The heat of the fire reaches my face through the window of a small, anonymous car,
with worn-out wheels that know the red dirt road too well. The wall of flames rises,
imposing, over five meters high and several kilometers long, consuming the Bolivian
Amazon rainforest as is common nowadays. On the playlist, a song speaks of the
"South Caribbean," evoking peaceful, timeless beaches—a cruel irony as we glide
through that green inferno.
with worn-out wheels that know the red dirt road too well. The wall of flames rises,
imposing, over five meters high and several kilometers long, consuming the Bolivian
Amazon rainforest as is common nowadays. On the playlist, a song speaks of the
"South Caribbean," evoking peaceful, timeless beaches—a cruel irony as we glide
through that green inferno.
A watermelon in the trunk is the perfect excuse to stop near a stream and cease our
flight. As we get out, the distant laughter of children can be heard. Adults fish and clean
their catch on a rock while the little ones plunge into the water. It’s an oasis seemingly
unreachable by the flames we’re escaping. Oblivious to the danger, they laugh,
unaware of the fire, just as they are unaware of the hidden mercury in the fish they’ll eat
for dinner in the village. Mercury that silently kills them. It would be unfair to speak of
this to the children. Instead, we share the watermelon with them.
If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that the legend of "El Dorado," that mythical city of inexhaustible gold described by the first conquerors in their chronicles, is entirely true. I am convinced that it exists, hidden deep within the jungle. How else can one explain the incessant arrival of Chinese, Colombian and Brazilian companies, extracting this precious metal day and night, taking away the jungle and its glow? When someone finds a treasure of such magnitude, there is no doubt they will do everything possible to keep it in the shadows, behind the trees, like legends whispered by the wind, leaving behind a trail of greed and dry earth.
Aerial image of gold mining in the Mapiri region, north of La Paz, in the Amazon.
But where does this mercury come from? To extract gold, it must be agglomerated and isolated from the rest of the materials, and for this, mercury is essential. The most artisanal method would be unprofitable for large companies. Used in this process, a large part ends up in the river and, when oxidized, enters the fish’s membranes to become part of their organisms. From there to the nets of men, there is but one step. And from the nets to the bodies of people, one more step.
The Ese Ejja, Mosetén, T'simánes, Tacana, and Uchupiamona communities have inhabited the Bolivian Amazon for centuries, being among the most affected by this new evil that threatens their existence. The vast majority ignore what mercury is, and they have rarely seen a gold nugget. Known as "river populations" for their fishing vocation, these communities have a traditionally nomadic origin, and their lives have been characterized by small, itinerant family settlements in the shape of ports. They used to travel the rivers in search of the best fishing, but now they are confined to small demarcations designated by the Government, sometimes far from their main food sources, especially the fish that inhabit the Beni, Madre de Dios, and their tributaries, all contaminated with high concentrations of mercury.
Balbina Sossa, from the Esse Ejja community, knows that the fish her grandchildren bring from the river contain mercury, but she still cooks them to ease the children's hunger.
In 2023, the approval of the "Gold Law" by the Bolivian parliament facilitated the legalization of this toxic metal in the country. From that date, the gold rush skyrocketed, and concern began to grow among indigenous communities, alarmed by the repercussions on their health. This boom has increased the demand for mercury, making Bolivia the world's largest legal importer of this liquid metal.
Most of the extracted gold is exported and used to pay off an implacable external debt that the government has with China and Russia, its main creditors. However, at the same time, it devastates cultures and biodiversity, leaving climatic scars that will not heal easily. The little gold that remains in the country is traded in cities like La Paz and El Alto, where the liquid metal is used to extract the raw gold. Zinc chimneys, like poisoned needles, rise above the hundreds of shops on Tarapacá Street, spreading their poison over the city's inhabitants, who breathe it in, unaware of the price they pay for that fleeting shine.
Inhabitants of the Teoponte region in the Bolivian Amazon gather to search for some gold during the brief period when mining companies rotate shifts. They are merely the scraps left over from the great golden feast.
