the other Orang Asli farmers converted this shared space into a productive community farm, a place not only to grow food but also possibilities. The Orang Asli farmers working together on the community farm. The OA Organik model is more than just organic farming – it's a return to the cultural values of cooperation, sustainability and a respect for nature. Rather than individual entrepreneurship that may erode communal bonds, the project embraces the collective spirit intrinsic to Orang Asli life. The initiative follows a shared model that places people and the planet at the heart of business. It transforms conventional business practices by ensuring that Orang Asli producers receive a more equitable share of the profits. OA Organik provides training, seed funding and access to fair markets. As a result, the Orang Asli farmers earn 40% of the retail price of their produce. This approach helps them to overcome systemic challenges, break free from the cycle of poverty, and take charge of their own development. 'Community togetherness is important to us,' Maimun explains. 'If we all went our individual ways – foraging, fishing, finding jobs in the city – then we'd hardly meet. But the farm brings us together. We talk, we help each other, we become a community again.' Teamwork is everything, says Maimun (in blue) as she sorts and packs vegetables together with the other farmers. This sense of unity is as important as economic gain. At a time when global attention is increasingly focused on sustainable development, indigenous worldviews are being recognised for their wisdom on respecting nature and living side-by-side with it. The Orang Asli have understood the link between ecology and economy long before climate change became part of the public vocabulary. 'Our ancestors lived in harmony with nature. If nature is damaged, we are damaged,' says Maimun, echoing a belief now backed by environmental science. For her, farming was never just about vegetables – it was about her children. A mother of seven, she often worried about their future, especially when her husband's health declined and he could no longer do heavy work. 'I wanted my children to have the education I never had,' she says. 'That was my motivation. I had to find a way to support them.' Today, her face lights up with pride as she speaks of them. One is studying at Universiti Malaysia Sarawak (Unimas) while the others are in upper secondary school. Her son, Amos, 23, works in research and development for OA Organik and helps her on the farm. 'They're all doing well,' she says with a soft smile. 'That's what keeps me going.' Even though some are far from home, they return during the holidays to help. Amos, especially, is her right hand in the fields – a symbol of future leadership. Amos, Maimun's son, helping on the farm. Within the community, Maimun's leadership is not marked by command, but by care. She is often the first to encourage struggling farmers, gather people and organise meetings, and help find solutions when problems arise – whether it's tackling crop spoilage from heavy rain or pests, or raising funds to buy fuel for irrigation and water supply pumps. 'Issues such as water engineering, harvesting, sorting, packing, marketing and pricing have been dealt with through collaborative discussions among the farmers,' she says. Maimun credits teamwork as the backbone of their progress. 'Everyone has their part to play,' she says. 'We work hand-in-hand – from planting and watering to packing and transporting. It's not one person's success, it's our success as a team.' Currently, about 12 farmers work on the shared land, managing plots between 279sq m to 929sq m in size. Maimun's own plot is just under 465sq m, yet her yield is among the highest, thanks to her dedication and deep knowledge of the land. 'My secret?' she says with a laugh. 'Hard work and a love for what I do.' Harvesting is done on the same day or a day before packing, which is every Tuesday and Friday. The vegetables are then loaded into baskets and sent to stock urban shelves, says Maimun. Together, they produce over 1,000kg of vegetables a month, with an estimated revenue of RM14,500, all of which is reinvested back into the community. The vegetables – such as Hong Kong sawi, okra, Brazilian spinach, mini brinjal and four-angled beans – line the shelves of a local, mass-premium supermarket chain, securing fair prices for these farmers. One-third of participating households now earn RM2,000 to RM2,500 per month. Maimun believes that the strength of her community lies not just in shared labour, but shared lives. Before the farm, many villagers would head out on their own – some to the city for jobs, others into the forest to look for food. But now, the community farm has created something deeper: connection. 'If someone's missing, we notice. We check on them,' she explains. 'We talk, we share meals, we plan together. That's the value of a community – we grow stronger when we grow together.' This sense of unity is especially meaningful in the Orang Asli culture. Traditionally, their life is rooted in collaboration and collective well-being. The cooperative farming model they've adopted builds on this – not just for economic benefits, but to sustain the social fabric of their village. 'When we work together, we become less inward-looking,' Maimun says. 'We succeed not just as individuals, but as a community.' Maimun (first from left) sharing her experiences at the 2024 Social Enterprise Day celebration. Though she never had formal schooling, Maimun is constantly learning and teaching. She shares tips on soil health, crop rotation, pest control and planning for seasonal changes. 'If the sawi gets spoiled because of bad weather like too much rain, we switch to okra or long beans,' she says matter-of-factly. 'We practise crop rotation to keep the soil healthy and to prevent disease. A farm needs constant observation – it's important to be alert and adapt.' Last year, at the 2024 Social Enterprise Day celebration, Maimun stood on stage with her son and other advocates from OA Organik, sharing her experiences with audiences unfamiliar with Orang Asli life. She was nervous, she admits. 'But I was grateful for the chance to speak, to show that even those who didn't go to school can learn, grow and lead.' Today, Maimun is focused firmly on the future. Her hope is for the community farm to expand, for her children to stay rooted in the land and for their village to become a model that other Orang Asli villages can learn from. 'I want to see our young people take this up, to care about farming and to care about the land,' she says. 'This land means something to us. We love it. It has given us life.' And for all her humility, Maimun knows the importance of her role. 'To lead, you must first serve. You must be humble, and you must listen. That's how we make progress – together,' she concludes.
