C H A P T E R 1: H E R O E S "Tremble mine, for here comes the drunken coal digger," says Volodia before he crawls into the "mousetrap." The "mousetrap" is a mine no higher than 16 inches that the coal diggers have excavated themselves. The men have to crawl for over 200 yards, pound the coal into pieces, and shovel these pieces into a metal trough - and all that while lying flat on their stomachs. The metal trough is later pulled out with the help of a rubber cord. Outside is a little creek bed at the foot of a steep slope. Here they sift the coal, fill it into sacks, and put them onto a little wagon. The men then haul this wagon up the slope using a handmade cable winch. The winch consists of an old tire rim as the spool. They turn the winch with the help of two long poles, and everyone joins in to reel up the booty. Once they've gotten the coal up the hill, they divvy it up, trade and sometimes sell it. It's enough to heat their homes and buy a little food. All this has become common enough in a region that was once one of the richest mining areas in the world, the Donets Basin in the Ukraine, or Donbass for short. Here men used to be proud they were miners, here almost every worker was a miner, here every city - every village even - had at least one mine of its own. Today they're closing down the mines one by one. The shafts are old, full of methane, and no longer profitable. Coal mining is often still done using jackhammers. In many cases miners only go to work to keep the mines alive; they haven't seen a paycheck in ages. It was in this area in 1935 that Alexei Stakhanov, a coal digger from Donbass, was celebrated as a hero worker for extracting 14-times more than the work norm. A city and a movement were named after him - a huge statue was erected. To this day every newlywed couple will place a bouquet of flowers at the foot of his statue. The tools the miners use aren't any more modern than they were in Stakhanov's day, just a sledge hammer, chisel, and pickax. They work in mines that are smaller than small, in mines they've dug themselves, in mines the locations of which only their grandparents still remember, in mines they get to by bicycle, in mines where only women work. In old caved-in pits that have been drilled open again, on mountains of slag, and in little pits in their own backyards. Wherever there are a few buckets of coal or coal dust to be found, they dig and extract. In mines like these you can earn more than in the official mines and you're your own boss, but in return you have to hide your activity from the police or seek "protection" through various organized rings - bribes and protection money flow freely. The workers are usually retired or laid-off mine workers. They still have their helmets, lights, and boots from when they used to work in government mines. In those days you could wash up before going home. They can't do that anymore - but coal dust isn't dirt, it's their bread and livelihood. And wherever coal is excavated is the realm of Dobro Shubin - the capricious spirit of the mine. He can be good or evil depending on his mood, and miners know that it's better to keep him happy because then he protects them and brings them luck.   C H A P T E R 2: G H OS T S When dawn breaks over Kawah Ijen, men with bamboo baskets slung over their shoulders and torches in their hands emerge one by one out of the darkness, only to disappear into the white sulfur vapors of the volcano later. The sun is already out by the time they reach the "kitchen." The "kitchen" is the place at the edge of the hot, blue-green lake at the bottom of the crater where sulfur is mined. The "kitchen" spits, hisses, billows up in clouds of hot caustic vapor. Here molten sulfur flows through long clay pipes, touches the air, and hardens in a matter of minutes. Orange puddles turn into pale-yellow, jagged-edged chunks and slabs. Equipped with long iron rods, the men stuff a cloth or the sleeve of their jackets into their mouths, and dash up the slope and into the biting fumes. There they break off big chunks of hardened sulfur. After a few minutes of this, they are forced to take a breath. They cough and spit, but keep on working. Once they've loosened enough sulfur in this way, they fill their baskets, making sure that the weight is right and the load is balanced. Depending on age, experience, and strength, they will pack between 155 to 255 lbs into their baskets before they start their climb back out of the crater and down the mountainside. Their hair, eyebrows, and lashes are still yellow from the sulfur when they take their first break. They roll finger-thick cigarettes or eat rice wrapped in banana leaves. Some sit in groups and talk about family, girlfriends, the latest bands, or politics and circumcision rituals. Others prefer to haul, eat, and smoke alone. Pak Agus, Hartono, Pak Jo, Herudin, and Madrusin are probably some of the strongest men in the world. They carry their loads more than three miles, and that often twice a day. Along the way they pass tourists who gape in awe, at both the natural scenic beauty and at the workers themselves. These days it costs to take a picture of a sulfur