33 Men

by Jonathan Franklin

  President Piñera and what looked like dozens of aides were crowded by the rescue hole. The once strict police controls had evaporated, and spectators flooded the site. Down at Camp Hope the growing tension was about to explode. Around the world, a billion viewers stared in disbelief. What had seemed like a tragic tale of dead miners was about to be rewritten into the story of the most remarkable rescue in recent memory. Thirty-three men. Two thousand three hundred feet. Sixty-nine days. The cold facts spoke of certain death. Now the live shot of Urzúa arriving to a cheering entourage was like a fairy tale.

  At Camp Hope, champagne, balloons and cheers filled the cold starry night. A community built on faith and determination had beaten the odds.

  Urzúa stepped forward to shake hands with Piñera. In a tradition as old as mining itself, he symbolically passed the responsibility for the men from his command. “Mr. President,” he said, “my shift is over.”

  As he was wheeled into the triage hospital, Urzúa, looking taciturn and serious, crossed his thick arms over his chest. His face shrouded in beard, he was the least likely of world heroes. Ten weeks earlier he had entered San José as the shift supervisor at an unknown gold and copper mine. Now he was a symbol of global goodwill. Having narrowly dodged a date with death, Urzúa was given a second chance, a new slate and a reincarnation on a scale of which most humans can only dream. While Urzúa basked in glory, the Phoenix continued to labor as each of the rescuers was slowly lifted to safety.

  It was a rescue made possible by a global outpouring of generosity. Hundreds of anonymous workers turned their lives upside down to save the miners. Some built drills. Others shipped thousand-pound drill bits. Others, like Hart, guided the drills. The realm of possible solutions had been swamped by Piñera’s early decision to seek help from around the globe. He later remarked that he was guided by the Russian government’s stubborn refusal to seek help when the Kursk, a Russian submarine, sank to the ocean floor. “The Russians could have asked for technology help from England, but they didn’t,” said Piñera. “I personally called every president I knew and sought technical solutions.”

  González, the last rescuer left below, played down his bravery and said he was merely one link in the chain. He started to read a book left by one of the miners as he awaited his own exit in the Phoenix. Before leaving, he had one last desire. “I wanted to turn off the lights,” he admitted. “But they wouldn’t let me.”

  Many miners felt the same impulse to flip a switch and shut down an experience that was still too painful and recent to bear the scrutiny of full analysis.

  When González was hauled up from the San José mine, the winch stopped. The noisy motors shut down, and, after ten weeks of suffering and struggle, Camp Hope overflowed with the joy of a fleeting but perfect moment.

  As the last helicopter flew off to the Copiapó hospital, Pedro Gallo looked up at the dazzling desert sky. Thousands of stars winked. The heavens, for a moment, seemed closer.

  “They have left a permanent record of something beautiful here.”

  FOURTEEN

  FIRST DAYS OF FREEDOM

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13—A NEW LIFE

  Inside the helicopter, Samuel Ávalos stared in disbelief: The towering machinery, the tents, buildings, roads and parking lots! While he and the seven other miners inside the helicopter had followed the rescue operation intensely below ground, the transformation of the barren mountainside into a bustling epicenter of activity was still unbelievable. The miners asked the pilot to make an extra loop over the rescue site. With the doors open, the helicopter went into a turn, banking sharply. Scanning the scene, the miners began to realize the scale of Operation San Lorenzo.

  Leaving the camp, the helicopter dipped low over the desert as it followed the same road that ten weeks earlier the men had traveled on their way to the morning shift at the San José mine. Inside the chopper, the two Chilean Air Force officials escorting the miners asked for photographs and autographs and treated the men like celebrities. With their dark glasses, the men descended like movie stars from the helicopter at an army base. Crowds hung from the fence. Children climbed trees to see them. A roar of applause greeted them.

