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A Mine Eats a 400
For a woman intent on moving an entire city, fifty six year old Congresswoman Gloria Ramos Prudencio, barely five feet tall, looks unassuming. Her city is Cerro de Pasco, population 70,000. Perched on the treeless Peruvian altiplano at 14,200 feet, it's one of the highest cities on the planet.
"As a girl, walking past Bellavista, where the Americans lived, I would pester my mother, 'Why do the gringos get the nice houses?' " the soft spoken Ramos recalls. "In school my teachers called me preguntona" she of too many questions.
Latin America over the past decade has seen its mining sector triple in value to $300 billion. Peru's economy, among the fastest growing, derives one sixth of its gross domestic product from minerals. At Cerro de Pasco, you can see the entire history of Peruvian mining and the costs it sometimes imposes: The mine here is literally consuming the 400 year old town that supports it.
The open pit mine operated by a subsidiary of Volcan Compa Minera, a Peruvian company, is a crater terraced like an inverted ziggurat. Over a mile long by a half mile wide by a quarter mile deep, it laps at the retreating town like a hungry sea. A line of abandoned houses, their steel roof tiles rusting and pockmarked, serves as a no man's land between the chasm and the living city.
Daniel Alcides Carri was a medical student in 1885, when workers building the railroad into town were being decimated by a disease called Oroya fever. By injecting himself with tissue from a survivor's skin lesion,cost of rolex oyster perpetual datejust replica, Carri proved that the fulminant fever and a chronic condition known as Peruvian wart had the same cause a microbe that,replica 1986 rolex oyster perpetual datejust, decades after Carri injected himself, would become treatable with antibiotics. Side panels along the statue's base depict how he died, delirious with fever.
A shop in the base sells commemorative plastic syringes. They make strange souvenirs of a star crossed town but once you've been there, and seen what its inhabitants are up against, they seem apt.
Four hundred years ago, legend has it, the rocks around campfires in Cerro de Pasco "wept silver." For centuries, the mine here ranked among the Spanish Crown's richest, filling galleons with silver. In 1820, the town was the first in Peru to be liberated from the Spanish. By the early 1900s it was Peru's second largest city; fancy carriages and European consuls graced its streets.
In 1903, the world's highest railroad completed its 200 mile cut into the Andes. It brought in Americans of the Cerro de Pasco Corporation, which bought the mine. Copper ruled, but silver could still be found. Morgan, Henry Clay Frick, and the Vanderbilt family, among other gringo investors, made bundles. In the 1950s, copper gave way to zinc and lead, a lot of it now destined for China.
Until the mid 1950's, miners dug out ore the old fashioned way, through tunnels. A year after Gloria Ramos was born, the mining company switched from tunnels to more efficient open pit mining within the city limits. In one of history's unluckier wish we'd known thens, it turned out the richest veins of lead and zinc were under the town.
"The center of the city once had foreign consulates and historic homes," Ramos says. "For many years, we were Peru's second city. The tajo (pit) took all that. These days, even the neighborhoods built in the 1960s to get away from the pit are falling into it."
All raw cinderblock and rough hewn sidewalks, the rump of today's Cerro de Pasco lacks potable water, because its lakes and rivers glow orange with mining runoff. Trucks supply drinking water at 25 times the cost in Lima. "My neighborhood gets water six hours a week," Ramos says. This year, a judge allowed Volcan to continue dumping mining waste into a pond just south of town.
There is also almost no indoor heating in Cerro de Pasco. The Andean cold drives shopgirls into parkas and fingerless gloves; you see your breath over dinner in restaurants. Kids scampering down sidewalks have scarlet cheeks, as if they've been slapped.
Along the western rim of the mine, massive mounds of lead laced tailings brood over neighborhoods such as Paragsha and Champamarca. Dust from the mounds blows everywhere.
Since 1996, Peru's health ministry has sampled blood lead levels in children here twice a year. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) took part. The results are always the same: More than half the children tested have high lead levels, most likely from ingesting the tailings dust.
"This place is Chernobyl," says Paul Rodr a doctor in Paragsha's community clinic. A beefy guy with a quick, ironic smile, Rodr is frustrated. He knows from the surveys that the kids coming into his clinic are at risk in four cases he's even seen the blue line across the gums that heralds severe lead poisoning. But he can't order up a diagnostic blood test when a child needs one.
Volcan spokesman Jorge Leoncio Murillo Nu says the company complies with all Peruvian environmental laws and has "carried out campaigns to inform the population about hygiene and cleaning procedures to mitigate the effects of pollution."
Cecilia Bera was born in Champamarca, a half mile south of Rodr clinic. When I met her, she was living with her two boys in a school storeroom. before trekking an hour down to the base of the mine to work as a shoveler. an hour.
Wedged between the pit and the tailings mounds,replica gold rolex oyster perpetual datejust, Champamarca is lead city. Cecilia's boys, ages 10 and 7, had lead levels in their blood of 14.5 and 13.7 micrograms per deciliter. CDC considers anything over 5 dangerous.
