13 Dangerous Jobs Around the World

In Indonesia, workers extract oil from hazardous wells built over 100 years ago.

>> >> Here, toxic gases and deadly accidents remain a constant threat.

And in Cameroon, sand divers plunge underwater up to 300 times a day,

all for the world's most mined resource.

We traveled the globe to learn about the world's most dangerous jobs.

We'll start in India, where people climb tall trees to harvest lac bugs.

Their resin makes jelly beans shiny.

This amber goop comes from bugs.

And you've probably eaten it before.

>> >> It's a natural resin called shellac.

And once it's stretched and cooled, it's used in tons of ways,

from adding a shine to popular candies like jelly beans

and preserving citrus fruit to finishing wood.

Its history dates back 3,000 years in India,

where it was originally used to make jewelry and adorn palaces.

India is the world's largest shellac producer,

exporting over $65 million worth of it a year.

But fluctuating harvests and prices have put this ancient industry at risk.

So, how exactly do a tiny insect's excretions end up on your candy

and lemons?

We head to India to find out.

>> >> The Kerria lacca insect is teeny,

barely big enough to see with the naked eye.

In June, farmers implant brood lac, or the mamas, onto new tree branches.

Their babies will hatch and spread out.

As they suck the tree sap, the females secrete an amber-colored resin.

When it hits the air, it hardens, creating a protective nest.

This is what becomes valuable shellac.

This curved knife called a dauli is the most important tool for farmers like

Turlin Don.

She climbs up to 20 ft to reach the small branches where the insects

grow.

She has about a hundred of these lac infested trees.

>> >> It can take

as many as 300,000 insects to make just 1 kilo of shellac.

That's where the lac insect derives its name from ikh lakh meaning 100,000 in

Hindi.

Turlin can harvest that in one day.

But it takes her two more to scrape it all off.

She uses the same dauli.

>> >> She sells the lac to a local market earning $7 a kilo.

That's where Manoj Sardaogi buys it.

His factory sources raw lac from four states

and processes over 500 metric tons a year.

It all starts with crushing and washing which is the most challenging part.

Cleaning the lac for too long could lower the yield.

Then the lac has to dry to prevent mold

and make it easier to extract the resin.

During winters, Manoj's staff leaves the lac in this yard for an hour

and a half.

In hotter months, it takes about half the time.

They have to watch it closely since too much heat can turn it black.

That's considered low quality and won't fetch as much money.

Next, the workers assign it one of four grades depending on the size.

They remove small sticks by hand.

This machine separates any remaining stones from the mix.

The workers put the lac into a cloth tube

that looks kind of like a giant sock.

They twist it so the mixture moves toward the kiln

and spin it until the lac melts.

The sock collects any leftover rocks or sticks that might have snuck in.

They spend at least 6 hours a day spinning the tube

and stoking the fire

that burns at 167° Fahrenheit.

In the summer, it can get up to 113° in this factory.

These symmetrical circles are called button shellac, which are used to make bangles.

>> Workers also spread it across this tool called a pippa to make sheet shellac.

They use a palm leaf to spread it out evenly.

The workers remove it once it's cooled.

And they stretch it out even more using their hands, feet, and teeth.

This is how shellac has been made for centuries.

They'll pull it to an even 5-ft by 5-ft square.

These sheets will be used to polish candies, cashew nuts, and fruit.

Machines have largely replaced the traditional hand stretching method.

This one presses out thin sheets, sort of like a pasta maker.

It processes most of the factory's lac,

making shellac four times faster than by hand stretching.

The workers give it one quick tug and then rip it off.

They'll hang it up to harden and cool,

and then chop it into hair-thin pieces.

These will stiffen into shards exported around the world.

Manoj can sell the refined shellac for almost double what he paid for it.

Indonesia and the United States are his biggest customers.

The US is also the world's largest importer,

buying up roughly a fourth of all Indian shellac.

It's been valued for 3,000 years for its versatility.

One of shellac's earliest uses was as a rich crimson dye.

The insect's excretions also made a strong glue

and added a shiny water-resistant finish to wood

and leather.

In medieval Europe, artists mixed it into paints.

In the 1800s, it became the base of gramophone records before the invention of

vinyl.

Through the 1900s, it was a popular finish for wood paneling in American homes.

It also made its way into pharmaceuticals, coating pills and tablets and food.

As a glossy glaze for candies, cakes, and nuts.

Today, the global shellac industry is worth over 167 million dollars

and more than half of the world's supply comes from India.

The US Food and Drug Administration allows it

as a food-safe additive

as long as it's listed on the ingredients list

as shellac or confectioners glaze.

It's in treats like Junior Mints, jelly beans, candy corn, and Whoppers.

It's also often dissolved in alcohol and sprayed onto citrus fruit.

The waxy coating wicks away moisture, extending the fruit's shelf life.

And that gloss makes for a more eye-catching lemon on grocery store shelves.

>> >> Thousands of people in Toodlin's village depend on shellac for a living,

but the price has fluctuated a lot.

>> >> In 2022, Toodlin could make $12 a kilo.

Now the price is half that.

So, she started farming ducks for additional income.

She also grows rice and vegetables.

That's because raising the storied insects has gotten a lot harder,

largely due to the climate crisis.

Intensifying rainstorms have washed lac off tree branches and led to fungal infestations.

More extreme heat is drying up the trees

that are the insect's main food source.

>> >> The two Kumar V 2 works for an NGO

that helps farmers research why their insects are dying.

>> >> His organization educates farmers on the benefits of using fungicides,

which can increase lack production.

>> >> Armed with a little help from science,

Indian lack producers are fighting to keep raising their amber insects for generations to

come.

>> >> Everyday, workers back the walls of this mountain with powerful explosives.

All to extract one thing.

Himalayan pink salt.

The Khewra mine in Pakistan has the largest pink salt deposits in the world.

Some of these raw blocks weigh up to 800 kilos.

Too heavy to lift by hand.

Most of the salt ships to Europe and the US.

Where it is often branded

as a healthy product selling for up to 30 times the price of regular

white salt.

But reports suggest that it has high levels of heavy metals and microplastics.

Still, as the world's appetite for pink salt keeps growing,

how is a single mountain range powering this global industry?

Asif Mehmood gets his three sons ready for school every day before heading out

to the mines that hold the coveted Himalayan pink salt.

The salt doesn't actually come from the Himalayas,

which are about 250 km east of here,

but from the lower altitude Potohar Plateau in Punjab province.

With two decades of experience,

Asif is now a supervisor responsible for the safety of the miners.

Inside, about 40 km of tunnels connect 17 levels that are divided into chambers.

First, experienced miners read the walls.

They're looking for high-quality salt.

After finding the deposits,

they start drilling holes about 4 ft deep

and pack them with explosives using just their bare hands.

A single spark or flame at this point could turn the chamber into an

inferno.

Then workers add the fuse wire, which snakes through the rock,

giving them just enough time to clear the area.

Asif moves away to another chamber,

but he still hears the explosion loud and clear.

After 30 minutes, they cautiously make their way back through the tunnels.

Miners aren't allowed to extract everything.

A lot of the rock is used for structural support,

so the chambers don't collapse.

It takes workers about 2 hours to load the tractor trolleys mostly by hand.

Every year they harvest close to 400,000 tons of salt from the mountain range.

But that's just a fraction of the reserves found here.

Even at current extraction rates, this salt is expected to last for centuries.

The Khewra Salt Mine is owned by the government,

which leases out sections to private companies like Ittefaq Salt.

Asif has worked with them since he was 20.

The company pays him a salary of about 100,000 rupees a month

or $350.

That's above the average monthly wage for unskilled workers in this region.

In fact, locals like Asif have depended on the Khewra mine for generations.

Geologists say the salt formed here around 600 million years ago.

When ancient seas evaporated, leaving behind thick mineral deposits.

Its signature pink hue comes from trace amounts of iron oxide.

The same compound that makes rust red.

The more iron it contains, the deeper the pink.

So, the salt can range from pale blush to dark red.

Legend says that around 326 BC,

during Alexander the Great's expedition to the Indian subcontinent,

his horses uncovered the deposits after they began licking salty rocks along the trail.

But, industrial scale mining started here in the 1870s,

when the British colonized the region.

Pakistan gained independence in 1947 and took ownership of the salt mines.

But, most of the work is done by private companies like Ittefaq Salt.

They process the rocks at this factory in Lahore, about 280 km away.

Here, workers like Amir Aslam start their day by suiting up with protective gear.

>> First, workers evaluate the raw blocks and sort them by color.

Then they check for any remaining gunpowder and chip it off.