"To produce one ton of gold, between three and four tons of this toxic metal are used. In 2015, Bolivia imported 151.5 tons of mercury and is currently the world's leading legal importer of mercury," explains Oscar Campanini, an environmental researcher and current director of the Center for Documentation and Information Bolivia (Cedib), as we walk through one of "the gold streets." Oscar has long been dedicated to investigating the impact of mercury on the health of populations. A recent study led by Cedib and the University of Cartagena in Colombia, in its initial results, revealed alarming figures: of the 350 people evaluated—including Tacana and Uchipiamona indigenous people—all exceed, on average, seven times the permissible limits in blood according to the World Health Organization (WHO). As we walk these streets, miners buy mercury without restrictions, carrying a tool of silent death towards the jungle.
The Mosetén people, traditionally dedicated to fishing, now face a devastating reality: the very way of life that once provided their sustenance is slowly poisoning them.
To enter this region of the Bolivian Amazon, we had to go to Rurrenabaque, port and gateway to Madidi National Park, a protected area considered the most biodiverse in the world in terms of species. The Madidi National Park is a territory of almost 19,000 km2 increasingly encircled by mining activities. When we arrived, the XI Pan-Amazon Social Forum (FOSPA) was taking place, a space for articulation, action, and reflection on socio-environmental issues. There, the voices of some non-governmental organizations are heard, attempting to share common problems of the Amazon basin. A kind of catharsis around the environmental challenges this immense territory faces, with no shortage of workshops, reflection tables, applause, marches, and countless proposals that will surely be addressed again at the next forum. Nothing dissimilar to the conclusions left by any global climate summit.
Upriver, barely a kilometer away, in the town of Eyiyo Quibo, Milton Gamez Moreno, from the Esse Ejja community, strums his guitar. The notes that come from the strings seem to ignore the heated discussions of the forum. His community, despite being one of the most affected by mining, was not invited to participate. Their people's priority is survival. There is no time for talks or debates. Milton opens a well-folded sheet and, with difficulty, deciphers his diagnosis. "They say I have 10.0 ppm of mercury in my blood... I don't really know what that means," he comments with a smile. Nevertheless, he keeps the document with almost reverent care in his humble house made of wood and palm leaves, while he struggles to move in his wheelchair. Once, he spent his days on the river, fishing, but his legs have long since failed him, and his hands, instead of nets, now seek chords, weaving a melody that spreads like a light balm to the shadows of misery that envelop his community.
Milton Gamez Moreno, once a fisherman, has seen his hands, which once cast nets, now rest on the strings of his guitar, as mercury has robbed him of the freedom to move. His body carries a burden of 10.0 ppm of mercury, a clear sign of the contamination affecting the Ese Ejja community in Eyiyoquibo.
Tied to a rope, a captive monkey sways from side to side, as if pleading for help, while its nervous eyes follow us as we pass. Wilson, a community leader, explains that when there is no fish, capuchin monkeys are a good food to calm hunger. Then, he directs us towards the river. He wants to show us his boats that have been stranded on the shore for several days. The river has changed its course, channeled to optimize the route of the mining dredges. The boats, unable to move freely through the territory as they used to do to fish, must wait on this portion of land assigned to them for the river to rise and allow them to go out fishing.
A capuchin monkey, tied at the entrance of a house, looks on with eyes that blend curiosity and resignation. Three children from the Esse Ejja community watch its every move with quiet attention. For them, the monkey is more than a fleeting companion: it embodies a regional culinary tradition and serves as a vital source of food in times of scarcity. In a place shaped by constant struggle, its fate seems already sealed.
Upon arrival, we find dozens of stranded boats, while children, who don’t leave our side, jump naked from one to another, as if playing "the river is lava" and the riverbed still ran beneath their feet. "Here the children are sick from birth, they are affected and act crazy. Headaches and vomiting are normal now in our community," the leader comments with a hint of resignation. "We don't know what mercury is, nor do we know gold, but what they are doing upriver, whatever it is, is killing us." The paradox is that the fish, on which they depend to survive, when consumed, increase the mercury in their blood. A cycle that puts them all in the same net.
