The road that connects San Cristóbal de las Casas and Simojovel is twisted and steep like the life of its inhabitants. The mountains of the interior of Chiapas are a small piece of fertile land where poverty and oblivion accumulate. it was not accidental, It was something premeditated by those who rule before and those of now, Claudia Ytuarte-Núñez tells me, author of the only doctoral thesis on the Simojovel amber mines: "In the 70 the peasants rebelled against caciquism and occupied land. The State, since, just surrounded them, placing barracks around the Sierra, and practically not providing them any service, concerned above all that the revolt would not spread”.
Among those mountains lives an immense indigenous population that takes care of their houses with small orchards counting on their fingers the days they have left to stay alive. It aspires to subsist and that the sky does not complicate everything with an excess of rain or an excess of sun.. On the highway we also crossed Zapatista zones. The old indigenous revolution continues, something common to other areas of Chiapas, in that difficult balance of not losing the principles. “Are you in the Zapatista zone?. Here the people rule and the government obeys”, say the border signs that warn foreigners where to enter.
Are you in the Zapatista zone?. Here the people rule and the government obeys
And then some checkpoints on the road stop your car and demand money, usually next to men doing some work on the road, without one being able to refuse payment. Other, less subtle, they lift a rope and ask for a bulky money. How much is it? “60 pesos”, I am answered by a completely drunk guy holding a string with a partner. “Ok, I think 5 pesos is fine”, I answer him while I give him the coin. He somewhat loses his balance between the rope, look at that thing that I put in his hand and the commands in his head that advise him to sleep. we passed.
Finally, some 6000 curves after, we arrived at Simojovel. The city stands on a hillside where hundreds of people wander through narrow streets. Small business occupies everything. We got to the square. I have met some miners to show me the amber mines. The story gets complicated when you meet her, because there is a priest threatened with death, and drug dealers, and corruption, and poverty with which I end up building a more complex story than I thought for the newspaper.
At first I was there to talk about amber and Chinese. Because as Roberto Díaz explains to me, an amber craftsman of more than 23 years of trade, “The Chinese came one morning three years ago and changed everything. They came to buy the pure amber, the one without spots. Prices have increased tenfold and now local artisans can no longer buy that amber, we can't afford it".
They came to buy the pure amber, the one without spots
They work now only with amber with stains, what has generated the protests of the great artisan collective. “The Chinese live locked up in the only hotel in town and only go out at night to dine at the Chinese restaurant that opened after their arrival”, Elijah tells us, a miner. "Two closed them for giving rats", Roberto points out with a smile.
The Chinese way of working is to have local buyers who acquire quality amber. The intermediaries buy the amber and they pay as always in cash. The gram of pure amber has gone from 30 pesos to more than 350. Miners also earn much more money.
That extra money that miners earn has a bad consequence. “Many use drugs to last longer in the mine. Before they worked four hours, which is the most that can be endured, and now some are up to ten”, some miners recognize us. drug traffickers, that there have always been, take advantage of the new demand to improve their sales to new customers. “The first two buyers who worked with the Chinese, they were very humble, they are now small narcos who traffic drugs. Miners are some of your best customers and, sometimes, they pay them even with the amber they find”, say.
Many take drugs to last longer in the mine
The mines have an owner, what is the community, they work in ejidos, and a usufructuary who can transfer it or work it. We pay our entrance 30 pesos to let us in to visit them. We drive to the outskirts, in a rural area. A steep embankment is climbed and we reach the cavities of the mountains. All digging is done with a pick, a cunning. Some miners who are out, under a harsh sun and a mountain of rubble, hammers the rubbish for amber scraps. Their salaries can vary from nothing, if they don't find anything, a 150 weights or 500. Mines can also be rented for up to 2000 pesos per month.
Inside the heat is strong. The light soon disappears and some weak lanterns illuminate our route somewhat. There are several tunnels. We come to one where a cheerful guy works in a dark oven. We chat while the music that keeps him company is lowered a little. He tells me he lived in Texas, that everything was very complicated there and that he returned to his land and the mines were his only way out. It stings like it dances. The air there seems to be solid.
Once outside we find some young people who rest exhausted. From his talk it is clear that the business is changing for them. “Sometimes nothing is gained”, tell me. They are the group most likely to end up using drugs. “Parents forced to plant the drug and their children consume it”, Claudia explains to me later. In the area there are many poppy and marijuana plantations that are interspersed with the mines.
my cousin from 14 years he was crushed to death by a rock
Children also work there, generally from very unstructured families and high poverty. The 70 percent of the more than 40.000 inhabitants of Simojovel are part of that social extract. “My cousin from 14 years he was crushed to death by a rock. I had just removed a piece of amber from 900 grams that he was smiling in his hands when a stone killed him”, Elijah tells us.
And then there is the corruption, and the narco-politicians and Father Marcelo for whose head they pay a million pesos and who took thousands of indigenous people in procession to Tuxtla, capital, to ask for an end to crime and abuse. And one thinks of amber, in their stains, as a perfect metaphor of that cruel and forgotten world. the amber stains.
