Leaving Sucre, and Potosi

Tuesday 8th April 2014

11:15 - Left Sucre hostel
11:40 - Bought a 1pm bus ticket to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:00 - Boarded the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:20 - Disembarked the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:30 - Obtained refund for bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
14:00 - Returned to Sucre hostel

Road blocks are common in Bolivia, and there had recently been many created by protesting miners. Strangely, it had been university students behind the blockade which delayed me, and not the miners.

On the second day of asking, I finally escaped the clutches of Sucre and arrived in Potosi. Upon many recommendations, I checked in to Koala Den hostel. Potosi is the highest city of it´s size in the world at 3977 metres. Luckily I was now acclimatised to high altitudes. Many centuries ago Potosi was the richest place in the world due to the discovery of silver in the mines, but this heydey has been and gone.

My first evening in Potosi and my full second day involved walking around, soaking up the atmosphere, and visitng the boring Mint museum. Most visitors to Potosi are there for one thing; the mines. Sometimes while travelling, morals and ethics come into play. When I first heard about trips to the mines in Potosi, I was sceptical. In such harsh conditions, do the miners really want a bunch of gawping foreigners watching them graft? I had a similar conversation with a Canadian guy back in Sucre, but he was the only person I could find who had conciously decided not to enter the mines on ethical grounds. But the reccomendations from those who had been were always excellent. Part of my second day in Potosi was therefore spent weighing this up, but also choosing the best way to do it. I opted to buy my mine tour with Big Deal Tours. Big Deal are the only tour owned, arranged and guided by miners themselves.

I awoke a little uneasy on the morning of the tour. Many people opt out of a visit due to claustrophobia, fear of the heat, fear of the noxious dust and gas, fear of wayward dynamite explosions, or simply because of the plight of the miners. No wonder it is nicknamed ´The Mountain That Eats Men´.

But my unease that morning was quickly amplified. I was informed by the hostel that there had been a phone call for me, and he would ring back again in ten minutes. This can´t be good, I thought, as I continued to prepare for the mines. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I walked towards reception..

¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Yes, hello? Who is this?¨
¨It´s Yosef, the Israeli guy you met in the hostel last night!¨
¨Oh ... hi ... What´s up?¨
¨When I left for the bus to Cochabamba last night you asked me what time the bus departs. Are you coming here tonight?¨
¨Erm, possibly. I haven´t decided yet. Why?¨
¨I´ve left my laundry at your hostel!¨

Panic over. I told Yosef to ring me later after my mine visit when I will have decided if I was going to Cochabamba. I could carry one extra bag on one bus journey, no problem.

By the time I had settled again, it was time to go. I grabbed some bread from the breakfast table, and along with my current best friend Edmundo, we headed off to Big Deal. After changing into our mining gear, we visited The Miner´s Market. Tourists to the mines are encouraged to buy gifts for the miners. Possible gifts include cigarettes, alcohol and dynamite, but we were greatly encouraged to buy a bag of coca leaves which staves off hunger, and a bottle of fruit drink. Next we visited a refinery plant where the minerals from the mines are purified, and there was then a brief stop at a viewpoint over Potosi.

Before long we were at the mine entrance. We entered without hesitation; one Englishman, one Brazilian, one Frenchman, one Dutch girl, one German, and two Bolivian guides, one of whom was a miner. With our helmet lights on, we sludged through muddy cart tracks. The natural light quickly dissapeared. We would only see it again once we exited at the far side of the mountain. Despite being told it was not yet neccesary, all the tourists put on their face masks. Dust of many different minerals, some toxic, were floating around our noses. Many parts of the mine were too low to stand up straight, and so bent legged, I huddled down, often leaning on my tiring right leg. Everybody was grateful for the helmets which periodically saved our banging heads. Our guide was excellent, stopping now again to talk about the veins of minerals that could be seen on the walls, or explaining to us about the life of a Potosi miner.

Many miners, hard at work, passed us by. Some pushed minecarts along the tracks, sometimes requiring us to nestle ourselves flat against the tunnel walls. The carts fizzed past our feet. At one early moment I found myself seperated from the rest of the group when a few miners approached from the darkness. The largest of the group spoke to me in his indigenous tongue. His voice was deep and gruff. It was difficult to guess what he wanted, but I pulled my bag of coca leaves out of my rucksack. He gladly accepted. He continued to make gruff expressions. ¨Inglaterra¨, I replied. He grunted in a confused tone. ¨Inglaterra¨ I repeated. ¨Australia?¨ he replied. ¨Inglaterra¨ I responded, and he fully understood. The men moved on, and I caught up with the rest of the group.

The miner´s were clearly welcoming of our presence. One of our group had brought the miners some jeans as a present; a great gift in my view. Even once we had left the small cubby hole in which they were mining silver, they shouted their thanks from the shadows. Other miners were nothing short of delighted to have their photos taken with the foreigners, including one known as Rambo, who was very chatty, despite our lack of a common tongue. I wondered if it was the gifts which appeased them, but many often stopped to chat without asking for a present. Coming to the mines, with this particular tour at least, was no longer a moral issue for me.

As we strolled through the mines for well more than an hour, I realised all my earlier worry had been in vain. Neither the dust or the altitude significantly affected my breathing, even though the tiring low ceiling sections made us all out of breath. I had seen no deathly drops to fall down. I heard no dynamite explosions or impeding tunnel collapses. In a way it was almost as much of a dissapointment as a relief. And then we reached the ladders. I had known in advance that there was a section of three ladders, but each was only about one storey high. What I hadn´t anticipated, however, was that there was no comfortable point to stand in between each one. I had to place myself precaurioustly on a single beam to give myself a leg up to each following ladder 180 degrees behind my back. Not only did the altitude add to my already tired arms and legs, but it was a serious case of ´dont look down´ ... as if the darkness wasn´t there to disguise the dizzying drop. Once I reached the top, I regretted being slightly disappointed at the previous lack of danger.

But my attention was soon swayed. In a small cove at the top of the ladder, sat El Tio. The miners are Christians. A statue of Jesus looms on the outside hilltop. But inside the mine, their god cannot reach them. Inside the mine, they worship the only one who can protect them from accidents and lead them to veins of precious material. Inside the mine, the miners worship the lord of the underworld.

Every mine has a statue of Tio. He is offered cigarettes and alcohol. We sat by Tio as our guide made his offerings and wishes. He wished for more tourists. Guiding tourists through the mines twice a day won´t kill him as quickly as spending each full day as a miner. Our guide then told us to turn off our headlamps. We sat in pitch black alongside Tio. Not a sound was heard from the heart of the mountain.

For many tourists who visit the mine, the first sign of daylight is a relief. As we stooped through a long and low section of tunnel, natural light began to filter through. Before long, we saw clouds and sky. We had wallowed from one side of the mountain to the other over the course of two hours. Meanwhile, miners entered past us in the opposite direction. Many are proud of their jobs; proud to be miners. Yet many would love to get out. Some work there from as young as 12. The lungs of many begin to fail before middle age. If they cough up blood, they know their time has come.

I made a decision that afternoon to depart to La Paz on an overnight bus. The bus was hot. As I lay awake in my semi reclining seat, I had an overly hot heater by my left leg, an achy right leg, and no working toilet. But I had been reminded that day how many have it so much worse than me in South America. And meanwhile, a bag of Israeli laundry lay dormant in Koala Den hostel, Potosi.