The Star
30-06-2025
- The Star
‘Keep going, Ale'
IN 2018, British journalist Dom Phillips embarked on a 17-day journey into the Javari Valley – a remote and barely-accessible expanse of indigenous land in the western Brazilian Amazon. He was tracking signs of an uncontacted group increasingly threatened by illegal activity. It was a gruelling 1,050km expedition by boat and foot – across slick log bridges, through snake-infested jungle and suffocating heat. Yet the river, when it reappeared, brought moments Phillips would later describe as 'exquisite loveliness'. More than the forest's raw beauty, he was captivated by the indigenous guides' deep knowledge of its rhythms – and by the quiet resolve of Bruno Pereira, the expedition leader and a respected official with Brazil's indigenous protection agency, Funai. Phillips saw in him a rare public servant: not indigenous himself, but fiercely committed to defending indigenous rights and lands. Pereira navigated the Javari's maze of waterways and tribal tensions with instinctive ease. When Phillips returned to the region in 2022 to research a book, it was to document how an indigenous patrol, led by Pereira, was defending this lawless territory. But their work – and their lives – came under direct threat. In June 2022, the two men were murdered by an illegal fishing gang. Yet, the story they were trying to tell did not die with them. A huge moment in Dom's life Friends, fellow journalists and family members have since completed Phillips' unfinished manuscript. The result is How to Save the Amazon: A Journalist's Deadly Quest for Answers, stitched together over three years through crowdfunding, grants and determination. The Javari expedition first featured in a 2018 piece Phillips wrote for The Guardian and it opens the book as a pivotal moment in his reporting life. 'It was a huge moment in Dom's life,' said Guardian correspondent Jonathan Watts, who co-authored the book's foreword and contributed a chapter. 'It was a natural starting point – and also maybe fate.' In June 2022, when news broke that two men had vanished in the Amazon, Watts was among the first to hear – but mistakenly thought the missing reporter was Tom Phillips, another Guardian journalist. Tom quickly published the first in a long series of reports on the case – but not before phoning his family to reassure them. He later joined the frantic search, tracing remote rivers in the desperate days before hope ran out. Where is my friend? Joining him was photographer Joao Laet, a longtime collaborator and close friend of Dom. His striking images of the missing journalist would be shared worldwide – but behind the lens, Laet was falling apart. 'It felt like a trance,' he recalled. Amid weak Internet, constant deadlines and colleagues falling sick with Covid-19, he pushed through on autopilot, haunted by one thought: 'Where is my friend?' Tears came only after work ended, when exhaustion and grief collapsed into restless sleep. On June 15, 10 days after the pair disappeared, authorities recovered their bodies. A suspect confessed to ambushing them during a boat journey, then led police to the burial site. Phillips was 57. Pereira was 41. Their murders drew rare international attention to the violence roiling the Amazon. According to investigators, they were killed in retaliation for Pereira's work protecting indigenous land from illegal fishing and mining. In November 2024, Brazilian prosecutors formally charged the alleged mastermind – a man accused of arming and financing the killers. It could have been any of us For Tom, discovering Dom's press card and notebooks deep in the jungle brought the horror home. 'It could have been any of us,' he said. But with the grief came purpose. 'In some ways, it's therapeutic – to keep doing the work, to have a clear mission. To finish this book. And to keep reporting the hell out of the Amazon.' Copies of the book 'How to Save the Amazon' by Dom Phillips & contributors for sale inside a bookshop in central London on June 6, following its launch. — AFP The book team quickly secured Dom's files – digital drafts, audio recordings and his meticulously-kept notebooks. Contributors began dividing up the material, digging through scribbled shorthand and interviewing those Dom had spoken to in the field. For his chapter, Tom retraced one of Dom's 2022 trips to Yanomami territory – another vast, remote region as fraught as the Javari. Decoding his colleague's notes felt like 'breaking a code', he said, but the narrative slowly emerged. Dom and Tom now share a chapter credit, exploring both the destructive push for Amazonian riches and hopeful efforts, such as a cacao-growing project helping locals earn a sustainable income. Most of the book follows that dual thread – exposing conflict while searching for solutions. Through Dom's eyes By the time Dom returned to the Javari in 2022, the region had become a hotspot for criminal syndicates – drug traffickers, land grabbers, poachers, illegal ranchers and loggers all jostling for control. His widow, Alessandra Sampaio, said he often described the book not just as a journalistic investigation, but as a way to forge an emotional bond between readers and the rainforest – a place he felt intensely connected to. 'I knew the Amazon through Dom's eyes,' she said. For every reporting trip, he sent her detailed itineraries, voice notes, photos and forest reflections. 'Ale, one day you'll come with me,' he would often tell her. In 2023, Sampaio finally did – joining a government mission to the Javari Valley, symbolic of President Lula da Silva's pledge to restore state presence in the lawless region. Indigenous leaders there continue to demand deeper structural reform. One moment stayed with her. An indigenous man embraced her and called her 'family' – reminding her that in their world, family means mutual care and commitment. That, Sampaio said, sealed her decision. A legacy in ink Like so many families left behind after violence, Sampaio has been pulled into the cause through grief. She now heads the Dom Phillips Institute, supporting young indigenous storytellers and conservation efforts. Her only request to the book's contributors was simple: keep Dom's original, hopeful title. Only the subtitle was changed – as he had inevitably become a central character in the very story he set out to write. 'One thing Dom always told me was, 'Keep going, Ale',' she said. 'Every time I wonder if I can go on, I hear his voice: 'Keep going, Ale'. And I do.' — ©2025 The New York Times Company This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