They also scan the rock for natural cracks.

Some pieces can weigh up to 100 kilos,

so armor says they have to be handled with caution.

That's why workers cut down the largest slabs first.

But as the size shrinks,

their hands get closer to the blade

and the risk increases

as the diamond-tipped edge slices through in seconds.

Today they're working on an order for Himalayan salt lamps.

They drill a hole in the center, which throws up salt fumes.

Over time, those particles can collect in the lungs, making it harder to breathe.

To stay safe, new hires also have to undergo 3 months of training.

These days, the factory has even automated some parts of the process to increase

production.

It can now handle nearly 350 metric tons of salt a day,

the weight of a fully loaded Boeing 747 jumbo jet.

And demand has only been skyrocketing over the years for everything from salts to

lamps used in aromatherapy

and edible salt.

The finished products are stacked, wrapped, boxed, labeled,

and shipped around the world to more than 80 countries.

In some US grocery stores,

a container of Himalayan pink salt sells for about $10.

But a much larger jar of regular table salt can cost just $1.

It's often more costly

because of how it's branded

as a more natural

and healthier alternative to regular table salt.

Influencers claim it can regulate blood sugar, improve sleep, and detoxify the body.

But scientists say there's no solid evidence behind those claims.

In fact, one recent study shows

that Himalayan pink salt contains higher amounts of microplastics than other rock salts,

with the contamination happening at the processing and packaging stage.

Other reports show that it contains heavy metals like lead, mercury,

and arsenic that can be toxic even in small quantities.

>> I made a shocking discovery about pink Himalayan salt.

>> On top of that,

there are also many fake products out there

that add pink dye to regular salt

and sell it at premium prices.

>> It looks like foundation that I can put on my face.

>> Still, the people who work with the salt continue to believe in those

healing properties.

Since 2018, the global market for Himalayan salt has grown steadily

and is expected to reach almost 700 million in 2030.

But Pakistan's annual exports are valued at only a fraction of that.

That's because most of the profits in this industry are made later in the

supply chain,

when the salt is turned into products.

And for years, Pakistan wasn't actually doing that.

It lacked the equipment to grind and refine it to international standards.

So, exporting raw salt became an easier option.

Most of it was shipped at low prices to India,

where it was processed and sold to western markets as a premium product,

sometimes even labeled as made in India.

Pakistan saw little of the profit.

But, in 2019, political tensions between the two countries escalated over control of the

Kashmir region.

Pakistan suspended bilateral trade with India,

cutting off a major export route for raw salt.

So, local companies started processing the salt themselves.

But, those early workshops weren't as modern or safe as they are today.

We filmed it 1 6 years ago.

There, we saw some workers handling the same sharp equipment without gloves.

Fine salt fumes filled the air, coating the machines, the floors,

and even the workers' faces.

Not many of them wore masks.

Despite the risks, many workers still value this job.

Because Khewra isn't just a salt mine.

It's a national attraction, bringing in about 250,000 tourists every year.

A source of pride for many who work in the industry.

>> Those blocks are doing multiple shapes of products and making >> Meanwhile at the mine,

Asif's 8-hour shift is finally over.

So he bonds with co-workers over a cup of tea

and a melancholy song.

But his spirits are anything but defeated.

Tomorrow he looks forward to another day inside this mine.

These men in Colombia descend into mines that could collapse with one wrong move.

About 70% of the country's gold is still dug out in informal mines like

these.

But the danger isn't just underground.

The precious metal ends up funding armed groups.

In fact, gold is now their biggest source of income.

To stop this trade, authorities are blowing up illegal mines one by one.

Yet, demand for gold is soaring, especially in the United States.

>> As the number one destination for Colombian gold, the US is involved.

We're talking billions and billions of dollars a year in dirty money.

>> So, how did gold become more lucrative than cocaine for Colombia's most dangerous criminals?

And if it's so tainted, why are countries still buying it?

Marmato village in the Colombian Andes clings to what's known

as the mountain of gold.

Here, 4,300 ft above sea level,

families have mined the precious metal for over 500 years. 30-year-old James Rotavista grew

up on this mountain.

Centuries of digging have left many tunnels mostly empty.

So, miners go deeper than their forefathers, down 2,000 ft.

Where ground water weakens support beams fast.

The men follow what they call veins that snake through the rocks.

They change color depending on the minerals mixed in.

The walls that shimmer hide the gold.

>> Today, the men are betting on this vein.

They start by drilling holes to place explosives.

But Matamato's tunnels are full of old ones

that never went off

and have killed some of his colleagues years later.

Once they light the fuse,

they have just a few minutes to get

as far as they can from the blast

which emits poisonous carbon monoxide.

When the dust settles, the men go back in.

He fills a sack with about 55 lb of ore,

the rocks that contain the gold.

>> This mine and all the underground minerals in it are owned by the

Colombian government,

which issues permits.

But to qualify, workers need to meet some standards,

including using safer machinery for extraction.

James' team can't afford that,

so authorities can stop them from mining at any time.

James' team of 60 men work together to load up the carts.

The state requires every operation to have its own rescue team.

But artisanal mines here rarely do. 55-year-old Jose Gallego worked in a mine for

22 years.

But a close call with death motivated him to join a volunteer rescue team.

Jose says they're the first responders in Hat Moco.

They all share a single rescue truck.

There's just one road through town.

And every minute counts.

>> >> It takes them almost half an hour to get to the highest

point the car can reach.

They need to hike the rest of the way.

Today, they reach the mine in near record time.

Only to find out a young miner had dropped 420 ft.

That's about the height of a 40-story building.

Blanca Rodas joined the team 11 years ago.

But even she's not trained for this kind of mission.

Both the miners and the rescuers are on edge as time ticks by.

Today, all she and the team can do is wait for other miners to

retrieve the man from the shaft.

>> >> After 2 hours, the miners finally carried the man out.

But, it was too late to save him.

The team drives the miner to the nearest hospital, where his family is waiting.

Caicedo has repeatedly asked the government for funding,

but he says he's barely received enough to pay the team a modest wage.

For Blanca, the emotional toll of a failed mission never goes away.

But, even outside these mines,

the risks young men in the state face are growing.

Columbia's gold-rich regions have become hotspots for the country's most powerful cartels

and rebel groups.

Historically, they relied mainly on cocaine to finance their operations.

But, recent crackdowns on drug trafficking pushed them to explore other revenue sources.

Julia Yansura tracks how dirty money enters the global financial system.

>> The drug trafficking

and criminal organizations we're seeing in Colombia today are sophisticated organizations

that are relying on different income streams.

So, gold has become one of those income streams.

>> In 2013, gold officially surpassed cocaine as their biggest source of revenue.

And over the past decade,

inflation and trade wars have continued to push prices to record highs.

>> The price of cocaine has sort of stalled out.

That's due to an overproduction of cocaine.

Compare that to the price of gold, which is just incredible, astronomical growth.

>> Now, hundreds of mines operate under criminal networks,

which experts estimate rake in billions of dollars annually.

The Colombian government has formed a special task force to wipe out criminal operations.

But policy analysts say that's also an outdated approach.

>> I think it's the myth

that we can solve this problem by sending out police

and military.

They will blow up just heavy machinery used in in illegal mining.

And within 1 hour of the yellow machinery being blown up,

they're already seeing new yellow machinery being transported to to the zone.

There's got to be a better way to do this.

>> In this fight between the government and criminal groups,

local miners like Diego Jaramillo often get caught in the crossfire.

>> >> Diego has been mining for decades here in Segovia,

the country's main gold mining hub.

But these days, cartels often coerce miners like him into selling their ore

or joining their ranks.

Diego began mining here at just 14 along with his friends.

Indigenous tribes started digging for gold here at least a thousand years ago to

use it in cultural

and spiritual rituals.

But in the 1500s,

Spanish colonists seized mines across the country

and brought in foreign enslaved people to work in them.

Nearly 300 years later,

Colombia gained independence from the Spanish with help from the British,

who also claimed some of the mines.

Still, artisanal workers kept chipping away in areas where no one controlled mining rights.

Then in the 1990s,

Colombia made a push to attract foreign companies by giving them exclusive licenses for

huge swaths of land.

This area where Diego's been digging for 30 years is now on the turf

of a company called Quintana.

But he mines here anyway.

Most of the gold in this mine is long gone,

but he still looks for scraps because they're especially valuable today.

Gold prices reached an all-time record of nearly $5,600 in early 2026.

Even though most small-scale miners end up selling their gold for 70% of the

full market value,

they still make about 10 times the $22 daily minimum wage in Colombia.

