Potosi Mines

After the desert bumpage we rested for a day in Uyuni and then headed to Potosi to see, what was once, the richest town in the world. The fortune was made by mining silver, a process that still continues today. You can hire a guide to take you down the mines and see what goes on. So that´s what we did.

There was a warning on the tour agencies sign: ´NOT FOR WIMPS OR WOOSIES´(and yes that´s how it was spelled!).

They were certainly right. First, we pick up our equipment. Wellingtons, waterproof jacket and trousers, stylish helmet and headlamp. Verrrry niiiiice. Already I am roasting under this equipment alongside my own clothes, but there you go. Then we go to a miners market (in our ´I´m a gullible tourist, exploit me´outfits) to buy some gifts for the workers and ourselves: water, soft drinks, coca leaves, cigarettes and dynamite. Yes, you can buy dynamite, off the street. For about a quid. What a bargain! We buy some for the miners and some for ourselves. I´m chewing away at the coca leaves (same stuff that cocaine is made from, but nowhere near as concentrated) but it feels like chewing on a green tea teabag and it´s pretty gross. My cheek goes a bit numb and my tongue is all tingly but that´s it. After about 45 minutes of dribbling green goo on myself I give up and spit it all out. My teeth have gone greenish yellowy grey. Niiiiiiiice.

We see the refinery and get some silver paste on our cheeks. Then we go to the mine itself. There are miners outside, drunk and smoking, coughing and spitting, laughing and talking. Some of them seriously look like they haven´t got long to live; the average lifespan of a miner is 45 years. Many of them die, starved of breath, coughing up blood, the black lung; incurable silicosis they pick up from inhaling the dust from the mine. Some workers start in the mines at as young as 12 years old. Male workers only; women bring bad luck.

The entrance tunnel is black with sticky dried llama blood, a sacrifice to Tio, the God of the Mine (otherwise known as Satan). It´s very cold and dark in the entrance, and incredibly dusty. It smells quite weird and I´m concerned about the high pressure air pipes hissing about my ears, like they might explode at any moment. We trudge along the muddy floor, slipping every so often, until every last photon of light has lost the will to go on and we´re left with the dull glow of headlamps in the dusty mire. The heat starts to build up once the wind from outside can´t reach us. Everything is muffled and quiet; it´s not unlike a warm tomb. We come across a statue of Tio, complete with offerings from the miners: cigarettes, 96% pure alcohol (which burns the throat like acid I can tell you now), pictures of naked women...everybody is finding it hard to breathe and our eyes are burning. We descend to the second level, 20 metres below the first. It´s dusty and slippery and my glasses are coated with dust. I can´t see a thing so they have to be put in a bag, without their case unfortunately (I have the dusty scratches to prove it). At least I can see now, so long as I blink every 2 seconds. We are crawling on our hands and knees through the dust; the stench thickens. The rocks are coated with yellow and green, stalactites drip gooey fluid onto my hands and head. ´Oh, don´t put your hands on the white powder on the walls please, it´s arsenic´, our guide kindly informs us, after I´ve been practically bathing in the stuff. We continue down this narrow shute , down, down, down...I know it´s only technically 20 metres but it´s winding and steep and it feels like a lot more. There are narrow paths where there´s nothing but a log wedged in the rocks between you and a 60 metre fall. The wellingtons have no grip whatsoever and for one scary moment I´m slipping down the shute, unable to catch a foot-hold or grab anything with my hands. The path levels out and I gain my balance again, checking that my hands aren´t bleeding, hoping that the guide was joking about the arsenic.

On the second level we see the miners working, carry rock, digging, loading, winching, pushing 2 tonne carriages full of minerals to other parts of the mine. It´s backbreaking work. They all seem very grateful for the gifts and desperate to ask the guide the time, to get some sense of where they are in the day and how long they have to spend down in this hell. Nobody eats in the mine, they only drink and chew coca leaves, sometimes working for 12 hours straight without a break at the surface.

Down we go, once again. If the dust and smell were bad before, they exponentially increase as you descend. We go to the lowest level of the mine, the fourth, 80 meters below the surface. Most of this descent is on ladders (some with very wobbly rungs) but it´s a little easier, less claustrophobic, and there´s something comforting about the repetitive action of that foot down, this foot down.

You cannot stand anywhere on the fourth level except whilst climbing off the ladder. We creep, crawl, slide, wriggle our way through the tunnels, desperately fighting for breath. Here we find Martine, a 38 year old miner who´s been working here all his life. Hunched up against the rock, he´s chipping out a path of dynamite holes to release the mineral vein he´s found. Every so often he chips a little of the mineral vein off by mistake, picks it up, examines it, breaks it with his hammer to examine the contents. There´s something very apelike about the hunched stance and the intuitive ease with which he handles these rocks and tools. He´s been doing this for 9 hours by the time we see him, intends to continue for another 3, when he´ll blow the hole and come collect his prize in the morning (as the dust has to clear overnight). ´Do you like your job? ´ John asks. ´I like it because I have no choice ´is his reply. The longer we sit with him, the more comfortable I feel. You could almost call it cozy. We leave him with a generous bag of coca leaves, cigarettes and soft drinks. Pretty lonely this far down the mine.

Our ascent is almost as difficult as the descent, as we´re exhausted from the scrambling and inability to breathe. However, I feel much safer going up towards the surface than I did going down; it doesn´t seem as steep and I know that the reward at the end will be cooler temperatures and increased oxygen. The foot-holds and hand-holds are easier to see as well. Once back at the surface I gulp in the fresh air and relish the feel of the wind on my face. The sunlight is still strong despite it being evening now. Invigorated, we finish our trip with a couple of sticks of dynamite. Bolivian dynamite is green and soft, and I roll it into a ball like dry play-doh. There are little bits of polystyrene in it, but I don´t know why. To give the dynamite some extra whoomph, we add a bag of ammonium nitrate for good measure. We stick the fuses in, get quick photos with us all holding lit dynamite, then the tour guide sprints about 40 metres away, half buries the dynamite in the ground, then sprints back. We wait. The tour guides shout to warn the miners. Then silence, apart from the hissing of the fuse. John shouts 3, 2, 1...and miraculously he´s timed it perfectly. A massive BOOM resounds around the valley, all we can see is a big cloud of dust. We see the hole our dynamite has made; it´s deep enough for me to crouch in twice over.

BOOM!