"In March his level was 18.9. He's had three seizures, we spent last New Year's in the hospital. They sent him home with no medicines. My older sons weren't born here and they are OK. I came for the work. For my son's sake I would sell my house and leave, but no one is buying."
Lead poisoning is a sneaky beast. Even low levels sap energy, make joints ache, and impair learning; moderate levels, especially in children, permanently lower IQs. Go higher and you get convulsions, organ dysfunction, and death.
"They don't learn well," Cecilia said of her boys. "The Ministry of Health sent doctors for one day to examine them. All they prescribed was some vitamins 'to make them sharper,' they said."
This past September, townspeople marched the 150 miles from Cerro de Pasco to Lima to draw the capital's attention to the town's 2,070 children with blood lead levels above 10 micrograms per deciliter twice the danger level. Soon afterward the government announced plans for a new hospital with a heavy metals testing and treatment unit. But plans have been announced before.
In the 1980s, when the mine was still government owned, President Alan Garc administration spent $30 million on a housing project 15 miles from town to try to entice mining families to move there. At 200 square feet, the houses were not very enticing. Only a smattering of people live in the forlorn neighborhood, which is now controlled by Volcan; its logo is stencilled on every house. Neat rows of street lamps stand in grassy fields where construction stopped.
In 2008, Gloria Ramos gave up on such partial fixes. Elected congresswoman in 2006, she managed to get the Peruvian legislature to pass by unanimous vote Law 29293, which mandates the complete relocation of Cerro de Pasco. But the law left a crucial question undecided: Who pays?
"They allocated $2 million to study alternative sites," Ramos sighs. "But the ministries of Mining and Finance simply ignore committee meetings, so nothing moves." (The Peruvian government did not respond to requests for comment.)
In the meantime, the government halted planning for a new water system for Cerro de Pasco why invest in a city that's about to disappear? And Volcan withdrew its own proposal to buy the last vestige of the historic town now at pit's edge and reconstruct it farther away.
Walk around town and concrete private property markers bearing the name of Cerro SAC the Volcan subsidiary that now runs the mine pop up everywhere. "The company chips away at the town by buying every third house in a neighborhood, then boarding it up," says Gladys Huam Gora, director of Labor Pasco, a local watchdog group. "Prices fall, so people scramble to sell. But the mine is in no hurry; whenever people try to unite and resist, it backs off and waits."
The structure of the labor force helps keep the town fragmented. In Cerro de Pasco, you can't miss the miners: Rugged and compact,rolex datejust oyster replica, they swagger by in orange jumpsuits. A slogan spray painted on a wall reads Somos machos pero no muchos "we are macho but not many."
For a woman intent on moving an entire city, fifty six year old Congresswoman Gloria Ramos Prudencio, barely five feet tall, looks unassuming. Her city is Cerro de Pasco, population 70,000. Perched on the treeless Peruvian altiplano at 14,200 feet, it's one of the highest cities on the planet.
"As a girl, walking past Bellavista, where the Americans lived, I would pester my mother, 'Why do the gringos get the nice houses?' " the soft spoken Ramos recalls. "In school my teachers called me preguntona" she of too many questions.
Latin America over the past decade has seen its mining sector triple in value to $300 billion. Peru's economy, among the fastest growing, derives one sixth of its gross domestic product from minerals. At Cerro de Pasco, you can see the entire history of Peruvian mining and the costs it sometimes imposes: The mine here is literally consuming the 400 year old town that supports it.
The open pit mine operated by a subsidiary of Volcan Compa Minera, a Peruvian company, is a crater terraced like an inverted ziggurat. Over a mile long by a half mile wide by a quarter mile deep, it laps at the retreating town like a hungry sea. A line of abandoned houses, their steel roof tiles rusting and pockmarked, serves as a no man's land between the chasm and the living city.
Daniel Alcides Carri was a medical student in 1885, when workers building the railroad into town were being decimated by a disease called Oroya fever. By injecting himself with tissue from a survivor's skin lesion,cost of rolex oyster perpetual datejust replica, Carri proved that the fulminant fever and a chronic condition known as Peruvian wart had the same cause a microbe that,replica 1986 rolex oyster perpetual datejust, decades after Carri injected himself, would become treatable with antibiotics. Side panels along the statue's base depict how he died, delirious with fever.
A shop in the base sells commemorative plastic syringes. They make strange souvenirs of a star crossed town but once you've been there, and seen what its inhabitants are up against, they seem apt.
Four hundred years ago, legend has it, the rocks around campfires in Cerro de Pasco "wept silver." For centuries, the mine here ranked among the Spanish Crown's richest, filling galleons with silver. In 1820, the town was the first in Peru to be liberated from the Spanish. By the early 1900s it was Peru's second largest city; fancy carriages and European consuls graced its streets.
In 1903, the world's highest railroad completed its 200 mile cut into the Andes. It brought in Americans of the Cerro de Pasco Corporation, which bought the mine. Copper ruled, but silver could still be found. Morgan, Henry Clay Frick, and the Vanderbilt family, among other gringo investors, made bundles. In the 1950s, copper gave way to zinc and lead, a lot of it now destined for China.
