Northern Mexico is everything Cormac McCarthy promised it would be. The landscape has taken a Western turn ever since we left the border town, Nogales. On two-lane roads we passed rolling fields of blonde grass and gnarled black trees. The asphalt frequently gave way to dirt and rocks, leaving us to bump and skid past miles of barbed wire and the occasional ranch house. At the end of the plains, we climbed narrow mountain roads to a mining town called Cananea. Maybe he never mentions the place by name, but I had McCarthy’s border trilogy on the brain as we arrived in town: All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing, and Cities of the Plain.
We reached a gas station on the edge of town as night was falling, and a stranger volunteered to protect us on the remaining highway with his car, guiding the way with his headlights. We stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Concepcion Herrera Vargas, the grandparents of a kid that used to have Davi as a scoutmaster. They welcomed us into their home, and put us up in one of the (grown) kids’ rooms. Somehow we convinced them not to feed us. Instead, Mr. Herrera took us in his pickup truck for burritos on the other side of town. On our way there he gave us the night tour. Turns out, there’s more going on in Cananea than meets the eye.
Cananea is home to some of the largest gold and copper mines in the world. The entire town—31,560 people according to the last census—depends directly or indirectly on the company doing the digging. In 2007, the company was nationalized by the Mexican government. The workers were replaced by a new, less feisty union, Confederation of Mexican Workers (“CTM”), made up entirely of people from other states. The town, organized under a union called Section 65, revolted. They armed themselves and ousted the 500 mercenaries hired by the company. They barricaded the highways, and blocked the railroad tracks. The Mexican police intervened—no, not to keep the peace— to break the strike. Suffocated by heavy weapons, helicopters, and hundreds of troops, Section 65 finally broke down June 6, 2011.
It’s easy to tell Cananea was once a nice place. The town fits snugly between the high mountains that produce so much copper, but also a wealth of gold and turquoise. Everything that was built for the workers convenience and comfort by the original owner, William Green, a kinder, gentler dictator, is now abandoned—schools, houses, hospitals, libraries, and recreation centers. A new golf course was just completed, but its only for the company executives, surrounded by barbed wire, and guarded by men with guns. All told, according to Mr. Herrera, there are 1,500 armed sentries protecting the mines from the people that used to work there.
For them, there can be no forgiveness. The new union hires indiscriminately with only one prerequisite: You cannot be from Cananea. For the last seven years, the town has remained occupied and in a state of, more or less, apartheid. There are the old workers and the new workers. The old workers are a thorn in the money-makers’ side. More gold has been discovered under the town itself, but they can’t level the place until everyone moves out. The old workers—humble people like our hosts—couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. They have no money, and there’s no value left in their property. The company owes the old workers a total of 900,000,000 pesos, but they’ll never pay. Every lawsuit filed against them has failed. Life is unpleasant for those still holding on, waiting for their money. The company/government frequently cuts their water and internet off, and has jacked up the price of gasoline. Cancer rates are sky high. The water and air is so polluted that it turns white paint yellow, and corrodes the cars.
Mr. Herrera no longer works in the mines, but he’s keeping busy in other ways. He raises fighting-cocks in the backyard, which sell for $100 on the black market in the United States. Waking up to the sound of a dozen roosters crowing was pleasant, but I imagine the novelty wears off quickly. Our host has won a handful of trophies for his rooster raising prowess. It’s clear he’s a bit of a fighting cock himself. On our way to get burritos he pulled through a red light that used to be a stop sign. It was a simple mistake, but municipal policemen in Mexico aren’t a forgiving bunch. Most are looking for a bribe. Why, then, did the officer that pulled us over— cradling an M4 assault rifle—let our guy off the hook? Mr. Herrera chatted easily with the officer and casually dropped a few names. It seems the chief of police frequents his side business, a taco stand, and the two are friends. Oh and the head of the mafia really enjoys cockfighting, so naturally he and Mr. Herrera are close friends. When asked how he got off so easily, and why he doesn’t mind us publishing his picture, our host explained he “knows all the people.” Look up Cananea on the web and you’ll find next to nothing about the town’s troubles. All the newspapers and whistleblowers are paid to keep quiet, and in any case many of the workers have stopped talking publicly. It’s become too dangerous.
The people in Cananea need outside help, but there’s no one they can turn to. Corruption in Mexico is widespread and deeply entrenched. The saying “plata O plomo,” “silver or lead,” seems especially apt. It means take the bribe or a bullet. When it comes to Cananea, it’s copper or lead, and any potential heroes seem content to take the money and look the other way.
We were shown a great amount of hospitality in Cananea, but were happy to finally leave. All four of us woke up feeling sick in different ways. I had a sore throat. Pablo threw up. Davi felt dizzy. Jon felt sick to his stomach. We suspect it was the pollution in the air. Learning more about the town, I was reminded of another book: The Jungle, Upton Sinclair’s novel describing the plight of workers trapped in the maw of 1920s American capitalism. I feel like I’ve seen the meat-packing plants for myself now.
