I could be imagining it, but there’s a mineral taste in the air as I wait on the platform below a blackened, tumorous slag heap – the remains of what was once the most lucrative mine in the world.
I’m trying not to think about the gruesome deaths of the 800 miners commemorated in a memorial at the top of Broken Hill’s Line of Lode – “Asphyxiated, Dynamite Fumes”, “Scalded”, “Crushed by Wagon” – some of them entombed in the mound, their bodies never recovered.