October 2022. After spending three and a half years away due to the pandemic, I finally returned to the Amazon. I returned to Manaus, to the area of the riverfront known as Manaus Moderna. The old energy was gone. Things looked worn and tired. One of the steel stairways leading down to the river had broken in the middle and was hanging there, like a piece of accidental art. A floating dock lay washed over by the bow wave of a passing ship, gasping for breath like a giant fish on the riverbank.

Many of the familiar faces had disappeared. Mostly older ones. I told myself they had retired, but people whispered of other reasons—sickness, death, and families that had disappeared. The new porters were younger and mostly from Venezuela. They shouted in Spanish as they carried sacks and boxes. The women begging with their children near the boats were also newcomers, displaced, and tired.

Now that spring 2026 has arrived, not much has changed. Manaus Moderna is a mixture of promise and remembrance that feels trapped in a loop. The National Department of Transport Infrastructure (Departamento Nacional de Infraestrutura de Transportes, DNIT) declared in 2024 that it will spend R$520 million on port reconstruction. This amount rose to R$900 million a year later. Even though they claimed to have put aside R$916 million by the end of 2025, not a single new pillar or beam could be seen. Projects here move as slowly as the river during the dry season.

A friend wrote to me: “Seja sempre bem-vindo à sua terra”—you’ll always be welcome on your own ground. Back in 2013, I helped film a Dutch documentary here called Paul Rosenmöller and the Struggle of Latin America. The opening shots were pure chaos: boats, fish stalls and shouting porters. These were the same sounds that greeted me every time I stepped back into that world.

Manaus Moderna is my place, minha terra. It’s rough and neglected, and labeled “dangerous”, but it’s real. Politicians only remember it when the cameras are rolling. After twenty-five years of visiting, almost nothing has improved. Someone has painted on a wall: “Manaus abandonada”. It fits.

Over time, I practiced the little things—bandaging a friend’s cut or buying fish to cook a quick soup by the river. “O pai voltou!” they yelled the last time I came back—the old man is back!

I often think about what the photographer Sebastián Liste recently wrote: “The story that nobody sees changes nothing.” He’s right. My photos of Manaus Moderna span a quarter of a century. Most of them have never been seen by anyone. What can you do with that? I still don’t know. Maybe I’ll just share them. One by one. The harbor deserves to be seen.

Here you’ll find a loop featuring a few images from that collection. If you like one of them, feel free to get in touch—you can either request a print or simply chat about the river and its inhabitants.