Diego, for example, often collects enough ore over 2 days to earn $500.

Once he's gathered as much as he can carry,

Diego brings it to a processor a few miles away.

This one is independent, but many others are operated by armed groups.

Diego dumps his ore into this barrel and adds water to it.

He also adds mercury, which sticks to the gold, making it easier to isolate.

But, it's extremely toxic over time.

Still, miners continue using it without any precautions.

Men hit the barrels to help break up the ore.

And inside, these steel balls grind it, making it easier to free the gold.

Water carries lighter minerals away, while gold is heavy,

so it settles at the bottom.

At this point, the mercury is still stuck to the gold,

so the nuggets are heated to burn that off.

This also melts away any natural clues indicating where the gold came from.

And experts say that's a major draw for armed groups,

because that makes it easier to launder the gold before it leaves the country.

>> You might be thinking, you know, illicit gold is going to be smuggled.

Not really.

Documentation is falsified as though it's coming from a legal mine,

and that's a really tricky thing for law enforcement to deal with.

>> The government does track how much gold is exported.

In 2024, it shipped 4.1 billion dollars worth.

But, that's far more than its licensed mines said they produced.

Meaning, the rest came from illegal or informal sites.

>> For Colombia, it's been really hard to get data,

but we know the majority is illegally sourced.

We're talking at least 2 billion dollars a year.

A lot of it is exported as though it were a totally legal product,

just like you would export sweatshirts or Coca-Cola.

>> Most of the gold Colombia exports ends up in the US,

which in 2024 imported 1.5 billion dollars worth.

>> Most Americans perceive this

as this remote problem

that has nothing to do with us,

and that couldn't be farther from the truth.

As the number one destination for Colombian gold, the US is involved.

>> Julia says Miami is a major port of entry.

Officials have seized illicit gold there in the past.

>> That's one airport.

That suggests a lot of this dirty gold is ending up here,

either through formal export processes

or through travelers who bring gold in their backpack

or whatnot,

>> >> fly into the airport.

They're not necessarily going to go to jail.

Gold is not an illegal product.

If you have those same guys transporting a bag of cocaine,

if they get caught, they're going to go to jail.

So, that makes the risk of doing business a lot lower.

>> Once that enters the US, experts say it's laundered again through shell companies.

>> We've got pretty weak money laundering policies, particularly with regard to anonymous shell companies.

That continues to be a big vulnerability in our system.

>> Now, Colombia is trying to tackle the problem at its root by giving

artisanal miners,

like Juan Camilo, better opportunities.

For the past 2 years,

he's worked for a local small-scale mining company in Segovia

that sells its ore to a larger Canadian company called Aris.

It has partnered with them under certain conditions.

They go down a shaft that drops down 550 ft,

but no one wears a harness.

Miners have installed new equipment in here, like this pulley system.

Juan's income isn't dependent on how much he collects.

He's paid a steady salary by the small-scale mining company.

It sells the ore exclusively to Aris,

which provides a better rate for the gold than other buyers.

Even though he loves this job, Juan says it's taken many of his friends.

And he wants those who will someday wear this gold to know its true

cost.

At the end of the day,

what's most important for Juan is

that his colleagues stay safe

and that he can keep mining beside them.

We also went to an official Ares mine that is highly mechanized.

Carlos Mario supervises a team here.

He briefs the men before they head in for the day.

This railcar takes them six levels down.

In this mine, machines do most of the heavy lifting.

Robotic arms drill holes for the dynamite.

But Carlos's team mines where machines can't.

They rely on techniques they learned as artisanal miners.

Ares supplies the protective gear

and trains the men to check the walls before drilling.

Working with Ares, they earn a steady wage of about $100 a day,

roughly five times the minimum wage in Colombia.

Informal mining can pay more on a good day, but it's a gamble.

This kind of cooperation between Ares and local miners took years to secure.

All the material the men collect ends up here.

The company processes about 2,000 tons of ore a day.

It's separated into piles depending on which mine it came from.

>> >> The ore is ground into a fine grain.

Next, workers add chemicals called collectors

that bind to the gold

and make it repel water.

>> >> At this stage, the gold is still mixed with other minerals.

So, this machine adds cyanide to dissolve it.

The waste rock stays solid and filters out.

A plant like this one recovers about 96% of the gold from the ore,

far more than informal operations.

To recover it, they add zinc, which sticks to the cyanide,

leaving the gold behind.

The company chooses women for this part of the job

because they're seen as more detail-oriented.

One is always stationed here watching so that no gold gets lost.

Ares also took us to its foundry, the final stage in the process.

A giant oven heats the refined gold to over 2,000° Fahrenheit.

Just standing here for a few minutes could sear the men's skin

if they didn't wear these suits

that are designed to reflect heat.

It takes 2 hours to melt one batch of gold.

They let the bars cool and harden.

But these aren't all pure gold.

Sometimes there's silver mixed in.

The lighter bars are the ones that contain more silver.

Darker bars hold more gold, making them higher carat and pricier.

The highest you can find on the market is 24-karat gold,

which is 99.9% pure, but it's soft.

That's why it's mostly used for ceremonial jewelry, not everyday wear.

Or in the bars that back currencies.

Some gold goes as low as eight carats, which is just a third pure.

It's tougher because of the added metals, but it loses its shine and color.

Each bar is marked with a unique serial number

that allows suppliers and buyers to trace it.

Before it's sold and shipped off, Ares stores them here for safekeeping.

Ares says it sells its bars mainly to European countries.

Today, demand for this metal is booming.

Many people hold on to it as a recession-proof investment.

It's also increasingly being used in modern technology,

like the cheap views that run AI >> >> and smartphones.

These days, consumers are pressuring tech companies to reveal their supply chains.

And that's been challenging for Colombia.

As reports have exposed the role gold plays in funding criminal groups.

Now, many big mining companies are doubling down to prove their resource ethically

and legally.

Back in Marmato, James Rotavista is considering working with Ares, too.

To earn a more stable income for his wife and two children.

Until then, he wants people to buy his gold without criminalizing the only job

he's ever loved.

>> >> These sandstone mines are killing tens of thousands of men.

They're constantly breathing in clouds of toxic dust that cause a deadly lung disease.

Most workers don't make it past the age of 40.

Anu has worked here his whole life.

And so did his father.

But it destroyed his lungs.

To pay for medical bills, workers have to borrow money from their employer.

But they don't earn enough to pay off these loans.

So, they keep working here even though this dust >> >> is suffocating them now, too.

Activists say this is a form of modern-day slavery.

But as global demand grows for this sandstone,

this work is creating an entire village of widows who are now trying to

pay off loans of those who are long gone.

So, why are conditions at these mines so deadly?

And how can families get away from a job that's killing them

as long as they're chained by debt?

Just a few miles from the sandstone quarries of Rajasthan lies this village.

Almost every single resident here is a widow.

Years of breathing dust at the quarries took their husbands' lives.

Now, they have also turned to sandstone to support their families.

Like 27-year-old Bimla.

Now, the women spend their days chipping away at these smaller sandstone pieces,

shaping them into tiles, while the men work in the heart of the quarry.

Over 160 billion dollars' worth of unmined sandstone can be found in Rajasthan.

The men start by cutting stones from the walls of this pit.

They drill holes about a foot apart

and create outlines with paint

so they know where to eventually cut the rock.

No one wears a mask, but the temperatures here can hit nearly 120° Fahrenheit.

So, they're constantly exposed to this fine dust.

It builds up deep in the lungs.

The body tries to wall it off with scar tissue,

but that hardens the lungs

and over time makes it impossible for oxygen to pass through.

That's called silicosis, a deadly disease.

To cover his father's care,

the family borrowed money from a local bank and the quarry supervisor.

Both charged interest.

Anu was trying to pay this off when he got hurt.

He was breaking a slab just like these workers

when a rock dropped

and shattered his foot.

Today, he says he owes 125,000 rupees or about 1,380 dollars.

And paying it off has been hard

because he earns just 5 dollars a day.

Not nearly enough to keep up with expenses and make loan payments.

We couldn't track down the operator of Anu's Quarry.

But another mine owner we contacted didn't answer any of our phone calls.

Most workers live a couple of miles from the quarry in Bilbasti neighborhood.

Including 32-year-old Hira Ram, who has been sick for 8 years.

His 26-year-old wife Shayti looks after him.

And silicosis patients often grow painfully thin because they lose their appetite.

To afford treatment, Shayti had to send their children away to live in government

hostels.

It's a sacrifice she's learned to live with.

Shayti's neighbor Sapna is trapped in the same cycle.

