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In the San José Mine, sea level is the chief point of reference. The five-by-five-metre tunnel of the Ramp begins at Level 720, which is 720 metres above sea level. The Ramp descends into the mountain as a series of switchbacks, and then farther down becomes a spiral. Assorted machines and the men who operate them drive down past Level 200, into the part of the mountain where there are still minerals to be brought to the surface.
On the morning of Aug. 5, 2010, the men of the A shift are working as far down as Level 40, some 2,230 vertical feet below the surface, loading freshly blasted ore into a dump truck. Another group of men are at Level 60, working to fortify a passageway near a spot where a man lost a limb in an accident one month earlier. A few have gathered for a moment of rest, or idleness, in or near El Refugio, the Refuge, an enclosed space about the size of a school classroom, carved out of the rock at Level 90, that serves as both emergency shelter and break room.
The mechanics led by Juan Carlos Aguilar find respite from the oppressive heat by setting up a workshop at Level 150, in a passageway not far from the vast interior chasm called El Rajo, which translates loosely as “the Pit.” The mechanics have decided to start their workweek by asking Mario Sepúlveda to give them a demonstration of how he operates his front loader. They watch as he uses the clutch to bring the vehicle to a stop, shifting from forward directly to reverse without going into neutral first. He’s mucking up the transmission by doing this, wearing out the differential. “No one ever showed me,” Sepúlveda explains when asked why he’s operating the machine that way. “I just learned from watching.”
The mechanics, who work for a contractor, are not surprised to learn that an employee of the San José is operating an expensive piece of equipment without having received any formal training. The San José is an older, smaller mine known for cutting corners, and for its primitive working conditions and perfunctory safety practices. Among other things, it has vertical escape tunnels that will be useless in an emergency because they lack the ladders necessary for the miners to use them.
Throughout the morning, the mountain has continued its intermittent thundering wail, the sound of a distant explosion followed by a long whining sound. Carlos Pinilla, the general manager of the San Esteban Mining Company, hears this noise as he travels in a pickup truck between the levels of the San José Mine. He has an office on the surface, but is now deep inside the mountain to impose some discipline on a workplace that’s much too casual for his liking.
Pinilla is a jowly man of about 50 who’s worked his way up from lowly office jobs in mining companies to one in which he’s the general manager of the two mines run by the San Esteban Mining Company. He’s described by his underlings as imperious, the kind of a man who will bark an order and who treats the miners as if their sweating, helmeted presence were offensive to him somehow. Only the older, most experienced miners have dared to speak out in the face of the mounting evidence of the San José Mine’s structural weakness.
After 121 years in which men and machines have emptied and hollowed the mountain, the San José Mine is still intact thanks to the hard, gray diorite stone that makes up most of the mountain’s mass. In mining slang, the diorite is “good” rock in the sense that it holds together when you drill through it. The Ramp has been carved through this stone, and is the only true way in and out of the mine.
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