Only a certificate can confirm the presence of mercury in the blood. This evil is, at first, invisible to the eyes. How to photograph something that cannot be seen? How to show what remains hidden? Sometimes, there is no room for documentary ethics, so I took some silver paint and a brush from the backpack I used to carry lenses, hoping to paint a number on their torsos that would represent the traces of mercury in their blood. Not only did they join the initiative, but they wore those numbers with pride, as if they were the forwards of a football team in a game that they were losing, but that, perhaps, their children's children could still win.
Leaders of the Esse Ejja community in Eyiyoquibo rest on a boat stranded on the riverbank. On their torsos, they bear the marked levels of mercury in their blood. Standing before them, a group of children watches silently, as if seeing in them the reflection of a fate that looms over their own future.
The rain surprises us during the interview, and we have to run to take shelter in one of the houses that shelter the 40 families that make up the community. Grandmother Balbina smiles when she sees that one of her grandchildren has brought five fish, each barely the size of a hand. "Grandma, I'm hungry," the girl says as we pass, with the latent conviction that something must be done. I express my helplessness to a member of the community, and he, with ancient serenity, replies: "The earth has endured millions of years of catastrophes of all kinds, do you think it cannot defeat capitalism in some way?" With that omen, we leave the village.
Balbina Sossa cooks a few fish alongside her grandchildren, as the youngest watch her with expectant eyes. In that moment, the urgency to survive overshadows the invisible threat.
But not all is resignation. No one with mercury in their veins can ignore this fight that has been going on for a long time. Ruth Alipaz, leader of the National Coordination for the Defense of Indigenous Native Peasant Territories and Protected Areas (Contiocap), carries a load of 5.5 ppm of mercury in her body, snaking through her veins. This poison marks her health, but at the same time, it has ignited her determination. It was she who sought help from the Center for Documentation and Information of Bolivia (Cedib), seeking to understand the magnitude of the threat looming over her people and their lands.
Ruth, defender of indigenous territories and environmental rights in the Bolivian Amazon, was also not invited to FOSPA. Born in the heart of Madidi, in the remote community of San José de Uchupiamonas, her indigenous identity is questioned. For many, having studied, learned several languages, and built her life abroad seems to have stripped her of what some consider being an authentic indigenous person today. In a world where roots intertwine with modernity, Ruth defies the status quo and faces the paradox of being seen as a foreign figure in her own home.
Shasta, Balbina’s granddaughter and a young girl from the Esse Ejja community in Eyiyoquibo, carries a bunch of bananas to the nearby town to sell them—seeking a way to survive and support her younger siblings during these difficult times.
Mercury is playing a bad trick on her, and Ruth's health is becoming more and more delicate. But she is not alone. Others are beginning to raise their voices, resonating above the roar of the machines that threaten their territory. Ruth's strength must come from that dagger that hangs over her head, a pain that does not leave her in peace and that drives her to form and canalize her own struggle, but also that of other women she has inspired within her community.
Every month, in the village, a group of mothers, daughters, and grandmothers meet with Ruth to assess progress. They have obtained legal status. Their projects to bring water to the community have already received initial funding, and some results are beginning to show. However, the rivers in the basin have begun to dry up drastically, and, as every community leader does, she invites us to witness this transformation. Ruth leads us to the river, as if she were taking us to meet an old family member who is sick and dying. We cross the wide shore while she reflects: "We, who have grown up on this river, extracting our food from its fish, do not understand why we must lose everything for gold. Gold extraction, driven by global greed and the false promise of an energy transition, continues to destroy our territories. In the end, we are the ones who are paying with our lives for this promise of change." We walk until we reach a boat that floats on rocks. Ruth sits there in silence as I take some pictures. I cannot capture her thoughts, but I know that look and I know what it means: "Let's go! There is no time for photos."
Ruth Alipaz, leader of the National Coordinator for the Defense of Indigenous Territories, reflects in a boat on a dry river. With 5.5 ppm of mercury in her body, this poison marks her health and fuels her determination.