Her husband died 5 years ago from the same disease that's killing Hira.

But before he passed, he'd borrowed money, forcing Sapna into stone work.

To pay off his loans, she had to borrow more,

about 500,000 rupees or $5,500.

This time from her boss at the quarry.

But he charges 70% interest and payments are due every 15 days.

Meanwhile, as a woman, Sapna is paid about half of what the men make,

just 300 rupees a day or about $3.

Not nearly enough to raise four children on her own.

Sapna's daughter came to work with her until the dust took her life, too.

She was only 20.

And now Sapna also has silicosis.

But she still works when she can.

Since losing her loved ones, Sapna has borrowed more,

including money to pay for her family's funerals.

She says she's still in debt, but doesn't know how much she owes.

The women rarely meet the mine owners,

who are allegedly wealthy locals with political ties.

They lease the land from the government

that owns it and sometimes use false names to escape accountability.

They hire contractors to recruit workers, run the day-to-day operations,

and negotiate loans.

In this village, Sapna is surrounded by other widows like her.

>> >> Radha Bai began working at the quarry in 1983.

A few years later, silicosis from mining killed her husband.

The 60-year-old still mourns the partner she lost 29 years ago.

To get by, Radha works in the quarry.

She makes about 30 tiles a day and earns just 30 cents.

Meanwhile, her boss can sell a single tile for up to 60 cents,

>> >> twice what Radha makes in an entire day.

The widows aren't safe at the mines.

They say they're constantly harassed by male workers.

In many villages in India,

they're believed to bring bad luck >> >>

and are often shunned by their own families at occasions like weddings

and baby showers.

In ancient rituals, some Hindu families even burned widows alive at their husband's funerals.

The practice, called Sati, was officially banned in 1829.

But the stigma still exists.

It's not just men and women who are trapped in these jobs, but children,

too.

Even though child labor has been banned in India since 2016,

kids above the age of 14 are legally allowed to work,

but not in hazardous jobs like mining.

Still, sometimes the children who end up here are even younger.

Anu never because of his debt, and he lives with his parents.

Today, he's meeting his cousin Navraj Ram for a cup of tea.

Navraj was diagnosed 4 years ago with silicosis, too.

Navraj has also taken notes to send his children to school.

He prays he can keep working for a few more years

so he can pay off his debt.

To save money, Navraji has given up on treatment.

But many miners get check-ups at a nearby hospital.

For decades, doctors were misdiagnosing many patients with tuberculosis, which is treatable.

But workers kept dying.

So, in 2009, the Rajasthan State Human Rights Commission stepped in

and discovered it was actually silicosis,

a slow but certain killer.

No one survives the disease.

>> >> Independent estimates suggest

that today there are about 800,000 cases of silicosis across Rajasthan.

And even though this disease is a worker's life sentence,

the rock dug up travels far and wide.

Sandstone is easier to carve than other rocks.

So, it has been used in India for centuries to build fortresses

and palaces which draw hundreds of thousands of tourists each year.

It was even used to construct the president's house.

The state's capital, Jaipur, is famous for its sandstone structures.

In 2025, about $60 million dollars worth of sandstone left the country.

Many exports are bound for the US, Europe, and the UK,

where it's used to decorate bathrooms, driveways, and cobbled roads.

In the US, a single square foot tile can range from 10 to 30

dollars,

which is much more expensive than concrete.

But before it's exported, the stone moves through a long chain of middlemen,

erasing any link to specific quarries.

Rana Sengupta runs a local NGO called Mine Labor Protection Campaign, or MLPC.

But at the same time, government just get through your mining converter.

One government is showing you the exploitation to SM Joe consumer

which are getting a chance of product mainly to smoke blood stains you.

Rana says it's hard for the government to keep track of conditions

as there are over 30,000 mines cutting across Rajasthan

and just one state agency to keep watch.

So, the NGO fills critical gaps while looking out for workers and widows.

The state is legally required to pay women a one-time sum of 300,000 rupees

or about $3,300 if their husbands die of silicosis.

But often, there are no employment contracts,

and many women are too afraid to officially report their deaths.

About 85% of women here can't read or write.

Activists say minor operators take advantage of that when they issue their loans.

By law, the state should give silicosis workers a one-time payment of about 100,000

rupees or $1,000.

And government data shows that from 2022 to 2025,

more than 118,000 people in Rajasthan applied for the aid,

saying they had the disease.

But the state only certified about 6,000 cases

and paid out just 5,000.

Experts say the government routinely rejects claims to dodge responsibility

and limit how much it has to pay. government I'm going to do just

a revenue order. aligned with

that.

Lucky workers get off.

>> We emailed India's Ministry of Mines, its labor department,

and Rajasthan state labor and mining departments,

and called every number listed on their websites.

Two officials hung up on us when we started asking questions.

Several of our calls went unanswered.

And other numbers weren't in service, including the one for Rajasthan's silicosis help desk.

Still, Rana says the state could save thousands in compensation

if they focused on preventing the disease in the first place.

He points to quarries around the world that use machinery,

like wire saws to cut rocks, so workers are not directly exposed to dust.

But that equipment can be expensive.

And if mine owners won't buy it, Rana says the state should,

as this land still belongs to the government.

>> Government could take that away.

Key other up to see go.

Mining can then they have to have.

Though.

I'm going to go and go back to the DJ.

Basically financial.

Technology.

Political will kill you.

Egg.

No.

Government can do it so many of them are not sure.

He have a good commanding to him kiss you open me.

Kiss you go social good to me to me.

>> But the oppression goes back centuries.

Most workers here are considered Dalit or untouchables.

>> >> It's the lowest rung in the Hindu caste system, which was outlawed decades ago,

but still exists.

>> I'll be a worker in local by system.

May he a local go ahead.

Lucky at the day.

Yeah, or what you have already they will basically a rocky surface water.

We fertile land later.

>> There they found sandstone and other rocks and began selling them.

Soon the government wanted to cash in,

so it claimed ownership of all underground minerals and offered mining licenses.

Historically, some were reserved for marginalized communities, but many locals couldn't afford these permits,

and that opened the door for the wealthy.

>> >> So on paper, the work was reserved for the lowest caste, but in reality,

the mining belonged to those with money.

>> >> While we were filming this video, Hira Ram was admitted to the hospital.

Hira died a month after we filmed this documentary.

He told us he'd always worry about the family

and friends he would leave behind.

Anu now has silicosis too.

And he doesn't know how much longer his lungs will hold out.

So he keeps a quiet list of the things he'd do

if he ever escapes this dust before it claims his life,

too.

>> >> For over 500 years,

miners in Bolivia have been digging out silver from this mountain.

The precious metal is now more valuable than ever,

soaring more than 150% in 2025

and hitting a record high of about $80 an ounce.

AI is fueling the new demand.

Silver is widely used in high-performance chips, circuit boards,

and transmission networks at data centers.

Now, global supplies are running short.

This mountain once held the most silver in the world,

but when we visited Bolivia in 2023, there was not much left.

These days, the men mostly find zinc, tin, and lead.

The nonstop mining has left this extinct volcano porous

and unstable and a threat to anyone who dares to work here.

So how do miners extract metals

that are crucial to an AI future

while using age-old techniques?

And how do they stay safe inside a mountain on the brink of collapse?

At 13,000 ft, Potosi is one of the highest cities on the planet.

Cerro Rico or rich mountain towers over it.

It made Potosi the wealthiest place in Latin America back in the 16th century.

Today, it's one of the poorest.

Luciano lives at the base of the mountain with his wife in a one-room

house.

>> >> There's no heat, just electricity and a stove for cooking.

Luciano is semi-retired.

But to make ends meet, he still mines once or twice a week.

About 40% of Potosi's residents work in mining-related jobs.

And nearly half of the population lives in extreme poverty,

more than three times the national average.

After 10 minutes, the bus drops Luciano at the mine.

He stocks up on alcohol and he buys coca leaves that give him energy.

Then he buys sticks of dynamite to use later.

There are nearly 500 mines in here, but many are abandoned.

After entering the mine,

Luciano first makes an offering to El Tio or the uncle.

Some historians believe the Spanish installed statues of the devil to scare the workers

and instill discipline.

Legend has it that in 1544,

an indigenous farmer called Diego Wallpa discovered silver here

while looking for his lost llamas.

But it's the Spaniards who excavated most of it

when they conquered Potosi in the 16th century.

European engravings show how they forced more than 13,000 local indigenous peoples

and enslaved Africans to work at the mines.

For the next 200 years,

more than 40,000 tons of silver was shipped to Europe.

Across the Spanish empire, silver bars and coins were used as currency,

funding the army and churches.