The Star
27-06-2025
- The Star
‘Worst incident in my 15-year career': Rescuer who found Brazilian tourist's body on Indonesia's Lombok volcano
SINGAPORE (The Straits Times/ANN): It took two aborted attempts in freezing temperatures before rescue worker Khafid Hasyadi climbed a 180m vertical cliff face and got the body of a Brazilian tourist out of a ravine on Mount Rinjani in Lombok. It then took him and his team another five hours to come down from the mountain, putting an end to a complex five-day rescue operation plagued by poor visibility and rain. Bad weather conditions were also a key reason why the authorities could not dispatch a helicopter to find and rescue the tourist, Juliana Marins, 26. When Khafid first embarked on the search and rescue effort on June 21, he fought through heavy fog and tough, rocky terrain to climb Mt Rinjani - Indonesia's second-highest peak at 3,726m - and get to Ms Marins. He said: 'This was the worst incident I've seen in my 15-year career. The fog was impenetrable, and with the terrain on the cliff, it was impossible for us to fight the environment and get to her sooner.' Marins was on an early morning hike with five friends on Mount Rinjani when she slipped and fell off a cliff on June 21. She survived the initial fall, and drone footage and video clips recorded by other hikers showed that she was distressed but alive, in a ravine, at a depth of 150m. But when rescuers descended the ravine, going twice as deep, they could not find her. By the morning of June 22, drone footage showed she was no more in the same place, and rescuers could not find her even 300m into the ravine. Climate conditions and extreme terrain slowed down efforts but the search resumed on June 24, and rescuers finally reached her body after descending 600m, Indonesia's search and rescue agency said in a statement. Marin's family later criticised the rescue effort, saying she could have been saved if the rescue team had reached her within hours, not days. Khafid, speaking to The Straits Times from Indonesia, said he and his team heard about Marins' fall at about 11am on June 21 and set off on foot to find her on Mt Rinjani. Carrying rescue equipment weighing about 10kg, he reached the location where she was last seen at about 11pm, but by then, it was too dark to do anything. The next day, bad weather hindered rescue efforts. He said: 'We couldn't even see 5m ahead because of how thick the fog was. 'From morning till evening, the weather was against us, and we had to leave our equipment there and trek down to the foot of the volcano.' At about 7.05am on June 23, a thermal drone detected Marin, and Khafid started to descend into the ravine. Marins was spotted at a depth of about 400m, but by the time Mr Khafid got there, she was not to be found. He radioed back to his team - made up of 48 members - and prepared to descend farther, but heavy fog returned and forced him to stop. It was on the third attempt that he descended to about 600m, and found her. A certified medical first responder, he checked and found that Marins was dead. He relayed the information back to the other rescuers, who were volunteers and officers from several Indonesian agencies. Six other men descended into the ravine. Three were stationed at the 400m mark, while the other three joined Khafid. On their way down, they set up anchor points on the cliff face, taking care to position them on rocks for added stability. But by the time they reached Marins, it became dark and they slept while tethered to the cliff face, making the call to carry out the evacuation the next day. Deploying a helicopter to airlift Marins was considered, said the Rinjani National Park Office in an Instagram post on June 24, but the heavy fog ruled out such a move. At 6am on June 25, rescuers began preparing Marins for evacuation, and nearly eight hours later, she was pulled out of the ravine and up a 180m vertical cliff face. The rescuers then came down the mountain with her body. An autopsy was conducted on June 26, and Marins' body was headed to Bali for repatriation to Brazil, Indonesian media reported. Asked if he had any advice for people keen on climbing Mount Rinjani, a popular tourist site, Khafid said it was important not to take the elements lightly. He said: 'The best time to climb it is from August to September, when the weather is good. If the weather is bad, it's better not to attempt it because we cannot fight the elements. We can only avoid it.' He added that he regretted how the operation turned out, and said things could turned out differently if the weather conditions had not been as harsh. Khafid said: 'You can use the best and latest equipment to do things like determine a person's location through the fog. 'But at the end of the day, it's up to the rescuers to do the actual work, and we have our limitations. If nature is unfriendly, there's little we can do, and so I have my regrets.' - The Straits Times/ANN