  As they drove from the base to the hospital, crowds lined the road, waving flags, throwing flowers and holding up handmade signs. The miners were in shock. They had last experienced the world as down-and-out miners, anonymous to the point of being invisible. “For me it was strange. Wherever we went, people applauded,” said Samuel Ávalos. “I was not very conscious of what was happening. My mind was just sorting this all out, organizing itself. I did not have much ability to process all this, to make sense of it all.”

  At the entrance to the Copiapó hospital, the van carrying the miners was welcomed by a heaving mass of people who had to be shoved away by an aggressive platoon of policemen. Inside the hospital, the director, Dr. Maria Cristina Menafra, welcomed the men and said it was “an honor” to provide them with medical care.

  Once inside the Copiapó hospital the miners were put on the third floor. Armed policemen sealed off the entrance and even hospital personnel were strictly limited with regard to who was allowed to visit. Family members were permitted to enter but only at specific hours. The men were now subjected to a battery of blood tests, psychological questioning and X-rays.

  As they delighted in the discovery of simple pleasures like a shower and a bed, the men began to comprehend the size of the media horde that had laid siege to the perimeter. For brief moments, Samuel Ávalos, who shared a room with the miner Alex Vega, could pull back the curtain at the window, poke his head out, and gawk at the phalanx of reporters toting microphones, telephoto lenses and notepads. “I would look out the window and people were everywhere. People were sleeping outside to see us.”

  The men lived inside a bubble. They could watch themselves on TV and listen to the nonstop commentary on what the rescue meant, on how soon they would be released, and about the alleged millions of dollars that Hollywood and TV producers were ready to throw their way.

  Back at the mine, the infrastructure of Camp Hope was being dismantled by two competing squads: company employees, who were packing up their machinery and supplies, and a roaming band of rescue workers and government officials, who were grabbing souvenirs ranging from the tiny flasks used to send paloma messages to drill bits that weighed over 220 pounds. Like the Berlin Wall, Camp Hope and the rescue site were being picked and hacked to pieces by the hour.

  At the rescue shaft, a round metal lid like a manhole cover was placed over the tube. Fears that curiosity seekers, tourists or adrenaline junkies might try to surreptitiously descend forced the government to keep a squad of policemen near the shaft and at key entry points to the upper levels of the hill. The mouth to the mine was virtually ignored, no shrine or permanent barrier erected.

  Back at the hospital, the men basked in the richness of a breath of fresh air, an orange, a kiss and a solid roof overhead that did not threaten to cave in while they slept. The absence of dripping water was so notable that several of the men said they missed that habitual backbeat from inside the mine. The mundane routines of daily life were now deep pleasures. Ávalos described the wonder of seeing greenery, of seeing trees and the sky. “When I looked at the horizon, it felt like my brain was suddenly orienting and organizing all this information in a huge whirl of thought.” Ávalos said he felt as if his life had morphed from a two-dimensional existence to three dimensions. “We appreciate life in a way that others might find difficult to understand,” he added.

  German tabloid reporters pushed to exploit cheap veins of gossip. Whose wife cheated on her husband? Had any of the men had homosexual experiences inside the tunnels? Who punched whom among Los 33? In their instinctual obsession with sex, drugs and scandal, the tabloids scoured the landscape—buying letters and haranguing family members in pursuit of the ultimate scandal even as serious journalists from the BBC, El País (Spain), the New York Times and other media outlets from around the world
tried to get into the hospital for exclusive moments with the men.

  “I hope that the avalanche of lights and camera flashes rushing toward you is a light one,” wrote Hernán Rivera Letelier, a Chilean writer, as he sought to warn the miners of the media barrage headed their way. “It is true that you have survived a long season in hell, but when all is said and done, it was a hell you know. What is heading your way, companions, is a hell that you have not experienced at all: the hell of the show, the alienating hell of TV sets. I have only got one thing to say to you, my friends: grab hold of your family. Don’t let them go, don’t let them out of your sight, don’t waste them. Hold on to them as you hung on to the capsule that brought you out. It’s the only way to survive the media deluge that is raining down on you.”