Hundreds of years later, Bolivia's state mining company COMIBOL took over Cerro Rico.

And when the price of silver dropped drastically in the 1980s,

Comibol handed the mountain over to the indigenous people of the region.

Currently, about 16,000 miners work here.

They're descendants of the same indigenous communities who toiled here centuries ago. 65 miles

of connect the mountain.

These rails were installed between the 16th and 19th centuries.

And miners still use simple tools like a chisel and hammer to extract ore.

Today, Luciano's chipping away at a vein of tin, which is black in color.

But to find bigger pieces,

he has to go deeper into the mountain's unexplored corners.

For that, he needs dynamite.

>> Luciano has to act fast since he's competing with other miners.

He moves nearly 200 ft away after setting off the dynamite.

Workers collect the broken rocks into sacks that can weigh up to 90 lb.

An elevator pulls the minerals up to where the mining carts are.

The fatality rate inside small-scale mines like these is 90% higher than in industrialized

countries.

Many miners contract silicosis, a deadly lung disease caused by constant exposure to dust.

Usually after 10 years of working inside the mine.

Luciano was hospitalized for over a year because of it.

Luciano is 52, but most workers don't live past the age of 40.

Luckily, he gets health insurance

because he's part of one of the many cooperatives

that control the mines.

Each co-op has anywhere from 50 to 1,000 members,

and they're all indigenous.

Miners pay mostly monthly dues

and a one-time membership fee

that can cost up to $1,000.

Members can also hire contractors to work on their behalf.

>> Sometimes these are other members of the mining cooperative, but sometimes they're day laborers.

And the whole group works together following, for example,

one vein of zinc or complejo, the mixed ore vein.

>> The biggest benefit of cooperatives is that miners can keep whatever they find.

They could make a ton of money,

enough to put themselves or their kids through school.

>> Their children will still inherit their membership in the cooperative,

but instead of actually going underground and mining themselves,

they only hire out day laborers to work on their behalf.

>> But day laborers aren't a part of cooperatives and don't get any benefits,

only a daily wage as little as $10.

Luciano can make about $70 on a good day mining lead, zinc, or tin.

These days he rarely comes across silver.

Most of it was exploited by 1825.

But sometimes he can find traces of it in rocks.

>> All the minerals are dumped into pits off the side of the mountain.

They're sorted and then sold to middlemen who are buyers for foreign companies.

Trucks transport it out of Bolivia, which is landlocked, to ports in neighboring Chile.

Then the unrefined minerals are shipped overseas.

In 2021, Bolivia sold nearly 1.3 billion dollars worth of zinc.

Its uses include cars, batteries, even paint and rubber.

Most of it ends up in South Korea, where it's processed at factories.

>> In addition to refining zinc, they're also able to extract indium,

which is a mineral

that is needed for a lot of touchscreen

and um high-end technologies

that is much more lucrative the unrefined zinc

that the Bolivians export.

The Bolivians do not receive any money for the indium that they export.

It's often treated as a flaw.

>> While mineral exports keep Bolivia afloat, decades of excavation have destabilized Cerro Rico.

Now, it's slowly sinking because of mining at the very top.

>> It's incredibly dangerous to be mining in the the tip of the mountain

because cave-ins are so increasingly common there.

But, it's also one of the places where there is the most remaining mineral,

and so a lot of people are willing to take very high risks.

>> In 2014, a presidential decree was passed to stop excavation above the 14,000

foot mark.

>> >> But, several cooperatives did not sign the agreement.

Now some experts say Cerro Rico is like a piece of Swiss cheese with

many holes in it.

>> The cooperative miners aren't coordinating where they're going to go, what vein they're following,

and so you can have a lot of structural problems

that develop in the mountain

when two miners are working quite close to one another,

both following separate veins,

but not leaving enough rock there to hold up the tunnel for anyone else

who comes after.

>> State mining company COMIBOL is in charge of keeping the mountain structurally safe,

even though it doesn't own the mines.

Gregorio Socaño Coro is a technician for COMIBOL.

Today, he's overseeing a project funded by the Bolivian government to fortify parts of

the mountain.

They're pumping cement into the peak to stabilize the shaky rocks.

>> >> Gregorio wants Cerro Rico to continue to be a source of pride for Bolivians.

But today, it is an endangered world heritage site.

And the livelihoods of thousands of locals are at stake.

>> Potosí >> Every so often Luciano visits this local cemetery.

Today he's paying his respects to his late cousin Zacharias.

Historians estimate about 8 million miners have died here from illnesses

or accidents since the 16th century.

Some graves here are nearly 200 years old.

While Luciano relies on El Tio for support in the mines,

here he prays to Jesus.

Meanwhile, Cerro Rico continues to loom over the city.

A source of pride, fear, and sorrow for Bolivians.

>> This pink lake in Senegal is saltier than the Dead Sea.

And miners, like Ousmane Dembélé,

scoop out thousands of tons of salt from it every year.

But plunging into Lake Retba, or Lac Rose as locals call it,

is a lot more dangerous than it seems.

Still, Senegal is West Africa's leading salt producer with ponds scattered across the country.

Thousands of people depend on the industry.

But some ecologists worry

that Lac Rose and its signature pink hue are in danger of disappearing

because of rapid urbanization

and climate change.

So, what's being done to protect one of Africa's most lucrative lakes

as well as the miners who break their backs working here every day?

Ousmane Dembélé, also known as Baba,

has been diving into Lac Rose for 20 years.

>> >> Before heading out, he applies shea butter,

which creates a protective layer over his skin.

And he covers his legs the best he can with these socks secured with

bits of nylon.

Baba then pushes out this wooden canoe that he bought for nearly $360.

But it's a lifelong investment.

He steers it to shallow parts of the lake where water evaporates faster leaving

behind salt crust.

Baba and his brother who taught him the trade can afford very few tools

like these long shovels with

which they reach the lake bed.

They also use their feet to feel for the salt

but that can be risky.

He can't go underwater to look for the crust

because he doesn't have goggles

and the high salinity can damage his eyes.

Baba usually spends 4 to 5 hours doing this over and over again.

Extracting the salt is actually beneficial for the lake

which would fill up

if the deposits aren't removed.

In some parts Lac Rose is 10 times saltier than normal ocean water.

That's because it's separated from the Atlantic by a strip of sand dunes

that formed thousands of years ago.

While the salt water seeps in from the ocean there's no outlet for Lac

Rose and as the sun evaporates surface water faster than it comes in,

it leaves behind high concentrations of salt and other minerals.

At its peak salinity can be

as high as 40% even more than the Dead Sea.

As for its signature pink color,

that comes from a type of algae called Dunaliella salina,

which flourishes in salt water.

It produces an orange-red pigment when it absorbs sunlight.

That's why Lac Rose glows brightest in the dry season, between November and June.

Once full, these baskets can weigh about 55 lb each.

On a good day, Baba and his brother fill about 60 of these.

That's as much as the canoe can carry without capsizing.

So, harvesters add these sticks

as markers to come back

and collect more salt later.

The hard work isn't over yet.

Kura Sao is one of many workers whose job is transporting the salt from

the canoe into piles along the lake's banks,

where it dries up.

Kura makes about 20 trips back and forth every day.

For every canoe she unloads, she makes about 1,000 West African francs,

or $2 US.

That can buy her a few loaves of bread in Senegal.

But the more basins she collects, the more money she makes,

so she fights through the pain.

>> The job has also taken a toll on Baba's body,

which is covered in sores.

So, he applies duct tape on his wounds.

This tape is the only protection that Baba can afford.

He makes just 5 to $10 a day based on the amount of salt

he harvests.

Still, he is thankful for it.

Workers like him are the backbone of Senegal's salt industry,

harvesting nearly 60,000 metric tons from the lake per year.

Artisanal extractions started to thrive in the early '70s

when the Senegalese government officially classified Lac Rose

as a mine and allowed locals to harvest salt without official permit

or paying royalties.

These days, wholesalers buy it directly from people like Baba for up to 80

cents per basket,

but they often sell it for double that price.

Salt is also collected in other parts of Senegal.

Here in the Palmarin region,

locals have dug up hundreds of small salt wells >> >>

that naturally collect saline water from the sea.

>> >> Women spend up to 8 hours a day scooping it up

and leaving it out to dry.

>> >> Women are also taking charge in the nearby salt flats of Fatick.

Marie Douf, now known as the salt queen, started her own business here.

One reason why her salt sells fast is because she mixes in iodine.

Adding the mineral is required in most African countries, but isn't enforced.

