Extreme mining

I really don't update enough. I'm going to try to update every day in January and see if eljay is habit-forming.

But for now, a short entry on mining, for the season devoted to celebrating conspicuous consumption. John Maynard Keynes called the gold standard a "barbarous relic" but as Brook Larmer points out in National Geo, our obsession with precious metals is as barbarous a relic of more superstitious times. I've read two fantastic articles recently about metals mining that take you inside a luxury trade with wide-ranging and truly devastating socio-economic and environmental consequences.

The Mountain That Eats Men
Andrew Westoll
The Walrus

Legend has it that the Inca knew about the riches lying beneath the Cerro. According to Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano, an Inca named Huayna Capaj led a team of treasure seekers to its summit long before the Spanish arrived. As they began to dig, though, a fearsome voice thundered from the heavens. “This is not for you,” it warned. “God is keeping these riches for those who come from afar.” The Incas fled, terrified, but not before dubbing the mountain Potojsi, Quechua for “to thunder, burst, explode.”

In 1545, during the early days of the conquest, the prophecy of the mountain came true. An unlucky Indian named Huallpa spent a shivering night on the Cerro, after passing the day in pursuit of an escaped llama. By the light of his campfire, he glimpsed a huge vein of pure silver glittering on the mountain’s surface. Word spread quickly, and, as Galeano puts it, “the Spanish avalanche was unleashed.”

The Spaniards opened the mine that same year. Within three decades, Potosí had grown more affluent than Paris or London, making it the New World’s first genuine boom town. The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, named Potosí an Imperial City, and upon its shield were inscribed the lines “I am rich Potosí, treasure of the world, king of the mountains, envy of kings.” Popular theory holds that the old mark of the Potosí mint (the letters ptsi superimposed on one another) was the precursor of the modern dollar sign.

The true amount of silver extracted from the Cerro is impossible to measure, but Bolivians often claim that enough was chiselled from the mountain to build a shimmering bridge from the summit all the way to Madrid. In Spain, even today, if something is “worth a Potosí,” it is worth a fortune. But this astonishing wealth came at an awful cost: untold numbers of indigenous workers perished inside the mines, after living lives of incomparable torment.

The Real Price of Gold
Brook Larmer
National Geographic

Like many of his Inca ancestors, Juan Apaza is possessed by gold. Descending into an icy tunnel 17,000 feet up in the Peruvian Andes, the 44-year-old miner stuffs a wad of coca leaves into his mouth to brace himself for the inevitable hunger and fatigue. For 30 days each month Apaza toils, without pay, deep inside this mine dug down under a glacier above the world's highest town, La Rinconada. For 30 days he faces the dangers that have killed many of his fellow miners—explosives, toxic gases, tunnel collapses—to extract the gold that the world demands. Apaza does all this, without pay, so that he can make it to today, the 31st day, when he and his fellow miners are given a single shift, four hours or maybe a little more, to haul out and keep as much rock as their weary shoulders can bear. Under the ancient lottery system that still prevails in the high Andes, known as the cachorreo, this is what passes for a paycheck: a sack of rocks that may contain a small fortune in gold or, far more often, very little at all.

Apaza is still waiting for a stroke of luck. "Maybe today will be the big one," he says, flashing a smile that reveals a single gold tooth. To improve his odds, the miner has already made his "payment to the Earth": a bottle of pisco, the local liquor, placed near the mouth of the mine; a few coca leaves slipped under a rock; and, several months back, a rooster sacrificed by a shaman on the sacred mountaintop. Now, heading into the tunnel, he mumbles a prayer in his native Quechua language to the deity who rules the mountain and all the gold within.

"She is our Sleeping Beauty," says Apaza, nodding toward a sinuous curve in the snowfield high above the mine. "Without her blessing we would never find any gold. We might not make it out of here alive."

It isn't El Dorado, exactly. But for more than 500 years the glittering seams trapped beneath the glacial ice here, three miles above sea level, have drawn people to this place in Peru. Among the first were the Inca, who saw the perpetually lustrous metal as the "sweat of the sun"; then the Spanish, whose lust for gold and silver spurred the conquest of the New World. But it is only now, as the price of gold soars—it has risen 235 percent in the past eight years—that 30,000 people have flocked to La Rinconada, turning a lonely prospectors' camp into a squalid shantytown on top of the world. Fueled by luck and desperation, sinking in its own toxic waste and lawlessness, this no-man's-land now teems with dreamers and schemers anxious to strike it rich, even if it means destroying their environment—and themselves—in the process.

The scene may sound almost medieval, but La Rinconada is one of the frontiers of a thoroughly modern phenomenon: a 21st-century gold rush.