To witness the root of this scourge, we had to venture two days upriver, navigating the mighty Beni and Tipuani Rivers towards Mayaya, one of the many mining hotspots that suffocate Madidi National Park. Doing it on our own would be more than risky. That morning, Eber, who has lived on a boat since he was 13, welcomed us with a calm expression on the "Poseidon," already moored and ready to set sail. Waldo, an endearing guide who knows every corner of the jungle and who arrived late after forgetting the ice for drinks, was ready for the adventure with his small bag. Thus, we began a week-long journey through rivers and routes that, like so many stories, are not on maps.
Mining brought with it an alarming phenomenon: The rivers, once gentle guardians, have begun to stir. Their changing course now makes them churn like hungry beasts, devouring the coasts and redrawing the hydrography. We stop in the community of Asunción de Quiquibey on shores that bear the open wounds of a community waiting to be eaten. As we disembark, we hear rumbles on the water. Blocks of mud broke off from the town, like a glacier affected by climate change. The river had already claimed the soccer field, and a few meters away, in front of the school, students lined up and sang their anthem defying the scorching midday wind. A few meters away, Yolanda Chita, a Mosetén woman with the serenity of someone who has seen too much, crosses the threads of her loom, facing a destiny that was already part of the fabric of her community. She knows she has 4.3 ppm of mercury in her blood, but what worries her most is the future of her children: "I want them to study, to prepare themselves.” Because the jungle, once a refuge, has now become inhospitable. "Fishing and crops are not enough," she tells us. The river, like a stranger, is destroying her town. Perhaps the little that remains will be those looms, witnesses of their resistance and perhaps exhibited in a museum in La Paz when the water finally finds calm.
Yolanda Chita Vies, a member of the Mosetén community in Asunción del Quiquibey, has 4.3 ppm of mercury in her body, according to the latest analyses conducted by Cedib. However, she still does not fully understand what this result means for her health and the future of her community.
At the end of our lunch of rice, plantain, and chicken, a family welcomes us at the edge of the new cliff that the river is forming. The basin full of fish is Ermindo's pride. He knows that this dish will increase the 9.7 ppm of mercury he was diagnosed with back in 2019, and that, at the same time, it wears down the health of his little daughter. While we talk about the new scourges that plague his community, the girl, oblivious to our dialogue, concentrates on her desk, just 50 meters away. While the river continued to engulf their town, the teachers, firm in their posts, were sailors on the deck of a town adrift.
Ermindo Vies Gutiérrez lives in the community of Asunción del Quiquibey, and it is not the 9.7 ppm of mercury in his blood that worries him most, but the health of his daughter, who is also being affected by this poison that large companies dump into the river.
The afternoon slips away as Eber and Waldo begin to worry. The sun goes down quickly and the river at night is not a good guide. We must find a safe shore to spend the night. After a couple of hours and on the edge of the night, we come across a park ranger post. They allow us to camp there, which gives us some peace of mind. We toast to the good day under the gaze of the stars and to the lullaby of the sounds of the jungle, knowing that the jaguars will not attack us since, according to the guides, they are busy during the mating season. Just in case, that night, I try to stay as close as possible to the camp.
The day finds us on the boat, heading to Mayaya. We have breakfast at a quiet bend, and from there, we cross the invisible border that protects the National Park, entering a territory where gold dictates the rules and the jungle obeys.
The first gold prospectors begin to populate the coast, families from native communities and inhabitants of the region who see in this search a means of subsistence. Due to the advance of deforestation for cattle ranching or palm planting, added to the incursion of machines in search of gold, and like the rivers, their lifestyle is altered. They spend their days extracting the little gold that the large gold companies let slip from their steel claws.
We stop spontaneously at one of these makeshift camps and, after engaging in a friendly chat, ask why they don't use mercury. We understand that, either because of its high cost or environmental awareness, mercury becomes unprofitable for these small miners. That is why they resort to traditional methods to extract gold. But the conclusion is always the same: their only desire is to also be allowed to enjoy the natural riches. They do not seek to compete, they only ask to "eat and let eat."
