I have been trapped inside all day. Finally, as the sun slips down below the horizon, I decide to take it to the streets. I want to make sense of all this talk. I want to understand what this strike is all about. Even one step out the front door, the difference is noticed. There is a certain silence flooding every corner of this town, a certain eerie presence that has taken over.
I continue further.
These are normally the peak hours of commerce and shopping here; however, all the stores are gated shut and locked. No sign of movement whatsoever. The market grounds are nothing but mere vacant lots, with only the lingering scent of rotting fish and vegetable rinds to reveal their function. There is not a single car to be seen in this typically bustling town. The absence of this cacophony is a rare moment- one only experienced in the early morning darkness. People drip aimlessly along the streets. Their quiet murmur distinguishably slices through the silence. Some boys fly by on their bikes, taking full advantage of the empty roads.
I continue further.
Buses are stacked in rows and packs, stretched along the streets where the highway meets the city: all vacant. Their passengers, now riding the strike, are littered along the walls and benches, waiting. And waiting. Everyone, hundreds of people, sit in waiting, conceding to that which they cannot fight. We abide to the fact that we cannot win this battle and must only wait until the government and the miners come to an agreement. Hundreds of police line the streets in intimidating squads, prepared with shields and weapons. They confidently meander through the streets while there is nothing else to be done.
I continue further only to see the roads covered with rocks, broken bottles, tree trunks, barbed wire, garbage bags, smashed cars, big broken machines; essentially anything to block the entering into and exiting out of the city. We are stuck on an island in the middle of the continent.
Tuesday:
Tires are burning among the rubble. Cement telephone poles are knocked over. No one is in the streets except for mobs of miners slowly hovering from place to place like Death Eaters waiting on Harry Potter. The local news channel is blaring on every household’s television, with word about the latest actions. Ambulance sirens in the background reveal their position as the escort wounded strikers to the hospital. It's not every day people are shot in Nasca. The tension builds throughout the day, reaching a climax with some sticks of dynamite on the main bridge. The smoke from the explosion ominously covers the afternoon sky. The smell lingers long after the smoke cloud fades.
Since midnight on Sunday March 18th, the miners all around Peru are striking against the government. The artisanal miners do not want to formalize like the government is demanding. Therefore they are taking to the streets in revolt to get their voices heard. There are four main mining areas in Peru, and Nasca is one of them. The largest of the mining areas is Madre de Dios, which accounts for at least 85% of the illegal mining activity in Peru.
It has been a very interesting experience to witness this conflict, one that I have never seen happen in the States. It makes me think of war-torn countries and how the people must feel: helpless, scared, trapped. I only got a small taste of that this week, but imagine what it is like to feel those sentiments all of the time, and on a much more intense scale. How unbearable it must be.
Again, we are so lucky to be where we are and have what we have.