  For the tabloids, the story was disturbingly humane. There was no corpse. No demon. No bloody climax to embellish for a brief worldwide audience. Under the cheap cover of the public’s “need to know,” the tabloid media pushed an agenda featuring the lowest common denominator. It was an attempt to exploit the commonly held belief that humans under extreme stress inevitably resort to barbaric behavior. As they followed their own bias, the sensationalistic media ultimately failed in its most basic task: to educate and inform.

  Inside the hospital, the miners were confused. They had never considered themselves physically ill or mentally weak. With the exception of a few specific dental problems, damaged eardrums and sprained muscles, they were ready to leave. The doctors refused. A sense of protection and ownership still dominated the medical response. Few of the doctors could actually believe that the men were so healthy.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 14

  At 8 am, President Piñera visited the thirty-three miners in the hospital and promised to radically reform working conditions not just in the mining industry but in the transportation and fishing industries. “We can guarantee that never again will we permit that in our country you work in such insecure and inhuman conditions,” said Piñera. “In the upcoming days we will announce to the nation a new agreement with workers.”

  Posing in hospital gowns, their sunglasses in place, the men received a challenge from Piñera: a soccer match between the presidential staff and the miners. “The team that wins will stay in La Moneda. The team that loses goes back to the mine,” he joked.

  The men laughed and conversed with the media-savvy president. Despite their ordeal and suffering, many of the miners were already discussing a desire to return to the mining profession. “Of course, we have to keep working; this is part of our life,” said Osmán Araya. Miner Alex Vega agreed. “I want to go back. I am a miner at heart. This is something that is in your blood.”

  DAY 3: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15

  The miners awoke anxious. Nightmares of the mine haunted their sleep. One of the miners woke up in the middle of the night and began wandering the halls, looking for the paloma. It was time for his shift and he was headed to duty. “They are dreaming about the mine,” said Minister of Health Dr. Mañalich. “Others keep thinking they have duties inside the mine to complete.”

  Pressures mounted as families demanded to take their loved ones home and the miners pressed to be free. “We have a certain level of uneasiness because we are handing very fragile people back to their family,” said Mañalich, who examined the miners as they prepared to be discharged. “It is highly unlikely that these men will go back to a normal life.”

  Post-traumatic stress disorder was practically guaranteed for at least some of the men. While Sepúlveda had used the crisis as a springboard to develop his latent talent for leadership, Edison Peña could not run fast or far enough to escape the pressures and trauma of the confinement. Even slightly strange sounds—like a metal cup falling on the floor—sent the men jumping. Several men slept with the lights on. Others needed sleeping pills to put their mind at ease. Psychiatrist Figueroa estimated that 15 percent of the miners might develop serious psychological problems, 15 percent would become stronger, more robust people, and the rest would be somewhere in the middle. No clear examples from history could be used for comparison. For counseling traumatized soldiers or survivors of airplane crashes a vast literature is available for psychologists to consult. The Chilean mine accident left its victims with such a unique experience of survival that few of the regular rules of mental health could be applied.

  Despite the uncertainties about the men’s mental stability, at 4 pm on Friday, October 15, twenty-eight miners were released from the Copiapó hospital. An elaborate ruse was developed to smuggle the miners out of the hospital, right under the eyes of the world press. While high-profile ambulances left the front gate, allegedly with miners inside, the real miners snuck out the back door. “I used to work in intelligence,” said Dr. Jorge Díaz, smiling, when asked how he organized the clandestine operation.

  Omar Reygadas was dressed up as a police detective so successfully that he actually waded into the media throng and began taking pictures of the journalists. Other miners switched out their clothes and sunglasses and left the hospital arm in arm with decoy women posing as their wives. Chatting and relaxed, the miners left unnoticed and were shuttled to their home or hotel.

  Samuel Ávalos went to a boardinghouse where a private room with a shower and his eager wife awaited. “I attacked my wife; it had been so long. I was like a rabbit,” he said. “But I could not sleep. My head was spinning. No way. My left arm twitched. My body was not relaxed. Totally tense. I was not myself. When I touched my body, I felt strange. I was not sure what I believed when I looked in the mirror. Those were not my eyes.”