The first dredges, or "dragons," as the locals call them, begin to become part of the landscape, shaping and redrawing the riverbanks. Competing with these predators, who work tirelessly day and night, is impossible.
As we approach with our boat, the workers of these dredges show tense faces. They look at us with distrust and suspicion, just like the sandflies, typical and very stinging mosquitoes of the area, they prefer us far away. The radio calls, identity checks, and impediments multiply, they urge us to lower the tripods and turn off the cameras.
We steal a couple of images, enough to illustrate the report, but not satisfied with that, we ask Waldo to take us to another dredge. He, more skeptical, tells us that it would be impossible for them to receive us on those floating platforms, as they are not well seen by public opinion. Waldo does not know my persistence, which, like the bites on my back, does not cease. He is surprised when, in one of those floating factories, a Chinese citizen invites us to pass and even welcomes us with drinks and smiles in the middle of a sweltering afternoon.
Upon boarding, his only employee of Bolivian origin guides us through the dredge, showing us the process and allowing us to document the use of mercury. Meanwhile, the captain shares some family photos from distant China and confesses, with his limited Spanish, that they have been out of operation for a month due to a pulley breaking. Neither he nor the sailor seem aware of the consequences of their actions. They just want to work, earn their salary, and send it to their families, who wait for them beyond the green horizon. We say goodbye with joy and some cigarettes as a sign of peace, resuming our journey upriver and leaving behind that small truce in the middle of a battle to raise awareness.
Some Bolivian cooperatives have reached an agreement in Teoponte and Tomachi. Only for three hours a day, spread out during the brief break or shift change, do they allow the inhabitants and members of the communities to descend into one of the pits dug by the large foreign mining companies, to scrape some gold from the bottom of the pot. They are crumbs, the leftovers that the large companies drop from their banquet. We head towards that scenario, after saying goodbye to Eber and his boat, the "Poseidon," which has guided us like a Charon in the increasingly dark waters to Mayaya. From there, we continue by car to that area upriver.
A woman refreshes her companion during the grueling hours of gold searching in one of the countless pits now scarring the Amazonian river landscapes near Mapiri. The oppressive heat leaves no time for rest; every minute is as valuable as gold.
In Teoponte we had a refuge: Waldo's family home, where he had grown up. It remained intact since his father's death, and Waldo still did not dare to close that duel. We each choose a place, whether it was the floor or one of the beds covered by a layer of ancestral dust. We quickly set about washing, tidying up, and filling that space with music, which will serve as our base for the coming days.
The goal is to be able to access the mine, more precisely one of the large pits where gold is extracted, and get there to document that process. We know it is not as simple as knocking on a door and entering nor will they welcome us with drinks and cigarettes. Waldo begins his meticulous work talking with community leaders and some cooperative members to explain that we only wanted to take some pictures of the gold extraction, without getting involved in internal disputes or local conflicts over territory. Once this was clarified, at the end of the night we received the green light to cross the river and access the pit.
In the morning, after drinking some “mates,” we head to the place. A boat helps us cross the Kaká River. Temporary camps multiply as we approach the immense quarry, a colossal hole in the middle of the jungle that contains a treasure for some and hope for others. As we pass, the diggers hide in their precarious tents of sticks and tarps. A family prepares their breakfast, and, in another tent, a girl plays with a domesticated monkey. They come to spend a few days at the mine and, with luck, make 100 Bolivian pesos a day, about 14 dollars. Two for the round-trip ferry crossing, they are left with 10 if they manage to find some gold.
In a frantic race, the people of Barranquilla rush to find the best spots in the pits that large mining companies have dug for gold extraction. They only have one hour before the shift change to try to grab some grams of the precious metal.
They have to wait until the shift change, when they are allowed to rush in to collect, between the mud and the machines, the precious metal. That first morning we accompany those who desperately seek a stroke of luck. They run down without measuring risks, and in a few seconds, they are neck-deep, working in teams of two or three. I have two cameras, one for filming and one for photos, but they are not enough to capture everything I am seeing. None of those submerged in the mud are proud to be portrayed in that context. It is an intimate and desperate act. From the shore, I manage to capture some of that. The moment is brief, and soon the machines, with their metallic arms, resume their robotic dance, pushing them out like flies.
