By Friday, the media centre had snapped back to business — all silence, glass walls and private log-ins. Just 24 hours earlier, the fire had shoved us into the same sweaty limbo: top-tier journos shoulder-to-shoulder with freelancers, queuing for bottled water, swapping hotspot codes, and praying someone had a charger that actually worked.
People shared COP war stories, jokes, and existential dread. For one weird, smoky night, the COP bubble burst, and it felt almost human.
Not today.
The camaraderie? Gone. Top brass are back behind their frosted-glass doors. The desks are quiet. Everyone’s got their head down, eyes on screens, noise-cancelling headphones firmly in place. It’s deadline day without the bonding. Sure, a couple of friendly faces still float by with a nod at pressers, but the vibe has returned to default: every journalist an island, every story a war of attrition.
And it’s not just the hacks feeling it. The whole venue got serious. Grim, even. The fire cost hours — critical ones. Everyone knows it. Friday was meant to be the end, the triumphant sprint to the finish line. Instead? We’re in an unscheduled overtime match where nobody’s quite sure who’s winning, and the referees have left for the airport.
People were supposed to fly out tonight or tomorrow. Now they’re refreshing their airline apps like they’re watching election results. Stay? Rebook? Bail and hope your delegation doesn’t pull a last-minute “consensus breaker” headline while you’re in the air? The indecision is electric.
A senior negotiator (who looked like he hadn’t slept since Tuesday) muttered at the coffee stand, “There’s no more time for slogans. We either cut a deal, or we cut our reputations to shreds.” And then he downed a double espresso like it was a shot of vodka and vanished into Meeting Room 7, which has now become a kind of Bermuda Triangle for ambition.
The Brazilian presidency is still pushing the mutirão vibe — everyone pulling together, one big Amazonian kumbaya. But let’s be honest: the mood’s more ‘lock the doors and settle this before someone tweets another leak’.
It’s no longer about negotiation theatre or climate platitudes. It’s about delivery. It’s about who will blink first on the issue of fossil fuel language. It’s about how much money will actually move — and how much is just hot air dressed up in PowerPoint. And for those still here, pacing the halls in scuffed shoes and yesterday’s suit jackets, the mission is simple: don’t leave Belém with nothing.
Because here’s the thing: when history looks back on COP30, it won’t remember the pastries, or the side events, or even the UN-approved photo ops. It’ll remember who got the job done — and who just played for time while the planet burned.
Tomorrow, I’m back. Because this isn’t over.
