The area had been mined for at least a century, but never industrialized; the interior of Guyana still has few viable roads or bridges to cross the rivers. After their houses were burned, the miners and their families were loaded into a truck at gunpoint and taken off the mountain. The ones I met had come back a few weeks later, leaving their families in the savannah. They were sleeping in hammocks pitched under tarps. “They used self-loading rifles,” a miner told me. He was smoking tobacco rolled in notebook paper. “They even burned our gardens.”
The force used to clear the area was in preparation for a mine that did not yet exist. At the time, the company had only a skeletal staff on the site, led by a local Guyanese manager who was from a savannah town. He told me the houses had been destroyed but denied any personal involvement. A few days later he tracked me down in a different village. “I wanted you to know that I did it,” he admitted. “It was wrong to burn their houses.” But when I met the company’s expatriate director in Guyana’s capital, Georgetown, he insisted no incident had occurred. Even if it had, he told me, I needed to understand that it was inaccurate to equate thatched-roof dwellings with houses made of concrete and metal. In his words, “There are houses, and there are houses.” Later, when I met with the Canadian High Commissioner in charge of the consulate in Georgetown, he tried to persuade me that I had convinced myself that this violence against the miners had occurred. I offered to show him film and photographs from the field, but he said he was out of time and walked me to the door.