A 2021 survey found

that iodine deficiency rates in sub-Saharan Africa are twice

as high as the global average,

contributing to health problems like swelling, fatigue, and issues during pregnancy.

While Senegal is the largest salt producer in West Africa,

generating about half a million tons a year.

Globally, it doesn't rank among the top 10.

China is the biggest manufacturer, producing 53 million tons of salt a year,

followed by the US and India, which generates 30 million tons of salt annually.

About a third of it comes from this dry seabed called Little Rann of

Kutch,

and it ends up in soaps, detergents, and table salt.

But miners say collecting it in the scorching heat causes boils and skin diseases.

And just like Senegal, the miners don't make much,

earning a meager wage of $4 a ton.

Another spot that's known for its therapeutic salt is the Dead Sea,

which lies landlocked between Israel and Jordan.

For centuries, tourists have visited seeking cures for skin diseases.

>> >> But the Dead Sea is also teeming with other minerals, like magnesium and potash,

which is a type of potassium-rich salt often used as a fertilizer.

The process for harvesting these minerals is mechanized, as companies use techniques like dredging,

and modern plants refine millions of tons every year.

Meanwhile, here at Lac Rose, miners are facing obstacles to growing their business.

The climate crisis is bringing more rain to the region every year.

Salt collectors were hit hardest in 2022, when flooding breached the lake's banks.

Water started streaming in from new channels,

diluting the lake's salinity and its signature pink color.

>> Et tout se marigole se coule d'eau là,

sont ce sont de façon naturelle traîner si vous voulez,

et en suivant la la topographie vers le Lac Rose.

>> We first visited the lake in 2024, 2 years after the floods,

when it still looked muddy.

We went back in 2025, and it had finally regained its pink color.

That's what attracts visitors from all around the world.

But tourism has been a blessing and a curse to this lake.

Removal of nearby dunes to make way for hotels

and vacation homes has caused the lake to erode.

Many of these developments don't have a proper sewage system.

So, they dump untreated waste in here.

That's elevating nitrate levels in the water, sometimes even contaminating the salt.

Scientists worry that if these salt crusts become unusable and aren't extracted,

they could fill up this depression.

And within a few years, Lac Rose could disappear.

While there are virtually no living creatures inside the lake,

it's still important for surrounding ecosystems and birds.

Now, environmentalists are pushing for it to be designated

as a UNESCO heritage site to protect its biodiversity.

While Lac Rose is still around,

Baba continues to work here day in and day out.

His family lives in the neighboring country of Mali, which is where he's from.

But he's found community among the local families that live nearby.

Spending time with them is his only outlet after a long day's work.

>> Here in Peru, the search for a seafood delicacy begins with a motorcycle

ride through the desert.

Just a handful of people in the whole country are skilled enough to scale

the towering cliffs.

They're hunting for a special mollusk called barquillo,

found inside coastal rocks where the waves crash.

Barquillos are the main ingredient in a special kind of seafood ceviche that's made

only in the remote town of Warme,

which has now become a go-to destination for foodies from all over the world.

But what's in it for the men who put their lives on the line

hunting for this elusive sea creature?

About a 5-hour drive north of Lima is the small fishing town of Warme.

Every day, Arminio Lobato de la Cruz >> >> packs up his climbing gear

and hits the road.

He's learning from his mentor, Juan Li Gomez,

who has nearly 20 years of experience as a shellfish collector or mariscador.

He's known as El Grande.

Together, they bike for 25 miles till they reach this coastal desert.

But with time, El Grande says he overcame his fear.

They prefer to scale the cliffs the way their ancestors did.

Without any formal rock climbing gear.

The men wear hand-woven mesh shoes that don't retain water.

El Grande ties the rope around an iron rod that's hammered into the rock.

This is the only thing

that anchors them to these cliffs

that are as high

as 1,000 ft.

Lobato goes first.

The two men take turns rappelling down using each other for support like a

pulley system.

Falling rocks and debris make the descent even more challenging.

El Grande starts to descend once Lobato stops at about 300 ft down.

The rope isn't long enough to reach the rocks in one shot.

So, they carry more and tie it at different points along the route.

The entire descent takes them about 40 minutes.

Finally, El Grande meets Lobato at a ledge near the ocean.

The water temperature, even in the summer, is around 68° F.

So, they put on a thermal suit for insulation.

These cost them about 1,000 Peruvian soles or about $270,

but they're an essential investment.

December to March are the best months to harvest the barquillos

because the ocean is relatively calmer.

So, when the water retreats during low tide,

they try to pluck as many barquillos as they can.

>> The barquios strive off the algae and sea grass that cover the slippery rocks.

They're just 2 in long and blend in,

but the men know exactly what they look like.

They use their hands

and sometimes a piece of spring iron to get them off.

Here in Peru, mariscadores were harvesting barquios

as far back as 600 AD using rafts to reach them.

The exterior shell is made of eight plates that overlap slightly,

allowing it to curl up into a ball.

Inside, it has a radula or tongue covered with sharp,

tiny teeth that help it eat the algae.

They can live up to 20 years

and are a natural source of food for birds,

crabs, starfish, and more.

Species of this mollusk are also found in Alaska, California, Chile,

and the Great Barrier Reef.

But today, there are only a dozen mariscadores left in

and around Huarmey who collect the barquio this way.

Others, like Juan Obed Loguimet, rent boats to get to nearby tidal pools.

But that's expensive and much slower.

Mariscadores also say they can access more locations by climbing up

and down the cliffs.

But Juan can no longer do that.

Last year, a wave thrashed him on these rocks, permanently injuring his knee.

He uses a different technique to catch the shellfish with special bamboo sticks

or cañas.

He attaches an iron hook on one stick to scrape off the barquillo.

And a mesh net on the other to catch it.

This helps him reach deep into the rocks while staying away from the waves.

Accidents like his are all too common for mariscadores in Peru,

which is one of the world's top five fishing nations.

But the majority of incidents go unreported since the fishing sector is mostly informal.

>> Today, Lobato and El Grande plucked about 350 barquillos in 3 hours.

And even ate some of them fresh.

If they're in the shell, they can stay alive for a couple of days.

But mariscadors often deshell them so their load is lighter.

Pulling themselves up after a whole day of fishing is exhausting

and takes the most stamina.

Once the men are back in Warme,

they try to sell the barquillo right away to wholesalers.

Juan also delivers barquillos to local fish markets.

He can make up to 500 soles a week

or about 136 dollars depending on his haul.

In this part of Peru,

that could pay for weeks worth of groceries for a family of four.

Juan's family also runs a seafood restaurant that serves ceviche,

the national dish of Peru.

It's usually a mixture of raw seafood and fish with onions and citrus juice.

But restaurants in Warme are known for making it with only shellfish.

Foodies from all over the world travel here to try the famous version of

ceviche.

And while this is a local treat found in every corner of Warme,

mariscadores like Juan feel forgotten.

There are other jobs in the area in mining and agriculture.

But El Grande and Lobato say shellfish hunting is the most lucrative for them

right now.

Killar Road deep in the Himalayas is one of the most dangerous in the

world.

One reckless turn could send drivers hurtling down nearly 11,000 ft Still,

every summer Ankur Rawat makes several trips delivering basic supplies to remote villages along

this perilous route.

It connects the rest of India to the isolated region of Pangi Valley,

which is cut off for nearly 6 months of the year

because of heavy snow.

But sometimes trucks break down along the way, leaving drivers stranded for days.

So, what does it take to navigate these heavy-duty trucks on this deadly path?

We rode along with Ankur through the mountains for 3 days to find out.

Ankur lives in the village of Palhoon with his wife Savita and their children.

He never really knows what the weather will be,

so he packs plenty of blankets.

They sit down for a family dinner before Ankur sets off.

He first picks up the truck from a private parking lot

that rents them out.

This one has a power steering

and a 5600cc engine ideal for driving through the mountains.

>> Anku will make a few pit stops on this 107-mi journey.

First, he'll travel about 10 mi from his home to a warehouse in Chamba

to pick up food rations.

Then, he'll pass through several small towns and go through Sach Pass,

the highest point on Killar Road, before reaching his destination,

the district of Pangi Valley.

Today, Anku's loading 100-lb bags of wheat provided by the government to sustain India's

most isolated regions.

His truck can carry up to 12 tons.

But any more than that, and it could topple over.

He always stops at this local temple along the way.

>> >> The truck can hold up to 250 L of diesel.

But there are hardly any gas stations along the route.

The terrain starts off pretty smooth.

But as the truck goes uphill, it gets rough.

And his speed drops below 10 mph.

At this point, the road is only 10 ft wide.

