In India one day I found myself hurtling into the bowels of the earth in a tiny elevator with just enough room for our small group and a large, teetery pile of gas cans leaking fumes into the cramped space. I wouldn’t have called it safe, but I was heading into a working goldmine, so I kept my concerns to myself, and just tried not to bump a can or breathe too much. Mercifully, the elevator was lightning fast, so the ride was relatively short, considering the stunning depth we reached.

I should probably admit that I don’t particularly enjoy tight spaces. I once saw a video of a hotel in Japan where guests climbed ladders to sleep in tubes set into the walls, not so different from a stack of coffins. I’ve never seen it in person, but the idea alone is enough to give me the willies even now, years later. As the guard opened the elevator door in India, I was worried about how I would feel once I was in the mine itself, probably a throwback to Saturday morning cartoons when every other week Scooby Doo found himself speeding through a tight abandoned mine shaft in an ore cart, chased by a naughty neighbor in a monster costume. Fortunately, the reality proved rather more pedestrian. The shaft had a high ceiling, the large room ranging from brightly lit to near twilight, a sort of pleasantish earthen dungeon full of workers busily filling ore carts to be sifted topside, no gold gleaming anywhere.

Back up the elevator and onto the surface, we walked through the whole operation, no hardhats, or protective equipment, just observers trying to keep our feet out of the muck, and strange anomalies to the workers shoveling wet sludge into the hoppers. Near the end of the tour we walked to the mouth of a giant room with concrete walls, and watched as two or three men poured red, liquid gold into a form. The foreman gave us an appraising look, and whispered to our friend, “Bring them back in twenty minutes, and they can hold it.”