I´m writing from Maria Elena, one of the last two working nitrate mines in Chile. The other, Pedro de Valdivia, is about 10km from here, southward or thereabouts. They are the only two salitres to have survived the mid-century nitrate bust that for a time devastated the Chilean economy (for more info, read my post below, ¨Marks Upon the Land¨).
I came to Maria Elena for mixed reasons. One, if possible, to secure permission to photograph the mine and plant, thereby augmenting my ongoing project on mining. Two, to witness a working nitrate mine as a counterpoint to the nitrate ghost towns of Humberstone and Santa Laura. Three, to rouse myself out of the Tocopilla-induced stupor that was engulfing my consciousness. I haven´t written much on the blog about photography — let alone the day-to-day administrative aspects of getting from place to place, gaining access/acceptance/trust, keeping your gear in good working order, lugging around 10 pounds of film, etc. — but it requires mountains of effort and drive, not to mention diplomacy, humor, patience and sometimes even money. What I felt creeping inside my veins in Tocopilla was sheer inertia, perhaps exacerbated by the fact that I´m down to my last couple of days of the trip (yes, I´m coming home a week early) and a part of me WANTS to believe that I should be winding down, preparing mentally for the long journey home on Thursday. But, as we now know, rust never sleeps. I still have film. I still have daylight. Just get off your ass and DO it, chico.
In terms of how my aforementioned motivations for driving to Maria Elena were rewarded…
One: I made it pretty far through the gauntlet before my aspirations to shoot the mine at Maria Elena were crushed. After being redirected to five different offices at the mine over a span of 90 minutes and getting laughed at by guards who found the idea that I would want to photograph the mine preposterous, I finally got the name of the woman who makes the sole decisions about who is granted access to see (and/or photograph) the mine and who is not. (For personal reference later, her name is Macarena Yugovic.) Smelling victory, I confidently mounted the steps to her office, flung open the door and smiled at her shriveled, grey-haired secretary. ¨How can I help you, sir?¨ Sweet…I´m IN. ¨Well, you see, my dear madaam, I´m what you call a photographer. After being routed for an hour and a half through the mindless bureacracy of your fine organization, I finally encountered a young, butch woman in a hard hat who indicated that, in order to arrange a tour of the mine, I need to speak with a certain godlike personage who is hailed far and wide by the name of Macarena Yugovic. Could you please direct me to her office/heavenly throne?¨ ¨Well, sir, you should know that getting access to photograph the mine is very difficult but it can be arranged.¨ Sweet…I´m SO in. ¨However, I´m sorry to tell you that Macarena is on vacation for three weeks.¨ CURSES!!! I´m so OUT. ¨Is there another career bureaucrat who can help me arrange a visit in the morning?¨ ¨No, I´m afraid not.¨ And so I left my trial a broken man, having been bested by a 78-year-old Chilean woman.
Two: Despite my disappointment about not being able to photograph the mine, I´m glad I made the drive. While Humberstone and Santa Laura are basically in ruins and Maria Elena is not, you can see a common genetic thread running through the residential areas of all three mining communities. The same wild west, turn-of-the-century buildings, the same town plans with a central square, church, etc., the same dusty desolation. The main difference is that the nitrate mine and plant here are huge. In comparison, they make the others I saw at the ghost towns look like they were made from playdough and tinker toys. While the town hasn´t changed much since the nitrate bust, the scale and technology of the mining operations most certainly have. It is a large scale, modern industrial enterprise. The kind of thing that makes you remember how small you really are…just a speck of dust next to the great machines we are capable of building.
Three: After today´s adventure, I´m finally feeling Tocopilla-stupor-free. Hold it. Having heard only the bureaucratic part of my story above, you might be tempted to question my liberal use of the word ¨adventure.¨ And I wouldn´t blame you. But I have a trick up my sleeve, faithful readers, that may make some of you gasp in horror, may make others of you claps your hands in suspense, may make still others of you cover your eyes in shock and awe (or if you are my dear mother, probably all three). The trick: I explored a copper tunnel mine today. Imagine a tube three feet wide and four to five feet tall bored (or rather, blasted) into the side of mountain, ascending steeply and getting stuffier, darker, dustier and more claustrophobic with every crumbling, uneven step.
As I was driving the winding pass up from Tocopilla to the desert, I spotted some men perched on a rock ledge above the highway and figured I´d give it a shot. So I climbed up to where they stood and gave them my usual line and they were more than happy to accommodate my request to photograph the men working. And then the engineer asked if I wanted to check out the mine proper and I was like, uh, sure. So I followed the men up a ladder and into the mine. I can´t imagine we went more than a couple hundred feet in but I felt like we were in the middle of the damned mountain. Scary at the time, but in retrospect it was the perfect close to my time in the desert, to all of this talk about mining and blasting and marking the land. To be under the earth in a dark tube seeing what all the fuss is about.
And now, I depart Maria Elena for Iquique, or as far as I can get before sleep overtakes me and I dream of being a giant gopher.
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Maria Elena
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Top Row: Small Copper Mines in the Mountain Pass above Tocopilla; Bottom Left: Memorial to Lost Miners; Bottom Right: Dust from a Dynamite Blast
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