Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
of rot, of human excrement. Even the glacial cold, the permafrost, the whipping wind, and
driving snows cannot mask the smell. As you ascend the mountain, all about you are heaps
of garbage, a choking ruin, and sylphlike figures picking idly through it. Closer in are huts
of tin and stone, leaning out at 70-degree angles, and then the ever-present mud, the string
of humanity streaming in and out of black holes that scar the cliffs. Along the precipitously
windingroad,flocksofwomeninwideskirtsscrabbleupinclinestoscavengerocksthatspill
from the mineshafts; the children they don't carry in slings—the ones who are old enough to
walk—shoulder bags of rock.
Aminerluckyenoughtofindworkoncehereachesthismountaininfernolaborsinsubzero
temperatures, in dank, suffocating tunnels, wielding a primitive pick. In the course of that
work,heriskslungdisease,toxicpoisoning,asphyxiation,nervedamage.Heexposeshimself
to glacial floods, collapsing shafts, wayward dynamite, chemical leaks. The altitude alone is
punishing: at 14,000 feet a human body can experience pulmonary edema, blood clots, kid-
ney failure; at 18,000 the injuries can be more severe. To counter them, he chews wads of
coca. He carries pocketfuls of the leaf to curb his hunger, prevent exhaustion. If he lives to
work another day, he celebrates by drinking himself into a stupor. The ore he extracts, grinds
down, leaches with mercury, then purifies in a blazing furnace will make his boss and his
boss's bosses very rich; but for the vast majority who slave in that high circle of hell, gold is
as elusive as a glittering fool's paradise.
The system of
cachorreo
, used by contractors in La Rinconada and elsewhere, is akin to
theMita,thesystemofimposed,mandatoryservitudethatonceenslavedIndianstotheSpan-
ish crown. Under
cachorreo
, a worker surrenders his identity card to his employer. He labors
for 30 days with no pay. On the 31st day, if he is lucky, he is allowed to mine the shaft for
his personal profit. But he can take only what he can carry out on his back. By the time a
miner struggles out under his cargo of stones, grinds it, and coaxes the glittering dust free, he
may find he has precious little for his efforts. Worse still, because he must sell his gold to the
ramshackle, unregulated establishments in town, it will fetch the lowest price possible. On
average, a miner in La Rinconada earns $170 a month—$5 for every day of grueling labor.
On average, he has more than five mouths to feed. If he has a bad month, he will earn $30.
If he does well, he will earn $1,000. In most cases, workers simply go up the hill, spend their
hard-won cash on liquor and prostitutes, and count themselves lucky if they make it home
without a brawl. Crime and AIDS are rampant in La Rinconada. Ifworkdoesn't kill a man, a
knife or a virus will. There are few miners here who have reached 50.
It's hard to imagine, as we hover over the gleaming counters of jewelry stores in Paris or
New York, or even Jakarta and Mumbai, that gold can take such a hallucinatory journey, that
the process remains so medieval—that little has progressed in half a millennium of human
history. Families like Senna Ochochoque's, who have spent as many as three generations un-
der the spell of gold's promise, live in abject poverty, barely able to eke out an evening meal.
