Narrator: Beneath Bolivia's
surreal salt flats sits the largest deposit
of lithium in the world. And now, Chinese and
Russian energy companies are getting ready to mine it. The lightweight metal is
known as "white gold," because it's essential for
making rechargeable batteries that power things like
computers, mobile phones, and electric cars. Global production has nearly quadrupled over the last decade, but it's still not enough. So battery manufacturers around the world are eyeing up the Lithi
um Triangle, the name given to the
high-altitude salt flats in Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina. This is where over half of
the world's known supply of lithium is stored. Narrator: The lithium here
in Chile is locked away in underground saltwater, or brine. Billions of gallons are pumped
to the surface every year, where it is left to
evaporate and concentrate. Mining companies also use millions of gallons of fresh water, and in one of the driest places on Earth, locals are scared of what that will
do to their already scarce water supplies. And they worry they won't
get their fair share of the white gold rush
unfolding in their own backyard. Narrator: Mining the Lithium
Triangle looks inevitable in the rush towards an
all-electric future. But what is the true cost? José Morales has lived
near Bolivia's salt flats his entire life. He makes a living growing quinoa and selling wool from his llamas. There is very little rainfall, and the nearby river that
used to provide water is all but dried
up. So José now pumps groundwater from wells. Narrator: In early 2023, the Bolivian government
granted a mining license here that would massively scale
up lithium extraction. People like José are afraid that's just going to
make the drought worse. Narrator: We'll come back to Bolivia. But for now, neighboring
Chile might hold some answers. These are the Atacama salt
flats, a natural wonder, one of the driest places on Earth, and a vast source of lithium. The bright squares are pools of brine wh
ere the water is left to evaporate and leave behind a mix
of salts and minerals. The more yellow the pond,
the higher the concentration. Narrator: It can take more
than 1,000 gallons of brine to produce enough lithium for
just one electric car battery. Two companies control the
right to operate here, American Albemarle and Chilean SQM. In 2021, Chile exported
almost $1 billion worth of lithium carbonate, and satellite imagery shows just how that has
transformed the landscape. It can take around
18 months for the brine to move
through the series of ponds. The concentrated lithium
brine is then processed into lithium carbonate, which is then taken to another
factory near the coast, where it is purified into
battery-grade lithium. The two companies suck out enough brine to fill an Olympic swimming
pool every 20 minutes. They also draw 32 gallons per second of fresh water from underground aquifers for use in the processing factories. That would fill an Olympic-sized
pool in roughly five ho
urs. It's no surprise that water
usage is such a sensitive issue in one of the driest regions on Earth. Central Chile has experienced
a megadrought since 2010, the region's longest on record. Brine is far denser than fresh
water, and the two rarely mix, but regulators worry that
pumping so much brine too fast will increase the risk of
freshwater contamination. And lithium isn't the only
thirsty industry here. Since the 1980s, copper
mines have been responsible for around half of the
region's fre
shwater use. The Chilean government blame the copper and lithium industries for a 25-centimeter drop in the height of the water table. The copper mines plan to switch to desalinated water by 2030. Jorge Muñoz Coca is
concerned about the damage this use of fresh water could
be doing to the environment. Narrator: He is part of the
Atacameño Indigenous community and lives in San Pedro
with his three children. In 2015, he founded an activist collective to educate people about lithium mining. Narrato
r: Jorge says locals lost faith in the mining industry a long time ago. In the 1990s, the Chilean government agreed
to hand ancestral lands back to Indigenous communities, including the Atacama lithium mines. Some land was transferred,
but crucially, not the mines. Neither of the two lithium
companies in Chile consulted with locals before
starting their operations. At the time, they didn't need to. But in 2008, Chile's government agreed to involve Indigenous people in any decision that could
aff
ect them directly. Still, it would take another eight years for one of the companies, Albemarle, to begin giving over 3.5% of its profits. That same year, SQM was sued
for extracting more brine than allowed. SQM recently committed to
reduce brine and freshwater use and monitor their environmental impacts. Jorge feels there has never
been real transparency. Narrator: And his community's concerns almost always come back to water. Narrator: But demand for lithium shows no signs of slowing down. It
