Moving mountains: … life under the helmet in peru's mining towns

New Internationalist, March, 1998 by Stephanie Boyd

A LARGER-THAN-LIFE metallic replica of a miner's helmet shelters a solitary bench overlooking the small mining town of Morococha, on the slopes of Peru's Central Sierra. Beneath the giant helmet, through the cold winter drizzle and muddy backdrop, rows of single-story workers' lodgings are distinguished by their red roofs and yellow sides - an attempt at creating colour in a world of greys and browns.

Chemical pollution from the mine killed off most things green or life-sustaining in this place years ago. Now even the large, shallow pond spreading out from the lookout point is stagnant, its surface patterned with various shades of murky water.

The monument is a tribute to those who labour in Peru's most important industry - comprising 20 per cent of the country's GDP - but its view is a stark reminder of the workers' share of this multi-billion-dollar pie. State-owned mines like Morococha have no difficulty finding or exploiting labourers. Discredited and weak unions, government corruption, high unemployment and Peru's unrelenting neoliberal economic policy have left many miners feeling lucky simply to have a job. But the Peruvian Government's drive to privatize its consortium of state-run mining industries, known as `Centromin', is threatening even this dystopia.

Concepts like workers' rights and health-and-safety standards have no place in today's global mining race and since the early 1990s the Peruvian Government has accelerated its liberalization to join the leading contestants. To attract foreign investors, the Government has devastated mining communities with a series of mass firings and `invitations' to retire (those who did not accept their `invitation' with its meagre stipends were fired). Ex-Centromin workers, still wearing their yellow helmets, beg for change on the streets of Lima. Others return to their farming families or cluster in makeshift camps on the outskirts of mining settlements.

In 1990 Centromin had more than 17,000 miners - now there are around 8,000. They are left grappling with salary reductions and the threat of being replaced by cheaper contract workers who have even less job security or benefits.

Few miners believe that the rules for state-run mining companies - provision of housing, schooling, medical care, electricity, water and `a dignified salary' for their workers - will be followed by the new companies. Already, the regulations for private mines have been cut to a bare minimum and even these are regularly stretched.

With over 200 new mining-exploration missions, the promise of high-tech new mines lights up dollar signs in the eyes of global shareholders and executives. Centromin's employees have good cause to be concerned about their future.

Some workers look back to their colonial past to predict what life will be like after privatization. Ruben Chavez Velasquez, a 33-year-old winch operator, says older workers tell him; `There was much exploitation then, but miners were paid bonuses on top of their salary for extra work so they said the money made up for the hardship.' But Ramon Pajuelo, a Peruvian scholar, says the older workers' nostalgia is a throwback to an out-dated colonial mindset and hopes the younger, more nationalistic generation will not be afraid to demand their rights from new foreign bosses.

Centromin's formation in the mid-1970s (from the expropriated holdings of the US Cerro de Pasco Mining Corporation) coincided with the beginning of the `golden years' of Peruvian labour movements. The adoption of a standard IMF reform package pushed unions into mobilizing a series of strikes and rallies that eventually brought a return to democratic government in 1980. The unions' influence peaked and they won an eight-hour workday, minimum safety regulations and the provision of basic living standards now enshrined in law.

Somewhat ironically, Peru's return to democracy signalled the advent of Sendero Luminoso's (Shining Path) armed struggle, with devastating results for the trade-union movement. In their quest to become the sole `voice of the people', Sendero threatened, intimidated and allegedly murdered union leaders and members who refused to join their ranks.

At the same time, Sendero's infiltration of the unions provided President Fujimori's Government with the perfect excuse to repress all union activity. Sadly, thousands of innocent workers and campaigners were caught between Sendero's activities and the Government's anti-terrorism campaign. Pedro Huillca, former leader of Peru's main labour union and a vocal campaigner for miner's rights, was assassinated in 1992. The Government blamed his death on Sendero, but an ex-secret-service agent has now come forward claiming an elite army unit was responsible.

The legacy of this oppression still weighs heavily on the struggling unions. Hoping for a popular revival, they are scrambling to build support and prove their legitimacy with new and prospective employers. But many miners are still afraid of discrimination if they are perceived as union advocates, or are simply too disillusioned to back the labour movement. Throughout Centromin communities, the general mood is one of tense anticipation. The question on everyone's lips are who will buy the remaining mines slated for sale in 1998, or, in cases of mines already sold, what the new owners have in store.