miner on Kawah Ijen. The men have come to realize they are themselves a tourist attraction. For cigarettes, cookies or a few rupees they are happy to pose for you and are probably the most photographed laborers in the world. Pak Agus, who is going on fifty, adorns the photo albums of French, German, Korean, and American visitors. Some miners even make little sulfur statuettes for them to buy. Tourists love these souvenirs. Getting to the weighing station is the best moment of the day for everyone. It means the back-breaking hike is over. Each basket is weighed and payment is per pound and on the spot. The men wait for the trucks that come twice a day, empty their baskets and toss them up into the trees near their little house. Now it's time to eat, smoke, play cards, and sleep. At night each man crawls into a little compartment hardly bigger than himself. These little spaces are lit by oil lamps and decorated simply. From the nation's president Megawati to rock musicians to images of saints, you name it, it's all here. The workers sleep in very close quarters, while high above, within the volcano the fire of the "kitchen" sputters and glows blue.   C H A P T E R 3: L I O N S The Port Harcourt slaughter yard is a labyrinth of people and animals. The entire area is actually a market, which lies between the zoo, a bridge in the middle of construction, a river, and an area where multinational corporations like Coca Cola and Shell have settled. The grounds consist of a few huts, a large covered market hall, a cold storage room, a corral for the cattle, pig pens, a pool table sheltered by an awning, a mosque, a few shanties, a slope leading down to the river, and the places where the slaughtering is done. These places are a large paved surface "The Slab," where the cattle is slaughtered, skinned, and cut into portions, and a charred elevated platform for roasting the beef heads, skin, feet, and whole goats. First, the young assistants of the goat butchers and goat roasters bring in the animals. The goats make the most noise as they are being led - all tied together - to the slaughter yard. You can't tell if they sense what's in store for them; maybe it's just uncomfortable to be pulled around all tied together like that. Next, other young assistants, who have meanwhile cut up discarded tires, go get fire from the women who have built their fire pits in front of the restaurant and begun to cook. Once the fires at the slaughter yard have been lit, calls of "Mallam! Mallam!" begin mixing with the incessant bleating of the goats. "Mallam" means "sir" or "man" and is a respectful address used to call the highest goat slaughterer to come over to where the goats are being held down on the ground and slit their throats for a fee of 40 nairas. In the meantime, the assistants of the cattle traders and butchers are driving the cattle from the corrals to the Slab. For the workers, this is the best part. It's a cross between a test of courage and full-out running. The bulls - and they are all without exception bulls - make no sound of protest, but they act like wild animals on these last fifty meters to the slaughter grounds, only to submit almost apathetically to their fates a short time later. At the Slab the first bulls are being thrown down, and they hit the concrete with a heavy thud or land in the spreading puddles of blood, while the hawkers call out at the top of their lungs: "Kandapellethead!" - "Innards - skin - head!" Some bargain loudly with the buyers who have begun to arrive and whose price expectations are usually worlds away from their own. At the goat slaughtering yard the shouting and bleating, the slaughtering and roasting, are still in full swing, while at the Slab most of the cattle is already skinned and cut into pieces. The haulers shoulder large sections of meat. This is one of the most grueling jobs of all. With half a bull on their shoulders, these men run to the washing troughs, where they submerge the meat briefly to clean it, then heave it back onto their shoulders, run clear across the whole market, and stow it in the trunks of taxis and transport vehicles. This cycle of driving, slaughtering, dying, hauling, washing, roasting, chopping, portioning, bargaining, hawking, arguing, screeching, rejoicing, and running, repeats itself frenetically until noon rolls around and the vultures come.   C H A P T E R 4: B R O T H E R S It's snowing in Shamorgar, a little Pakistani mountain village near the border to Afghanistan. Ramadan is over. The harvest is in. Corn, onions, potatoes, and tomatoes are being stored for the winter. It's calm in the village. A blacksmith is repairing hooks, rakes, shovels, and plows. The owner of the general store opens for business. The muezzin calls to prayer. His voice echoes across the vast landscape. The Pashtuns are big, proud, and strong. The men speak softly, are seldom loud. They themselves say they can perform the most grueling tasks and are not afraid because they have been chosen by Allah to do so. That's why they are generally the ones who make the long journey from the mountains in the north to Southern Baluchistan. Here they scrap huge ships. Piece