And there's barely room for two cars to drive next to each other.

So, when another vehicle approaches, Anku needs to carefully reverse,

sometimes by hundreds of yards.

Luckily, he's traveling with truck conductor Muhammad Nisar Mughal,

who jumps out and guides Anku around blind spots and dangerous turns.

>> >> There are no guardrails to prevent them from veering off.

In July 2022, a Jeep rolled into a gorge, killing five people.

And in 2023, seven people died after their vehicle was hit by a landslide

on this route.

But after years of experience as a trucker, Anku isn't easily intimidated.

All the traditional rules of the road don't really apply.

Truck drivers communicate with hand signals,

which becomes important during moments of congestion like this.

They also use pressure horns, which are illegal in India.

But Anku says they need them for safety reasons.

Anku doesn't wear seat belt, either, even though under Indian law, he's required to.

He says for this type of driving, they can do more harm than good,

as they restrict the driver from leaning over.

But stats on semi-truck accidents show

that drivers are more likely to survive

if they buckle up.

In this state alone,

trucks and buses accounted for 12% of all fatal crashes in 2022.

Landslides and snowfall have also weakened this road structure,

forming dishes and piles of debris.

So, the government hires contractors to keep repairing it.

Killar Road started off

as a footpath with narrow trails carved by shepherds

and traders who were trying to reach the remote Pangi Valley.

Legend has it that residents of Chamba fled to the hidden region to escape

Mughal invaders.

Others believe that in the 16th century,

the king of Chamba banished criminals to this isolated region.

These days, Killar Road is used mainly by tourists, bikers seeking an adrenaline rush,

truckers, and local residents.

After about 8 to 9 hours of driving, the men pull over.

They make a fire to start cooking with groceries they brought from home.

But even during dinner,

they stay vigilant in case they're confronted by wild animals or thieves.

There are no hotels for miles, so they sleep in the truck's cabin.

The next day, they start driving at the crack of dawn.

Killar Road gets even more treacherous

and spectacular as trucks pass through waterfalls

and incredibly tight spaces.

Vehicles along this route often run into mechanical problems.

This truck carrying grains to Pangi Valley broke down after the gearbox stopped working.

The mechanic says the nearest store for car parts is about 180 miles away.

>> >> The whole process will take four days

and the truck will just stay here until

then.

Anku and his team carry on with their journey.

At around midday, they stop at a local dhaba for a quick bite.

These cafes cater to truck drivers.

The people who run them, like Lakshman Sharma,

understand how hard it is to drive around here.

But even these cafes close down once it starts snowing around October.

While Anku's job is an essential service,

he only makes about 10,000 rupees a month.

That's about $4 US a day.

Enough to buy a few pounds of rice and lentils in India.

He could make about 25,000 rupees a month

as a personal driver in Delhi

or Bombay.

But his heart belongs here in the Himalayas.

And he wants the whole world to know how beautiful these mountains are.

So he vlogs in the side.

He has about 50,000 followers and counting on YouTube.

But the most treacherous part of this route is getting through Sach Pass.

At nearly 14,500 ft,

Sach Pass is one of the highest navigable places in the state of Himachal

Pradesh.

Drivers are advised not to stop at the top for more than 5 minutes

because there's so little oxygen in the air.

The road through here is even more narrow, barely more than 8 ft wide.

So, Uncle needs to be extremely mindful when navigating the steep slope.

It takes him about 3 to 4 hours to go through this 9-mi stretch.

After they're through, Uncle recaps the journey for his followers.

Killar is among 106 villages in Pangi Valley,

which has a total population of just 18,000 people.

Almost 200 trucks head there every summer carrying food, medicine, and other basic supplies.

They're stored at this warehouse for the winter,

and residents buy them at a subsidized rate set by the government.

As soon as they're done unloading, Anku and his colleagues hit the road.

Along the way, they pass by a nomadic community called the Gujjars.

For Anku, catching up with them over a cup of tea has become a

ritual.

Even though driving through these mountains is a part of Anku's identity,

the job has worn him down.

But, he still yearns for the day he can truly enjoy the breathtaking nature

around him.

This pile of dust came from one of the most valuable emerald mines in

the world.

Hundreds of people scavenge through waste by hand to uncover a few tiny stones.

Vanadium, it's worth the risk.

She used her last big score to pay off her debts

and buy a home.

But she hasn't found anything valuable in a year.

Just a few miles away,

commercial operations backed by foreign investors say they find emeralds every hour.

Some sell for a fortune.

>> Retail a stone like this could go for about $500,000.

>> So, what happens when foreign investors take over a $150 million industry?

And can local miners gain a piece of it back?

Emeralds form when hydrothermal fluids collect and mix beryllium with chromium or vanadium.

The elements crystallize in deposits and form the storied green gems.

But Colombia has a secret ingredient.

It's one of the few places on Earth where emeralds form in shale instead

of igneous rock.

Shale contains the ingredients for emeralds,

but it also creates byproducts like sulfur and pyrite.

The sulfur absorbs some of the iron that would normally go into an emerald.

Less iron means a more saturated green color.

And for emerald buyers, color is king.

>> Diamonds have been out there for a long time.

Color stone is now another different league of valuation of stones. >> >> 57

around 35,000 per carat.

>> Buyers around the world covet these emeralds,

but the profit is rarely seen by those who live around the mines.

This is Muzo.

Miners have fought over the town's emeralds for centuries.

Some line up as early

as 3:00 a.m. for what's known

as the voladora.

Lidian is a guaquero, or guaquera in her case.

She's an informal miner, sort of like a prospector during the California gold rush.

But to have a shot at finding something,

you need to be ready to run.

Lidian claims her spot and digs for treasure the size of a pebble.

This debris comes from the nearby Puerto Arturo mine,

which is backed by US investors.

>> The oldest guaqueros remember

when mine runoff flowed through this river

and finds were more common.

But environmental regulations and modernized excavation put a stop to that.

Lidian spent 4 hours digging and sifting.

>> >> These small stones are probably worth less than $25 each.

Voladoras happen sporadically.

So her next opportunity won't be for another few weeks.

>> >> But the more formal and modern the mines become,

the less that's left for the guaqueros.

And the fight to control Colombia's emeralds has raged for generations.

In the mid-20th century, the Colombian government tried to nationalize the mines.

But the remote area proved impossible to control.

So in the 1970s, the government leased titles to local leaders called dons.

Hoping that collecting royalties would be easier than direct management.

>> This is in the middle of the Colombian mountains.

You feel that you are in in a completely different country

and it's very isolated.

That made elites, local elites,

regional elites able to basically hold power

that was not attached to a creation of a central state.

>> The dons were locals, some even former guaqueros.

They won loyalty by letting their miners pocket and sell small emeralds.

As long as they didn't get caught taking too much.

>> These were people who accumulate a lot of power

and power that could become violent in many ways.

But at the same time they will become the ones

that who will provide jobs

and economic benefits to the population.

>> This power made the dons rich.

But it cost thousands of lives.

Beginning in 1965, countless messy fights erupted between dons, illegal miners, paramilitaries,

and drug traffickers in a series of conflicts known as the Green Wars.

Fighting dragged on until a ceasefire in 1990.

>> It was basically an agreement of not killing each other.

For the most part, when I went in the early 2000s,

many people were saying, "Oh, the peace is holding here."

>> By the 2010s, sustained peace had attracted the eye of international investors.

And control of the mines shifted from the dons to foreign companies with deep

pockets.

But even this didn't come without conflict.

In the past decade,

miners in Muzo have repeatedly clashed with an American-backed company over access to emeralds.

And in late 2024, tension spiked again.

In November, the voladora was suspended, and guaquéros protested by blocking roads.

And forcing their way onto mine property.

In January, the governor of the Department of Boyacá met with mine owners

and local leaders to discuss improving conditions for the guaquéros,

like formalizing the voladora and prioritizing local labor and goods.

But at the time of publishing, there hasn't been a boladora for 3 months.

However, locals say outside investment has brought benefits as well.

Just a few kilometers away from Muzo as the crow flies,

but nearly a day's journey by bumpy roads,

lies one of the biggest emerald mines in Colombia.

This is the Cosquez mine.

Fura Gems, a company based in Dubai, acquired a majority stake in 2017.

The company poured $150 million into modernizing and expanding the vast tunnels.

Today, Fura exports half a million carats annually.

Just 10 years ago, this mine looked very different.

Tunnels were narrow and miners pushed around small quantities of ore by hand.

>> When we came, it was hardly like a mine of a 1 by

1 m.

And right now, we are standing where by 4 by 4.

Even your car can pass through this mine.

