Water injustices: how mining caused a lake to disappear

Guest post by Bowie Kung

All around the world lakes and rivers have been polluted and dried up. These affect the indigenous peoples whose way of life is tied to those lakes and rives. Bowie Kung, who does eco work in Costa Rica, and is currently getting her Masters in Climate Change and Development from SOAS University of London, is the writer of this week’s guest post.

The memories of water in San Agustín of Puñaca

High on Bolivia’s Andean altiplano, at more than 3,700 metres above sea level, lies the ghostly expanse of what was once Lake Poopó. Once the country’s second-largest lake, its now cracked, salt-encrusted bed stretches for miles, dust swirling with the wind. Scattered sparsely are remains of boats, an overturned kayak with the hull stripped away, an old tap that doesn’t look used, and old fishing tools. A desolate, lifeless crater that testifies to decades of environmental devastation

[Lake Poopó and a resident from Matter of Trust]

Who lives around Lake Poopó?

The territory around Lake Poopó is home to Indigenous communities, notably the Uru and Aymara. Today, only a handful of families remain in some settlements — as few as six families in a single community — where once hundreds thrived. Abel Machaca Yugar, known as Tata Mallku or Father Condor, is the highest native authority, tasked with caring for children and upholding the traditions of the ayllu, meaning a family clan or network of families in Aymara.

Historically, the Poopó basin has been a crossroads of cultures. Archaeological evidence points to the presence of the Wankarani culture and later the Tiwanaku, with a blend of herders, farmers, and traders. The Uru people, known as ‘People of the Water’, built floating islands from reeds and lived in harmony with the lake, fishing, hunting birds, and navigating its waters by starlight.

The long-gone glory days of Lake Poopó

Older generations recall a landscape of lushly green wetlands, full of red clover and sedge. The lake teemed with fish and more than 34 species of birds — including the Andean flamingo  and Andean condor— and supported vibrant communities. Rainfall was regular, the water ran clear, and the land supported the healthy lives of cows and goats, who in turn provided milk and cheese, which families sold to buy groceries. The community’s way of life was intimately tied to the health of the lake.

The lake was our mother and father. Now, we are orphans,’ said Don Rufino Choque, a member of the Uru community.‘

How mining and climate change caused the lake to dry up

Lake Poopó’s disappearance is the result of two main processes, both well documented by researchers and witnessed by locals.

1. Mining pollution

Not far from the lake lies a Mad Max-esque city full of mining infrastructure sprawling across dried up red slopes, the landscape pocked with giant puddles of green, brown, and neon orange liquid, and inselbergs of minerals jutting out—the Huanuni mining operation, the largest tin producer in Bolivia. A complex web of piping discharges shiny, viscous grey metallic liquid straight onto the land. It doesn’t take a scientist to know that none of the running wastewater has not been treated in any way.

[Huanuni mining operation (IWGIA)]

For decades, tin mining has been a dominant industry in the region, with operations like the Huanuni mine and cooperatives such as Tiahuanaco Poopó and Machacamarca operating dangerously close to the lake and her inhabitants. These mines have drawn vast amounts of water for their processes, diverting it away from the lake, draining the lake over the course of 60 years. Worse, untreated wastewater — laden with heavy metals like arsenic, lead, cadmium, and zinc — has been discharged directly into rivers that feed the lake, contaminating both surface and groundwater. Scientific studies have found that concentrations of these metals in the lake and its tributaries far exceed permissible limits, with the Desaguadero River alone contributing 70% of the arsenic and 64% of the lead found in the lake.

2. Climate change

The region has experienced a steady rise in temperatures — about 0.9 to 1 degree Celsius over the past 60 years — leading to increased evaporation rates. The frequency and severity of droughts have intensified, partly due to the shifting patterns of the El Niño phenomenon, which now occurs more often and unpredictably. Glaciers that once fed the lake’s tributaries are retreating, while rainfall has become erratic and insufficient to replenish the water lost to evaporation and extraction. As a result, by 2014, the lake had lost all of its water.