by piece they cut apart the gigantic hulls until all that remains are small sections of steel plate. Dawa Khan, one of the farmers from Shamorgar, squats side by side with his coworker in the hold of the "Sea Giant" - until just a few months ago the largest tanker in the world - meticulously making an endlessly long incision. Sparks fly in all directions inside the enormous, echoing hold. A creak and a swaying cause everything to tremble. Dawa Khan shouts orders to someone above him. A similar scene on the outside of the ship. Everywhere long incisions are appearing in the steel hull, cables are brought into place, chains fastened, orders barked. Then suddenly everything is quiet. The last cut is made. The foreman gives calm instructions into his walkie-talkie. In the distance, the sound of diesel engines starting up. A steel cable whips across the sand. The men step back from the steel wall and wait. Slowly the more than 260-foot-high wall falls away and sinks 300 feet into the sea below, giving way to a view of a beach covered with huge pieces of rusty scrap metal. The Gaddani shipbreakers have a strange atmosphere of calmness about them. Their work never seems hectic or out of control. Step by step, hand motion by hand motion, blow by blow, they break up these gigantic steel vessels in only a few months. During their breaks and after work, they cook for themselves and pray. Otherwise there isn't much to do in Gaddani. The workers don't drink and they get very little sleep because after evening prayers most of the torch operators will work the night shift. The faster the shipbreakers work, the better the profits for the ship owner. Gaddani has been losing business since the Iraq war and also because of the dominance of similar places, such as Alang in India and Cittagong in Bangladesh. Only a few ships still come here to be scrapped. In the 1970s and 1980s you could see them on the horizon waiting their turn. Today shipyard after shipyard is closing down. Once a ship has been completely scrapped, the beach is usually calm and quiet again. Nothing is left to remind us of the tanker, except the oil still lapping against the sandy shore.   C H A P T E R 5: THE FUTURE China is filled with optimism, both internal and external. The prevailing mood is probably comparable to what Europe, especially Germany, witnessed between the two World Wars. At the time, the people there also believed in a wonderful future full of work, success, and prosperity. In the steelworks of Angang in the province of Liaoning, people believe in knowledge, education, and efficiency. Muscle power and the contribution of the individual are no longer prized as they were in former times. The model heroes of the past, like Mang Tai or Wang Xinxi, are still looked upon as exemplary workers, but whatever charisma they once had no longer seems relevant anymore. In the steel city "Angang Works" old and new China stand side by side, blast furnace beside blast furnace. On one street there are furnaces in operation that were built by the Japanese in the 1930s. A few hundred meters away there is a state-of-the-art facility - the "New No. 1." On the horizon, the "New New No. 1" is being built. Although the belief in progress among the steelworkers is unshakable, in an interview one of the workers says laconically: "But we still have to work - just as hard as before." And hardly any of them believe that their children will someday decide to work here too.   C H A P T E R 6: E P I L O G U E When night falls in Duisburg, the blast furnaces flare up. In neon green and fantastic colors. ARTificial light - In the truest sense. The British light artist Jonathan guides Duisburgians home with this spectacular installation. All Germany has heard of this light show through newspapers, radio, and television. Experience the glowing furnaces live and in color - on weekends and holidays. And let yourself be guided through the blue-green-red darkness. Now do you see the light? This is how an image brochure describes the former Duisburg-Meiderich smelting works. The last shift was ages ago, the plant has meanwhile been converted into a kind of adventure playground. The rusty metal structures are all that are left to remind visitors of the steel processing that took place here in former times. Now people use the grounds as a leisure park; there is no charge for admission. One can see for miles from the top of the blast furnace. In the distance, smoke billows out of the stacks at the ThyssenKrupp plant. It is still in operation, and in the evening when the furnace is tapped, the sky lights up orange. The furnaces at Duisburg-Meiderich are lit up too: green, red, and blue. Everywhere on the metal stairways, ladders, and platforms one can see young couples sitting, photographers setting up their tripods, groups of tourist on guided tours, or kids hanging out and killing time. The red turns to green, and back to red again. Somewhere a kiss; somewhere else an argument. The tourists marvel at the old plant. A young man leans toward his sweetheart and whispers his dreams of a bright future together. In Germany, the future of hard manual labor has arrived.