  As the miners were released from the Copiapó hospital, they were stunned by their reception. “I didn’t think I would make it back, so this reception really blows my mind,” said Edison Peña. Holding back tears, Peña said, “We really had a bad time.”

  As media outlets lined up outside the humble homes, a new economy of information developed. Bolivian-born miner Carlos Mamani demanded a set fee per question. Other miners charged thousands of dollars, then refused to discuss any details of their entrapment. The incriminations raged as reporters felt ripped off and the miners felt justified in cashing in.

  Yonni Barrios could barely reach his home. An intense media pack battled to cover his story. Though his efforts to provide health care to his thirty-two companions were a daily duty, Barrios’s romantic life made far more headlines, as his wife and his lover, Susana Valenzuela, both laid claim to his heart.

  Barrios chose Valenzuela as his permanent partner. When he spoke briefly to the press, he broke down in tears as he described his role as doctor: “I only did my job down there. I gave my best efforts to help my colleagues who are now my good friends.”

  When asked for details about the first seventeen days, Barrios refused, out of loyalty to the “pact of silence.” Jimmy Sánchez, the youngest miner, however, gave an interview in which he lashed out at Urzúa as a hapless leader. “Mario Sepúlveda was the one who led us,” said Sánchez in the opening volley of admissions, clarifications and declarations.

  Where was Sepúlveda? The press demanded an answer. According to public statements from the hospital, Sepúlveda was fatigued and needed to rest. In private conversations, however, doctors admitted that Sepúlveda was being held—against his will—to protect him from what doctors and psychologists feared would be unbearable pressure from the media.

  Sepúlveda, now entrapped yet again, this time by his rescuers, was irate. He wanted to leave the hospital.

  Dr. Romagnoli came to visit and found Sepúlveda drugged and confused. Sepúlveda pleaded with Romagnoli, “Get me out of here. They are sedating me. This is an insane asylum. They are giving me shots.”

  Under the effects of the drugs, Sepúlveda was sleepy and nervous. “They were giving him Haldol,” said Dr. Romagnoli, who described the medicine used to treat acute psychosis and schizophrenia as so strong it left the patient “knocked out.”

  “He was filled up with diazepam [an anti-anixety drug] to kee
p him under control. He was desperate,” said Romagnoli, who decided it was time to spring Sepúlveda—even if it took a brawl. “I spoke to Iturra and told him, ‘Get him out of there or it will be a major fuck-up because I will knock out a couple of cops and get sent to jail.’ Happiness should not be treated as a disease.”

  Sepúlveda was snuck into an ambulance and smuggled to a nearby clinic, once again throwing off the media surrounding the hospital. Finally, Sepúlveda was on the verge of freedom. Katty Valdivia, the miner’s wife, described her husband as perpetually hyperkinetic and buzzing with energy. “They don’t understand Mario—he is like this.”

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16

  Thirty-one men had been released from Copiapó by Saturday, October 16, but Sepúlveda and Zamora were still confined. Zamora had a badly infected tooth. At 10 am, Sepúlveda was released, and he immediately headed to a rented apartment for a much delayed birthday celebration with his family. He had spent his fortieth birthday, on October 3, trapped underground. Now he was ready to celebrate with Katty and his children.

  The hyperkinetic Sepúlveda sat little during the birthday meal. He bounded into a back room and, like a child discovering lost toys, began to open the sealed packages he had sent up from the mine. He hauled a crate of crudely wrapped tubes the size of baseball bats into the living room and jammed the blade of his pocketknife into the thick plastic of one of the packages. With desperation, he began to saw open the tube and then pulled out the contents: plastic bottles filled with minerals and crystals from inside the mine. “These are the remnants of the explosion, when we were first trapped and no one could hear us,” explained Sepúlveda. “This is a symbol of our hope and our attempts to escape. I only offer these to people who are important to me.”