Mining intertwined with political and economic interests (of the few)

Mining in the Lake Poopó basin has long been intertwined with political interests and foreign investment. Bolivian local governments have promoted mining as a pillar of economic development, often granting concessions to domestic and foreign companies with little regard for environmental safeguards or Indigenous rights. 80% of all mining and tin exports went to the European Economic Community (mainly the Netherlands and the United Kingdom) and the United States. In 2011, the Chinese firm Vicstar Union Engineering began building a new smelter in Huanuni.

Attempts by local communities to hold mining companies accountable have been met with bureaucratic resistance or outright denial. When residents, with the help of organisations like CENDA, analysed the blood and urine samples of 20 people, they found that they were all contaminated with dangerous levels of arsenic and lead. Authorities dismissed the findings, claiming the water was ‘merely salty, not toxic’.

Despite being declared a disaster zone in 2014, meaningful remediation or sustainable management has been slow to materialise, leaving communities to fend for themselves or slowly perish.

The toll on all life

[Cornelia Ramirez Colque, Mama t’alla, retrieving contaminated water for household and farm use (IWGIA)]

The collapse of Lake Poopó has had devastating consequences for the people and animals who remain. The loss of fish and birds has destroyed traditional livelihoods. The water that remains is so polluted that cows and sheep refuse to drink it; those that do foam at the mouth and fall ill, and people suffer from stomach pain and burning eyes. The blood and urine tests of the people of the ayllu of San Agustín of Puñaca have shown arsenic levels up to 70 times above safe limits. The remaining residents, all aging, now rely on rainwater collection or rationed deliveries, which are insufficient for their needs.

The social fabric and indigenous traditions are unraveling as youth migrate to cities like Oruro or La Paz, seeking better opportunities.

‘[There’s] no life here. The youth are leaving because the land has become ash,’ one resident laments.

Yet, the Indigenous communities are not passive victims. They have and continue to organise, protest, and file lawsuits. Elders and leaders like Abel Machaca Yugar and Cornelia Ramirez Colque, Mama t’alla, continue to advocate for water treatment and socioenvironmental justice. In 2025, community members marched in La Paz, chanting, ‘agua para la vida, no para minería [water for life, not for mining],’ demanding recognition and action from the government.

[2025 protest in La Paz, Bolivia, by community members around Lake Poopó (IWGIA)]

Hope endures

Despite the bleakness, hope endures. The ayllus hold regular community meetings, where all elders and community members are invited, to discuss the state of water and engage with local government officials.

Local organisations and international partners are working to document traditional knowledge, support education, and encourage the next generation to become lawyers, teachers, and engineers. These efforts equip young people to defend their land, ecosystems, rights, and traditional way of life, and rebuild their communities, as they face the dual challenges of environmental degradation and cultural loss.

The story of Lake Poopó is a warning for the world , a harbinger of what unchecked and irresponsible resource extraction and climate change can bring. But, more importantly, it is also a testament to the resilience of Indigenous communities who, against transnational corporations and incompetent governments, continue to fight for land, water, future generations, and life.

Watch the documentary by IWGIA here.

About Bowie Yin Sum Kung:

Hong Kong native and descendant of the Tenka boat peoples and Zhejiang Han tribe, Bowie Yin Sum Kung writes about regenerative and life-centered practices, climate and social justice, decolonialism, and the wonders of nature. She is a life-centered writer, passionate environmental educator and activist, and composter. She is grateful to live in traditional Huetar territory and the Rio Toyogres watershed in Costa Rica, with her partner, Juan, and a dog, Sultan. Her preferred habitat is among bees, spiders, and treehoppers in the undergrowth of her small but overgrown tropical backyard.

Bowie writes The Turning Turtle substack newsletter.

Bowie holds a Certificate in Regenerative Entrepreneurship and a BA in International Relations from Mount Holyoke College, and is currently pursuing her MS in Climate Change and Development from SOAS University of London.

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