Narrator: These white dots are bugs.
And there's a good chance you've eaten them before.
Raised on cactuses, they're called cochineals,
and the acid in their guts makes a vibrant red dye.
It ends up in tons of products,
from strawberry yogurt to M&Ms to lipstick.
Indigenous people across Latin America
traded it for thousands of years.
And in the 17th century,
it was Mexico's second-most valuable export, behind silver.
It can be found in the walls of archeological sites,
in priceless paintings, and in the robes of kings.
Synthetic dyes and pressure from animal-rights activists
have pushed some Mexican farms
to abandon production altogether.
And cultivation of cochineals has been disappearing.
It's a shame, because it's the most powerful,
brilliant red dye in existence.
Narrator: This will be the last time
Inés Carmona de Gante farms cochineals on her land.
Narrator: Others, like Catalina Yolanda López,
say they'll do everything they can
to keep their production going.
Narrator: But Catalina doesn't know how much longer
her family can keep this ancient tradition alive.
Cochineal bugs are tiny parasites that live on cactuses.
And the stuff that becomes the powerful red dye
makes up almost a quarter of their weight.
But it's not blood.
It's actually a naturally-occurring compound
called carminic acid that's a repellent
against predators like ants.
Cochineals eat prickly pear cactuses,
or nopales, as they're known in Mexico.
They have all the moisture and nutrients
the bug needs to survive.
Narrator: Catalina's grandmother taught her
how to raise cochineals when she was just 4 years old.
Today, she's one of the last cochineal producers
in all of Mexico, running a farm in Oaxaca.
It all starts in her field of young nopales.
These baby cactuses are cuttings of older ones.
Narrator: Farmers have to wear gloves
to protect against the cactus' needles
as they cut off the paddles.
Narrator: Next, Catalina washes the cactus
with soap and water.
Only then can she place the cochineals on the paddles.
Narrator: These look like finger traps,
but they're actually tiny houses for the bugs.
Catalina says no one makes them anymore,
so she has to be careful not to break them.
Narrator: And once they've spread across the paddle,
she hooks in a wire and hangs it up.
Now, the cochineals can get to munching.
Narrator: Catalina constantly has to check
for predators in the nopal library.
Predators like this telero worm.
Narrator: Every white dot you see here is a cochineal.
Narrator: The white powder acts as a glue
to help the insects stick to the paddle,
and it protects them against the sun, too.
Cochineals stick their probe into the cactus skin
and suck out the water and nutrients.
Narrator: Only female cochineals produce carmine.
The males are tiny, have wings, and fly away.
But don't call these little guys beetles or cockroaches.
Narrator: One state over, in Puebla,
almost all of of Carmona's nopal fields will be gone.
She plans to replace it with corn
and save just a few cactuses to raise cochineals as a hobby.
She comes out to weed her fields
and brush off any predators.
Narrator: She looks for the perfect cactuses
to bring back to her hungry bugs in the greenhouse.
Narrator: Caretakers of the cochineals
have to constantly move babies to new nopal paddles.
And after three to four months,
the female insects are ready for harvesting.
Carmona uses a sieve to separate the bugs
from their "clothes" — the powder and silk they make.
Narrator: As the dead cochineals dry out,
their squishy pods solidify.
Carmona sells them whole.
Narrator: Catalina and her daughter,
Claudia Juárez López, use a traditional metate
to grind them into a brilliant red.
Narrator: Either way, it's very tedious work.
It takes 70,000 bugs to make just one pound of dye.
The powder has to be dunked in an alcohol solution
and filtered to remove the insect parts.
Catalina sells a kilo of her dried cochineal for about $150.
Narrator: Large food brands use carminic acid
in everything from Yoplait strawberry yogurt and Airheads
to Nerds and M&Ms in the UK.
But customers will never taste it.
Narrator: It appears on the nutrition label
as carmine, natural red 4, crimson lake,
or E120 in the European Union.
Carmine is also frequently used in the cosmetic industry.
And that use is anything but new.
Cochineal dates back thousands of years in Mexico.
It was used in lipsticks, textiles, royal headdresses,
and wall art, like those in the pyramids of Monte Albán.
After Hernán Cortés conquered the Aztecs,
he brought cochineal back to Europe.
And it quickly replaced European dyes,
because cochineal fixed onto wool and silk better,
lasted longer, and created a more vibrant red.
About 15 times more powerful
than anything that had been seen before.
Narrator: It came to represent power,
showing up in the highest of fashion.
The Catholic Church used it in its red cardinal robes,
and the British army used it in their red coats.
And soon, artists like Van Gogh, Renoir,
and Rembrandt were painting cochineals
into their masterpieces.
In the 1800s, women in the United States started using it
to color food, from cakes and candies
to jellies and pickled red cabbage.
But then, in 1856, synthetic dyes were invented.
First with mauve, made from by-products of coal,
and then in 1878, with Red no. 2, made from petroleum.
It was very difficult to compete
because they had lower prices,
larger volume, and similar qualities.
Narrator: And these synthetics just about wiped out
cochineal production in Mexico.
Then, in 1976, the FDA banned Red no. 2
under suspicion it could cause cancer.
And so began a renewed interest in natural dyes.
But at that point,
there were almost no cochineal growers left in the country.
Catalina's family was one of just three
still working with the insects.
So she made it her life mission to preserve this bug
and teach others about cochineal.
She started selling the dye to local artisans and chefs
and turned her farm into a museum to lead workshops
for people interested in the bug.
Narrator: But much of Catalina's work has been reversed
in the last two decades.
Brands like the liqueur Campari and Starbucks
stopped using carmine due to pressure
from vegetarian customers.
The pandemic was another blow.
Orders stopped completely for Carmona.
And that's when she decided to stop cochineal production.
Narrator: Last year, she produced 400 kilos of the bug.
This year, she expects just 50 kilos.
Narrator: She switched this entire greenhouse to tomatoes.
Narrator: So can Mexican producers save their cochineal?
The answer could lie with Peru.
The government started investing in cochineal farming
in the 1990s to help boost employment
in rural parts of the country.
And now, Peru dominates more than 80% of the market.
American-based liqueur brands have started using it again
in place of synthetic dyes.
It was even the inspiration for Pantone's color of the year.
And there's growing demand across the globe.
But Peru has some advantages.
The country produces a wild kind of cochineal
that grows outdoors without much farmer involvement,
so it's cheaper.
And while Mexican domesticated cochineal
have more carminic acid,
they also need to be grown indoors
to protect from parasites.
To be able to deliver large-scale orders
from international buyers,
farmers like Catalina would have to build
more greenhouses and hire labor.
But that's too expensive.
Catalina had to turn down two letters of interest
from English buyers because she simply couldn't produce
the amount of dye they needed.
Experts say investments from the Mexican government
could help farmers.
To provide, basically, seed money to Oaxaca peasant women.
Narrator: In the meantime,
Catalina hopes to keep educating every visitor
who stops by her farm.
Narrator: Just like she taught her daughter, Claudia,
who's won awards for her work with the bug.
Narrator: But until investments or customers come,
some cochineals will be lost.
And Catalina will be here,
caring for her bunny cactuses and tiny little bugs.