is the ideal metal for batteries, because it is extremely light and stores energy very efficiently compared to traditional batteries. It would take around four
lead-acid car batteries to get the same amount of energy as one lithium battery of the same size. This makes them perfect
for maximizing power without adding much weight
or taking up too much space. A booming electric-vehicle industry has roughly tripled lithium
prices in the last three years while companies scramble
to ramp up production
. So now, all eyes are on Bolivia and its wealth of white gold. At more than 4,000 square miles, the Uyuni salt flat is
over double the size of the Grand Canyon and
clearly visible from space. More than 90,000 visitors come from all over the world each year to photograph the shimmering sea of salt. Antonia Cabrera moved here back in 2009. That was when Bolivia announced
it would invest $900 million in the lithium industry. Narrator: Antonia had high
hopes that would bring jobs and prosperity. Na
rrator: A state-controlled company built a small pilot plant,
which opened in 2013, but Bolivia lacked the
technical know-how to scale up. Almost a decade later, the
pilot plant was only producing a few hundred tons of
lithium carbonate per year, a tiny fraction of Chile's exports. For Antonia, the industry's
failure to take off meant the promises of
work came to nothing, and five of her six
children left to find jobs in other cities. Today, she lives with her
daughter and grandson. She says eve
n the local school
only has one teacher left. To make things worse, the pandemic hit the
tourism industry hard. Narrator: Abdón Morales
is also disillusioned after years of high hopes for
Bolivia's lithium industry. He's an active leader for his community and lives 60 miles from the
pilot plant with his daughter. Narrator: He worked
for the lithium company as community liaison back in 2019. He was supposed to help
recruit workers locally. But in the end, he says
most workers were brought in from
Bolivia's large cities instead. Now, with the Chinese and
Russian companies moving in, he's worried about his
precious water supply. Narrator: He says water
levels have dropped more than 2 meters over the last two years because of droughts. Narrator: Abdón is not
against lithium mining. He just wants any company that
comes in to extract the metal to be open and honest. Narrator: If you look
at Bolivia's history, you can understand why local
communities might be suspicious of international inter
est
in their natural resources. Zoom out, and you can see
how for more than 500 years, silver mining has left its
scars on the landscape. It was the Spanish conquistadors of the 16th century who laid claim to what's now known to be the
largest global silver deposit. An estimated 8 million enslaved
miners lost their lives in the mines. Mercury, which was used
to refine the silver, polluted streams and
poisoned local ecosystems. These ancient mines have
created untold wealth. Yet the region of Pot
osi
remains the poorest in Bolivia. The government is nonetheless optimistic for the next chapter of its lithium story. Almost $3 billion of investment from Chinese and Russian companies will build an array of new lithium plants capable of processing an
estimated 100,000 metric tons of lithium carbonate each year. The Bolivian government says that it will bring
infrastructure and employment. But with the touted rewards come risks. They're gambling on a
relatively new technology. It's called DLE,
or
direct lithium extraction. Instead of pumping brine to the surface and waiting for the water to evaporate, this method separates out the lithium using a range of filtration techniques. It can take only a few hours, but it's unclear how water- or energy-intensive the process will be. There are small operations
testing this method in the US and Argentina, but it hasn't yet been
proven to work at scale. For many Bolivians, this
uncertainty breeds concern. Manuel: We don't know
what this agreeme
nt says, this agreement with the
Chinese consortium says. And this is incredible, because the natural
resources are from this, are from us, are from all Bolivians, but we have not access
with this agreement. The agreement is closed. Narrator: Just on the outskirts of Uyuni lies a stark reminder of what can happen if grand mining projects go wrong. The carcasses of over 100
trains lie in the sun, rusting away, some dating back
to the early 20th century. The town was once a transport hub, linking
the Pacific coast
with tin and silver mines of the high plains of the Andes. The industry and the
local economy collapsed after the Second World War, and the trains were left to rot. The lithium industry here will need to promise a better future than that for local
communities and the environment if it is to overcome doubts that it is anything more than a mirage.
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