Sixteen years ago, a small group of indigenous people living in the Ecuadorian rainforest launched what has become the biggest environmental lawsuit of all time. After hearing about the lawsuit over the summer, I decided to become involved with it while in Ecuador; I joined the organization Selva Viva and have been working with them for a month now.
The plaintiffs argue that in order to save $3/barrel, Texaco ignored every health, safety, and environmental regulation while working in Ecuador, causing inordinate disease, death, and destruction in the region. The case was originally filed in New York, the location of Texaco’s former headquarters (Texaco was bought by Chevron in 2001). Hoping for an easier case in the Ecuadorian judicial system, Chevron successfully convinced the judge in 2003 to move the case to Ecuador by proving that the courts were fair and just.
Fast-forward to 2009—Chevron now claims that Ecuadorian courts are too corrupt to deliver a fair verdict. This argument is supported by fraudulent videos mysteriously released by a pair of ne’er-do-wells (one of whom carries the distinction of convicted felon). In these works of cinematic brilliance, Judge Nunez, the judge who has been trying to case in Ecuador, appears to discuss a $3 million bribery scheme to throw the case for Chevron with benefits of $1 million each to himself, a contractor, and the sister of President Rafael Correa. This farce reminded me of the scene in Austin Powers when Dr. Evil announces that he will set the ransom at “ONE MILLION DOLLARS!” Aside from evidence that the videos are illegitimate, one does not need to be a secret agent to realize that in a lawsuit of $27 billion, $1 million is pretty much nothing. Chevron really should have audited a film class at Wesleyan before attempting to release videos as evidence in a court of law.
Although I am confidant that Judge Nunez is extremely competent and that the videos are more fake than a Gucci bag from Canal Street, they were a dirty and effective trick by Chevron to halt the case. Judge Nunez has recused himself from the case, forcing anther judge to read the hundreds of thousands of pages of documents and interviews. The verdict will come down to whether Texaco cleaned its share of oil pits according to a 1995 agreement with Ecuador, and whether this prevents a third party from suing. All it takes is a trip to the region to see that Texaco’s version of remediation is, at best, equivalent to throwing up all over someone’s dinner, putting more food on top of it, and pretending that it never happened.
Last Sunday I was invited to a march to demand the cessation of Chevron’s corruption, so I grabbed my bug spray and hopped on an overnight bus to Lago Agrio. Built by oilmen and named for Texaco’s first pit, Lago rests on the outskirts of the Amazon and Colombian border. When I arrived Monday, the air was already hot and sticky. That morning, while enjoying a cold Pilsner (the only diversions in Lago Agrio are beer, brothels, and knock-off clothing), I was suddenly surprised by the sound of protestors nearing. In a typically Ecuadorian fashion, the march had started in a different location, and fortunately I was able to join the protest outside of the nondescript courthouse. The marchers chanted, “Justice, justice, justice nothing more!” After a series of speeches, members of an indigenous community performed their traditional purification ritual outside of the courthouse.
Under the blazing Amazon sun, those thought to be responsible for Chevron’s corruption were put to rest. A grim reaper, complete with a Scream! mask and scythe, served revenge to cardboard effigies of Chevron’s CEO, Vice President, General Counsel, and others. Each culpable effigy received a short eulogy, which expounded his alleged misdeeds. As the scythe came down on the cardboard, festive music blared from the giant speakers. Afterwards, a small wooden coffin was loaded on the back of a pickup. In a caravan of buses, we drove out of town and bumped down jungle dirt road until we reached a cinderblock house with a rusty gadget from the oil days in the front yard.
A shallow grave had been dug fifty feet from the house, the site of a supposedly remediated Texaco pit. The coffin was lowered and the corruption it represented was buried under the oily soil.
Returning back to Quito very early the next morning, my hair still smelled of crude and my skin was sticky from the oppressive heat and sun. I know that the Texaco men haven’t felt the crude seeping into their bodies the way that those living near their operations still do, but I hope that they’ve decided to bury their former practices and will proceed with the case in an honest and moral manner.
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