This is going to be the largest mine of emerald in the world.

>> But Fura's investment means there's less and less available for locals.

Like these women, known as artisanal tunnel miners.

They do things the old way.

Smaller tunnels, limited equipment, and more dangerous conditions.

Many artisanal miners have applied for an official mining title to legitimize their claim.

A process the National Mining Agency says it's made easier to access.

>> >> But the pieces enable Fura to thrive hasn't helped small-scale miners financially.

Yaneth might go all year without making any profit.

>> When you see the value of the price

that a very good emerald can have in the market,

it's not something that like most of these towns will see

as their income in a lifetime.

>> But for the 500 workers Fura employs,

the recent foreign investment has been life-changing.

>> >> Some, like Carmenza, were happy to give up artisanal tunnel mining.

>> >> The hunt for green starts with a hunt for white.

Calcite.

Even valuable emeralds are relatively small.

So calcite veins, in which the gems often form,

are a signal to miners to look closely.

>> >> If the area is promising, miners clear away the rock and add supporting material.

Then, it's time to get up close.

This is the most exhausting part of the job.

But today, Carmenza's work is rewarded.

And just like the guaqueros,

miners can't beat a trusty metal bowl for catching loose gems.

But one big difference compared to Nidian is that anything Carmenza finds,

she promptly puts into a lock box.

Supervisors even check her mask and boots for smuggled gems.

Workers at Fura are paid with a salary, not emeralds.

Carmenza says it's still exciting to find one even

though she can't take it home.

Back in 2018, the washing process looked similar to what the guaqueros do by

hand.

Now, it's on a whole other level.

Optical sorters equipped with cameras and ultraviolet lights detect and redirect emeralds.

But meticulous washing means there's little left over for guaqueros like Nidian.

In fact, Muzo doesn't provide debris for the voladora.

It says it uses leftover shell for road maintenance and infrastructure around the mine.

>> >> It's a steady job in a place without many other options.

But most of the money generated from emerald mining doesn't stay in the communities

around Cosquez or Muzo.

>> Most of the profit, of course,

is being made by the owners of the mines,

but it's also being made internationally for those who trade the emeralds.

And those profits never touch the regions where the emeralds are produced.

>> Each year, Colombia exports about 130 to 150 million dollars worth of emeralds.

One of the top buyers is the US.

>> Demand for emeralds is increasing,

and people are buying from all corners of the world.

People think, "Oh, you own a mine, it's easy."

It's tons of headaches.

>> Michael invested in a mine in Colombia to source the quality of gems

he's after.

>> Of course, the bigger, the better, but we look in terms of the quality.

What's the best of the quality to have?

A lighter emerald is less valuable than a darker emerald.

Also, too dark is also not correct.

The average price per carat is anywhere from 5,000 to 35, 40,000.

>> Michael sells emeralds wholesale to jewelers >> >> like Tiffany.

And he says emeralds he sold have shown up on the red carpet

and at royal weddings.

>> Without Muzo entering in 2009, without Fura coming in 2017,

I wouldn't think to be involved in mining.

>> For Michael, the peace

and modernization brought by foreign investors has been a welcome change.

>> The American company coming in to buy the mine, it cleaned up the area.

Peace, not fighting, is the best thing.

Me as a businessman is about buying the beautiful gems Colombia produces

and bringing it to the world.

That's the passion I have.

There's an excitement and a passion to this green stone for me

and my family.

>> Fura shares this excitement.

The company says it plans to invest over 100 million dollars more in Colombia,

and it extended its mining license to 2050.

While the industry has modernized in many ways, it hasn't changed.

The cycle of exploitation dates back 500 years.

In the 16th century,

Spanish conquistadors forced indigenous people and enslaved Africans to work the mines.

The Spanish coveted valuable deposits,

and lavish emeralds made their way to crowns and jewelry around the world.

Since then, the mines have changed hands countless times.

There has been peace and times of intense fighting,

but the real money has always been made by those at the top.

>> For the most part, those at the top,

those who are the owners of the mines

or the traders in the international markets

or the users,

don't care about those disposable populations.

They can always change.

They are not getting rich,

but there will always be people in need of engaging in these economies to

be able to live

if they have no other economic options.

>> >> La última buena fue en diciembre de 15 millones.

De ahí para acá no hemos no hemos conseguido nada bueno.

Nada.

Es por eso tú siempre vas a ver que en mi casa hay muchas

yerbas.

Así como las las piedras, las gemas.

>> >> Cada una tiene un una propiedad.

Entonces la esmeralda en general es una piedra de poder.

Es una piedra que da temperamento, que da fuerza.

Que da >> >> que da salud.

La esmeralda por ser relacionada con el color verde es el color de la

salud,

de la abundancia, de la prosperidad.

O sea, yo sentirme orgullosa de decir soy de Muso por lo que realmente

somos,

que somos personas guaqueras y el nombre y el término guaquero para nosotros es

un orgullo.

Quiero que las personas vengan y conozcan lo que realmente somos,

lo trabajadores que somos.

>> >> A small shift of this ladder can turn catastrophic in a matter of seconds.

Navigating this path safely is the responsibility of Everest climbing guides,

many of whom are ethnic Sherpas who earn 4 to 10,000 dollars per climb.

But usually, these guides can count on only one expedition per year.

The job is one of the most dangerous in the world.

And while 2023 saw the most climbers on record,

it also saw the most deaths. 332 people have been lost to Everest in

the last century.

Over a third of them were mountain guides.

It's 2:00 a.m. at base camp,

and Furba Wangchu Sherpa is leading a team of guides

and climbers of the world's tallest mountain.

>> >> Furba Wangchu has touched Everest's peak 14 times already.

>> >> He begins every climb with a puja ceremony,

praying for safe passage and paying respect to the mountain.

Even with his success rate, he never underestimates the deadly risks.

Over the next several weeks,

this group of 16 will climb for hours on end in total darkness,

face the threat of avalanches and storms, and cross deadly passageways.

Phurba Wangchu and his team of experienced guides are their best chance of making

it to the summit

and surviving.

>> It gives you a lot of confidence.

You know, when your Sherpa has 15, 16 summits,

like some of these Sherpas here,

when you're at high altitude and you're in those situations, and they tell you,

>> >> you know, it's okay, it's going to be okay,

it's very reassuring that they've summited so many times.

>> It's more than just mentally reassuring.

On the mountain, the choices guides make directly affect whether a climber lives The

next morning,

another group of climbers is gearing up for its expedition.

>> It takes a bit of time, not to put it,

but it's safe to your food on the minus 30 or 50 sometimes.

>> Near base camp at 5,364 m, climbing guides lead a vital training course.

Without this refresher, climbers won't know how to work with their specific expedition team.

The guides are using the limited time they have today to review how best

to handle steep inclines

and to teach this team how to problem solve on the spot.

>> Sorry.

>> The course is one of the services included in a mountain guide's cost.

Guides only work with experienced high altitude mountaineers, a requirement of the Nepalese government.

But that doesn't mean the climbers are ready to brave Everest's extreme climate yet.

>> I think if you are talking about high altitude mountaineering,

it's important to do this, you know, at least every 6 months.

It keeps your body ready for, I think, lack of oxygen.

I came here by helicopter,

which is not probably it was not the best idea.

So, the first day it was quite hard.

>> It will be Ismael's second attempt at summiting Everest.

He confronted the danger that awaits his new team over a decade ago.

>> We almost reached 8,500,

but because of the very unfavorable weather conditions had to return.

So, the summit was very close.

So, after 11 years I'm back.

>> Ismail averted catastrophe in his first summit attempt, but not everyone is so lucky.

When climbers are critically injured,

guides have to be prepared to switch an expedition to a rescue

and provide emergency relief.

In May 2023, a team of Sherpa guides rescued a climber from Everest's death

zone.

>> >> Over the course of 6 hours,

the guides carried him on their backs down to Camp 3.

Since the 2019 season, as a safety measure,

Nepal has required every climber to be accompanied by at least one climbing guide.

And choosing a local guide has its distinct benefits on Everest.

Many of these mountain guides are Sherpas,

an ethnic group native to the slopes of Mount Everest.

>> The conquering team was composed of 20 Americans aided by Sherpa tribesmen who

acted as carriers.

>> Though the term Sherpa is informally used as a catchall for Everest guides,

the Sherpa people have been closely involved in mountaineering here since the very first

Everest expeditions.

Their tissues use oxygen more efficiently

and preserve muscle energy better than people from lowlands.

That's one of the reasons Sherpa guides can assist their climbers with heavy loads

>> >> without risking

as much physical strain.