Until the mid 1950's, miners dug out ore the old fashioned way, through tunnels. A year after Gloria Ramos was born, the mining company switched from tunnels to more efficient open pit mining within the city limits. In one of history's unluckier wish we'd known thens, it turned out the richest veins of lead and zinc were under the town.
"The center of the city once had foreign consulates and historic homes," Ramos says. "For many years, we were Peru's second city. The tajo (pit) took all that. These days, even the neighborhoods built in the 1960s to get away from the pit are falling into it."
All raw cinderblock and rough hewn sidewalks, the rump of today's Cerro de Pasco lacks potable water, because its lakes and rivers glow orange with mining runoff. Trucks supply drinking water at 25 times the cost in Lima. "My neighborhood gets water six hours a week," Ramos says. This year, a judge allowed Volcan to continue dumping mining waste into a pond just south of town.
There is also almost no indoor heating in Cerro de Pasco. The Andean cold drives shopgirls into parkas and fingerless gloves; you see your breath over dinner in restaurants. Kids scampering down sidewalks have scarlet cheeks, as if they've been slapped.
Along the western rim of the mine, massive mounds of lead laced tailings brood over neighborhoods such as Paragsha and Champamarca. Dust from the mounds blows everywhere.
Since 1996, Peru's health ministry has sampled blood lead levels in children here twice a year. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) took part. The results are always the same: More than half the children tested have high lead levels, most likely from ingesting the tailings dust.
"This place is Chernobyl," says Paul Rodr a doctor in Paragsha's community clinic. A beefy guy with a quick, ironic smile, Rodr is frustrated. He knows from the surveys that the kids coming into his clinic are at risk in four cases he's even seen the blue line across the gums that heralds severe lead poisoning. But he can't order up a diagnostic blood test when a child needs one.
Volcan spokesman Jorge Leoncio Murillo Nu says the company complies with all Peruvian environmental laws and has "carried out campaigns to inform the population about hygiene and cleaning procedures to mitigate the effects of pollution."
Cecilia Bera was born in Champamarca, a half mile south of Rodr clinic. When I met her, she was living with her two boys in a school storeroom. before trekking an hour down to the base of the mine to work as a shoveler. an hour.
Wedged between the pit and the tailings mounds,replica gold rolex oyster perpetual datejust, Champamarca is lead city. Cecilia's boys, ages 10 and 7, had lead levels in their blood of 14.5 and 13.7 micrograms per deciliter. CDC considers anything over 5 dangerous.
"In March his level was 18.9. He's had three seizures, we spent last New Year's in the hospital. They sent him home with no medicines. My older sons weren't born here and they are OK. I came for the work. For my son's sake I would sell my house and leave, but no one is buying."
Lead poisoning is a sneaky beast. Even low levels sap energy, make joints ache, and impair learning; moderate levels, especially in children, permanently lower IQs. Go higher and you get convulsions, organ dysfunction, and death.
"They don't learn well," Cecilia said of her boys. "The Ministry of Health sent doctors for one day to examine them. All they prescribed was some vitamins 'to make them sharper,' they said."
This past September, townspeople marched the 150 miles from Cerro de Pasco to Lima to draw the capital's attention to the town's 2,070 children with blood lead levels above 10 micrograms per deciliter twice the danger level. Soon afterward the government announced plans for a new hospital with a heavy metals testing and treatment unit. But plans have been announced before.
In the 1980s, when the mine was still government owned, President Alan Garc administration spent $30 million on a housing project 15 miles from town to try to entice mining families to move there. At 200 square feet, the houses were not very enticing. Only a smattering of people live in the forlorn neighborhood, which is now controlled by Volcan; its logo is stencilled on every house. Neat rows of street lamps stand in grassy fields where construction stopped.
In 2008, Gloria Ramos gave up on such partial fixes. Elected congresswoman in 2006, she managed to get the Peruvian legislature to pass by unanimous vote Law 29293, which mandates the complete relocation of Cerro de Pasco. But the law left a crucial question undecided: Who pays?
"They allocated $2 million to study alternative sites," Ramos sighs. "But the ministries of Mining and Finance simply ignore committee meetings, so nothing moves." (The Peruvian government did not respond to requests for comment.)
In the meantime, the government halted planning for a new water system for Cerro de Pasco why invest in a city that's about to disappear? And Volcan withdrew its own proposal to buy the last vestige of the historic town now at pit's edge and reconstruct it farther away.
Walk around town and concrete private property markers bearing the name of Cerro SAC the Volcan subsidiary that now runs the mine pop up everywhere. "The company chips away at the town by buying every third house in a neighborhood, then boarding it up," says Gladys Huam Gora, director of Labor Pasco, a local watchdog group. "Prices fall, so people scramble to sell. But the mine is in no hurry; whenever people try to unite and resist, it backs off and waits."
The structure of the labor force helps keep the town fragmented. In Cerro de Pasco, you can't miss the miners: Rugged and compact,rolex datejust oyster replica, they swagger by in orange jumpsuits. A slogan spray painted on a wall reads Somos machos pero no muchos "we are macho but not many."
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