A Potosi Mine Tour of Cerro Rico - An Introduction - Potosi, Bolivia
- Jamie Melrose
- Dec 15, 2019
- 5 min read
“Who regulates this?” asked the German tourist, accustomed to regulations. Ronald, our guide, ex-miner, and insane person spat out a clump of chewed coca leaves which thudded on the floor.
“No one” he replied.
Headtorch beams danced on dark walls. I had tightly wrapped my balaclava around my face to avoid choking on dust. To distract my nerves, I read scrawled graffiti – ‘Faggot’. This did not make me feel better. A 2-ton cart thundered past ridden by 2 men who cheered madly. I lunged out of the way, recoiling my foot to avoid it being crushed, and bashed my head against the ceiling. My helmet made a hollow dint and sent scree crumbling. ‘Cave-ins’, I thought and fixated on this. I was under Cerro Ricco on a Potosi silver mine tour, and I hated it.
Bolivia is not normal. The cities are suffocatingly high and La Paz’s public transport system floats like bubbles over the valley. Markets sell aspirational miniatures of what Bolivians hope for in real life: tiny houses, tiny wads of cash, and tiny beautiful women with big blue eyes. Tourists used to flock here for a night stay (and party) in a self-run prison. As the prison tour is now disallowed, I had to settle for a cycle down ‘Death Road’. In Sucre, I was paraded through cobbled streets wearing a ring of roses as part of a festival. I still don’t know why. Yet, none of this surrealness prepared me for Potosi and my journey into the fabled mountain to which it owes its existence, Cerro Rico.
I had heard rumours of Cerro Rico from as far back as Ecuador. A traveller told me how he had gifted dynamite to child miners. In Sucre, the family I stayed with said that only crazy people and Gringos go into Cerro Rico. Stories of unthinkable working conditions, miners dying, and visitors being crushed by wayward carts were common. I am not a brave person, but I am curious; a terrible combination. For this reason, I went.
It took 4 hours to travel from Sucre to Potosi. The bus I used was decrepit. It stalled and grumbled in agony with every person we stopped to pick up. The landscape in this part of the world is barren; little vegetation and lonely billboards for Evo Morales’s upcoming election campaign. The bus pulled into a giant dome-shaped station where the moans of bus salesmen singing their destinations echoed eerily. Potosi only became stranger.
Following an Australian theme, I used Koala Tours, which was booked through Hostel Eucalyptus. Prices vary and I chose to venture into hell with a higher-end tour group – spending 110 Bolivianos (approx. £12). My girlfriend wisely opted not to come. One look into my guide Ronald’s mad eyes and she was content with her decision. He came to the hostel to collect me and a handful of German tourists. He said that I should bring money to buy gifts for the miners. Ronald was short, like most people in this part of the world. His cheeks were swollen with balls of coca leaves, which pulled back his blackened lips to expose bare gums.
After collecting more German tourists, the bus trundled up to the Miners Market and I observed the city. Potosi is 4100 metres above sea level, making it one of the highest cities on earth. The town centre is grand with elegant buildings. The colonial structures serve as a reminder that this city was once Spain’s most important, bankrolling its empire using the silver mint mined in the area.
However, I saw a sadness to Potosi. The altitude makes breathing a harrowing task. My Potosi nights will be remembered as disturbed, as I woke up in shock gasping for air. Up high, things move slowly, keeping the town in a perpetual stillness. As the bus squeezed through narrow streets, it spluttered fumes that hung just feet above the road with no intention of dissipating. This added to the smog that seemed to coat much of the city. The thin air makes the view crisper, which highlighted the bleak surroundings, lack of trees, and crumbling buildings. It is also bitterly cold, plunging below freezing as soon as the sun sets. Where once miners came to find work, diminishing reserves and unbearable working conditions have forced people to leave in droves. Those who stay, cling to the sustenance of an ailing mountain still being mined after 500 years.
At the Miners Market, we were given our kit. Baggy overalls, helmets with flashlights, and thick boots. Ronald told us that we must now buy gifts for the miners. One couple said that they didn’t bring money. Ronald chewed his leaves irritably, “I am pretty sure I said,” he grumbled as we piled into a small tienda.
The shopkeeper had pre-prepared bundles of miner’s gifts that included juice, cigarettes, and dynamite at a set price. Convenient. I bought 2 sticks of dynamite. We gathered in a circle and Ronald poured pure alcohol on the shop floor, an offering to Pacha Mama (Mother Earth) to keep us safe. The shopkeeper didn’t mind, too busy counting his Bolivianos. Ronald then offered it to any takers. I volunteered for the first sip. Nobody followed. The drunk hit me instantly, which helped ease my nerves. I looked around the tienda, a poster of a topless woman hung above the carbon monoxide monitors.
In the chaotic market outside, boys with blackened faces smoked rough cigarettes, drank alcohol and fingered fried pork on paper plates. I bought a cigarette and a bag of coca leaves from a staunch woman with wrinkly skin. I lit and inhaled, it was too strong, so I promptly put it out. I then piled a handful of leaves into my mouth and chewed. In full mining attire, balled cheeks and a balaclava covering my face, I wondered around in anonymity.
Crosses honouring the dead formed a fence along the winding road to Cerro Rico. Each tour visits a different mining cooperative and we arrived at ours just as the high from the coca leaves hit. The feeling is a slight euphoria akin to that which a strong coffee might instil, only I felt braver and less breathless. We presented our gifts to Ronald who piled them into a sack which he then slung over his shoulder. He looked vaguely like Santa Claus.
The mood in the party was tense as we walked towards the outdoor refinery. Few spoke as our boots crushed frozen mud. Now on the slopes of the mountain, I could see Potosi in the valley below. It looked bleak. I took a moment to get to know Ronald. I asked him when he started mining. He said “17”. Already knowing the answer, I asked him if it was a tough job. He whistled and walked away. Moment over.
The entrance to the mine was a perfectly black arch, carved into the sheer yellow rock. A simple track ran out of it. Two miners lifted an empty cart onto the tracks and ran it into the darkness. We gathered outside, waiting nervously.
“Listen to me”, announced Ronald as he began his safety talk. We were relieved, surely now we would be provided with some clarity on how this would work. He said that we would have to run and that we would have to duck. He said that when the carts come, we must get off the tracks or be run over. He paused, looked straight at me, and said, “Don’t f*** around”.
Uninspired by the talk, a German lady said that she was no longer keen. And so, we had our first casualty who was escorted back to the bus. I readied my watch timer, 2 hours this was supposed to last. Another cart came thundering out, the miners tipped the contents onto the floor with a crash.
With no warning, Ronald barked at us to run. We were in single file, Ronald at the front and his assistant at the back. I crouched, glanced back at the bright blue sky and ran in. “Beep” went my watch and with that started the longest 2 hours of my life.
To be continued...
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