few minutes earlier on the walk down from the chimney, Urzúa had told the members of the escape expedition that he was going to do this, and now he’s gone ahead and done it, even though they told him not to. “We have to decide, together, what we’ll do,” Urzúa says. What he wants to communicate is their need to stand together and stand united, “one for all and all for one,” though what some take from this small speech and his low-key demeanor is meekness in the face of a challenge, and the sense that the man who’s supposed to be in charge isn’t.
“Sometimes Luis Urzúa says things without thinking,” Raúl Bustos later says. Bustos feels a kind of suppressed anarchy lingering there in the cavernous space underground. Five months earlier, he saw his hometown of Talcahuano descend into anarchy following a tsunami and earthquake, and he was nearly mugged outside a pharmacy that was being looted. Like a natural disaster, the collapse might cause the daily order and hierarchies of the mine to come apart. Bustos can see the possibility that the strongest and most desperate men in the cavern will take advantage of the weaker men. The logic of the street could take over the mine. There are, after all, a few among them who have spent a bit of time in jail, for fights in bars, that sort of thing, and each of those men is a potential “alpha dog,” he thinks. “At any moment, they could have turned on el jefe de turno if we didn’t back him up.”
Urzúa speaks his piece, but it leaves a kind of void, so others from the escape expedition try to fill it: Mario Sepúlveda and the foreman Florencio Avalos, and Juan Carlos Aguilar, the supervisor of the contract mechanics crew. El jefe de turno is correct, they all say. We have to stick together. Aguilar speaks with a voice that is at once authoritative and informed. The situation is not good, he says, but there are things they can do to prepare. Number one, they have to take care of all the water that’s down there with them, because the water they used to keep the machines and the mine running can keep them alive, too. It’s obvious they’ll have to ration the food, too, eating as little as possible every day to make it stretch out as long as possible, and the only question is how to do it.
Sepúlveda helps lead a tally of what is (and was) inside the emergency cabinet: 1 can of salmon, 1 can of peaches, 1 can of peas, 18 cans of tuna, 24 liters of condensed milk (8 of which are spoiled), 93 packages of cookies (including those that have just been eaten), and some expired medicines. There are also, incongruously, 240 plastic spoons and forks, and a mere 10 bottles of water, which serve as further proof of the mine owners’ thoughtlessness. The men will not die of dehydration, however, because there’s several thousand liters of industrial water in the big tanks nearby that’s used to keep the engines cool, and even though it’s probably tainted with small amounts of oil, it will likely be drinkable. But they have to divide those cookies and cans of tuna among them all: If each man eats one or two cookies and a spoonful of tuna each day, the provisions might stretch out a week. They put all the food back into the cabinet, and lock it again. Urzúa takes the key and gives it to Sepúlveda for safekeeping.
But how many of them are there, exactly? Urzúa counts them again, and checks the list against his mental notes on how many men should be there among them. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…”
“There are thirty-three of us,” he announces.
“Thirty-three?” Sepúlveda shouts. “The age of Christ! Shit!” ¡La edad de Cristo! ¡Mierda!
Several other men repeat the phrase, including Aguilar and Lobos. “ ¡La edad de Cristo! ” they yell out. Even for men who aren’t especially religious, the number carries an eerie meaning, especially for those who have reached and passed the age themselves. Thirty-three, the age of a crucified prophet.
“Sometimes Luis Urzúa says things without thinking,” Raúl Bustos later says. Bustos feels a kind of suppressed anarchy lingering there in the cavernous space underground. Five months earlier, he saw his hometown of Talcahuano descend into anarchy following a tsunami and earthquake, and he was nearly mugged outside a pharmacy that was being looted. Like a natural disaster, the collapse might cause the daily order and hierarchies of the mine to come apart. Bustos can see the possibility that the strongest and most desperate men in the cavern will take advantage of the weaker men. The logic of the street could take over the mine. There are, after all, a few among them who have spent a bit of time in jail, for fights in bars, that sort of thing, and each of those men is a potential “alpha dog,” he thinks. “At any moment, they could have turned on el jefe de turno if we didn’t back him up.”
Urzúa speaks his piece, but it leaves a kind of void, so others from the escape expedition try to fill it: Mario Sepúlveda and the foreman Florencio Avalos, and Juan Carlos Aguilar, the supervisor of the contract mechanics crew. El jefe de turno is correct, they all say. We have to stick together. Aguilar speaks with a voice that is at once authoritative and informed. The situation is not good, he says, but there are things they can do to prepare. Number one, they have to take care of all the water that’s down there with them, because the water they used to keep the machines and the mine running can keep them alive, too. It’s obvious they’ll have to ration the food, too, eating as little as possible every day to make it stretch out as long as possible, and the only question is how to do it.
Sepúlveda helps lead a tally of what is (and was) inside the emergency cabinet: 1 can of salmon, 1 can of peaches, 1 can of peas, 18 cans of tuna, 24 liters of condensed milk (8 of which are spoiled), 93 packages of cookies (including those that have just been eaten), and some expired medicines. There are also, incongruously, 240 plastic spoons and forks, and a mere 10 bottles of water, which serve as further proof of the mine owners’ thoughtlessness. The men will not die of dehydration, however, because there’s several thousand liters of industrial water in the big tanks nearby that’s used to keep the engines cool, and even though it’s probably tainted with small amounts of oil, it will likely be drinkable. But they have to divide those cookies and cans of tuna among them all: If each man eats one or two cookies and a spoonful of tuna each day, the provisions might stretch out a week. They put all the food back into the cabinet, and lock it again. Urzúa takes the key and gives it to Sepúlveda for safekeeping.
But how many of them are there, exactly? Urzúa counts them again, and checks the list against his mental notes on how many men should be there among them. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…”
“There are thirty-three of us,” he announces.
“Thirty-three?” Sepúlveda shouts. “The age of Christ! Shit!” ¡La edad de Cristo! ¡Mierda!
Several other men repeat the phrase, including Aguilar and Lobos. “ ¡La edad de Cristo! ” they yell out. Even for men who aren’t especially religious, the number carries an eerie meaning, especially for those who have reached and passed the age themselves. Thirty-three, the age of a crucified prophet.
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