After an hour, the machines return to action, forcing the local residents out of the mining pit.
I feel like I had witnessed something powerful, but I’m not able to fully connect with this reality. My images are correct but distant. In the afternoon, and against the warnings of our guide, I put on shorts and a t-shirt. I am determined to submerge myself with them. The situation repeats: The horde rushes in to take possession of the pit.
That shift is like a baptism. I take off my t-shirt and take a deep breath of the toxic stench before fully submerging myself among hands, shovels and mud. I stay there, with my camera. Now I can perceive the textures underwater, feel how the rock yields and the mud passes through my fingers, while the smell of decomposing sulfur adheres to my skin. Unlike that morning, those who avoided me before now help me not to fall or be crushed by the tons of rocks that the claw of a steel monster, handled by a smiling Colombian, drops just a few meters from us.
When the chaos multiplies, I look for faces to empathize with. I try to connect and thus be able to take a picture. A prospector looks at me for a second before submerging himself in the dark water, sharing a smile that says what words cannot: We are both hunting something valuable, although our prey is different. That is the signal to start documenting.
Some risk their lives diving into these dangerous practices, hoping to find a small golden vein.
Perhaps an hour and a half had passed, but for me it was only 10 seconds, when I feel the weight of the mud on my legs, the resistance of the water in each step. Although my search was different, the exhaustion and the hope are the same. As I leave the pit, one of the men grabs my arm when I trip in the mud, and in that brief contact the differences between us are erased. In that desperate ritual, we are not observer and observed, we are two men looking for something in the mud.
Upon leaving, a cloud of mosquitoes greets us all equally, leaving us with bites on our backs, and my senses, which were already at their maximum, are alerted at the same time as those metal dinosaurs begin to advance, one on each side, to get us out of the place.
They tell us that in Mapiri the situation is even worse. We head there in a six-hour night rally on winding roads with a driver who kept chewing coca leaves and drinking beer, because, he says, it is Friday offering. I stole some cans from him, believing that I could reduce the amount of beer he had bought for the trip, but it was useless. After three hours, in that car, zigzagging on cliffs, everything was prayers and sighs on every curve.
At the edge of a cocoa plantation, a man who once worked as a cocoa harvester now waits by the ravine, watching for the moment when the machines stop so he can try his luck and extract some gold.
At dawn, we tour Mapiri. The feeling of seeing that landscape is that of having arrived late at the end of a party, one of those that are remembered in parts and with headaches. The river, once vibrant and bustling like laughter and the echo of music, now faded into countless silent channels, like empty bottles and broken glasses, witnesses of a madness that left everything destroyed. That image said goodbye to us in silence, leaving a mark that adhered not only to our shoes but also to our souls.
On the way back my thoughts were banal, I just wanted to reach a hot shower, hug my family and tell them that having gone through horror we only had obtained a few photos and images. Giant craters surrounded by machines that work tirelessly, day and night, moving earth and trees as if the jungle were a simple obstacle, were left behind. The air smells of metal and something irreparable. Yes, there were many faces, Chinese, Colombian, and Brazilian, but looking for culprits and flags is useless. Greed, the very nature of man, the urgency to reach the goal, to reach gold, silver, bronze, builds our podium erected on culture and blood.
Buenos Aires, Septiembre de 2024
Text and Photos: Nico Muñoz - El Mano
Production: Juliette Igier - Les Nouveau Jours
Assistant Director: Joaquin Zaldivar
Amazon Guide: Waldo
Lake Guide: Eber
Translated into English: Victoria Muñoz
Buenos Aires, September 2024
Acknowledgements
To Sony Latin America for supporting the photographic equipment, especially Angelo, Patricia, and Mariano.
To Alex for hosting us at his parents' house and to his beautiful family.
To Moises and Eugenio, who gave us good advice so we wouldn't get into trouble.
Thanks!
