Thirsty
Hope Hunter recounts her research for the recent film “Energy Freedom,” a documentary that traces the rise of community microgrids, and the portable batteries that helped consumers leap into renewables. This excerpt narrates her fieldwork in one of the sites that produces the raw materials for the technology that powers our lives.
That day the place was buzzing with executives who were visiting for a few hours – it was all the time any of them were willing to spend at 4,200 meters above sea level and 50-degree temperatures. They talked with a mix of relief and anticipation about the amazing lithium harvest they expected from this year’s production. Samsung had already sued them for breach of contract when they failed to deliver last year, but they asked each other what they could have done differently if their production targets got thrown off by all the road blockages local communities organized for the better part of the year? “How could these Indigenous people living at the edge of the world still be complaining when the company brought jobs to this empty desert devoid of any economic opportunities?” they said. The miners nearby studiously ignored the bits and pieces of the conversation they could probably make out when the execs switched from English to Spanish. The execs demanded more precision in quotas and timelines from the national project managers accompanying them on their short visit.
I followed the group a few steps back, while I took notes in my reporter’s notebook. I looked to the horizon lined by a volcanic mountain range and sharpened my hearing to catch as much of the conversation I could while remaining inconspicuous to these men and their offhanded comments. But I didn’t need to worry. The year’s bumper crop and predicted earnings held their rapt attention. They had good reason to be excited; the price per ton had continued to climb against predictions, despite the metal substitutes that had helped automakers market ethical batteries in the 2030s. As we know by now, the North American market has shown itself willing to pay only so much for sustainably sourced options. So, demand for lithium climbed and supply was concentrated in the hands of a handful of international mining companies that continued to push their slogan: “Mining for the Climate.”
As for the locals, no one working that brine or living near the crackling white deserts producing the critical minerals that have fuelled our energy revolution wanted to hear any of it. It added too much insult to their injuries and desperation. What they wanted was water. The water that would quench their thirst, and would nurse their llamas, and the little vegetation left for them to forage on. They had even given up on their demands for electricity. The few that could had diesel generators to provide light, electric heating and internet to the worker’s camps. The rest of these Indigenous Kollas, whose ancestors thrived in these lands since the 12th century, now lived to scratch whatever life they could out of a depleted moonscape. Over the last 50 years, since the boom of Teslas and the search for this white gold - this lithium fever - erupted in North America and Europe, the few remaining Indigenous and local communities had been hired to help bury and erase the last of their ancestral territory under roads, pipes, and evaporation pools. Each project a new erasure and a fresh wound.
In an earnest attempt to remain faithful to my journalistic training, I was out there to get both sides of the story: the local fight against dispossession, along with the triumphant news from the execs who claimed that the renewable energy revolution and consumer uptake of electric vehicles in the 2010s and 20s made the development of portable battery storage feasible and affordable for small neighbourhoods across Canada today. I knew this part of the story firsthand and enjoyed the results of affordable battery packs and dependable micro grids that give so many of us freedom from the outages that plague our cities. My own family and neighbours in North Toronto appreciate the autonomy and reliability of the batteries that support our community grid, without worrying about cloudy days when solar panels can’t be counted on to power our homes. Still, it was impossible to ignore the conditions at the opposite side of the world.
But the Kollas who continue to make our so-called renewable energy revolution possible were not talking to anyone anymore. They were as tired of the mega mining projects as they were of all the visitors who originally made them feel visible and sparked some hope for a better life: the curious reporters, photojournalists, and documentarians; the well-intentioned academics; and the NGO activists. At the end of the day, we all visited and searched for our own extractive nugget - our story and rich visuals that make for a compelling scene, the data points, or the campaign slogan. Eventually, we all went back home to North America or Europe leaving nothing behind, not even a bottle of water.
What I remember most clearly is the dust. It got into my mouth and left a dry, choking feeling in my throat - no matter how much water I tried to drink throughout the day. Walking around with a bottle of water was a risky proposition. The miners, covered in white overalls and handkerchiefs tied to their faces, would glare to any one of us walking by as they shovelled piles of glistening white salts rich in lithium, potassium, and magnesium.
Although I clearly stood out as an outsider, I tried to be unobtrusive and sent my camera crew to gather B-roll while I collected impressions. I pulled my windbreaker over my face to sip from my aluminum insulated bottle that kept the water tasting cool and momentarily quenching. The sun and radiation at that altitude, in the northernmost desert of Argentina, burned my skin and blinded my eyes, even with next generation UV lens protection on my reliable Ray Bans.
Hope Hunter