The Potosi Mine Tour is Not for Everyone (an apologetically long read)

0 Hours – Entrance

Minutes into Cerro Rico and the world turned utterly grim. The tunnel was narrow, and dust choked my airways. Nervousness became panic as I fixated on earthquakes. Bolivia is rattled by them and I was under a mountain that should have collapsed a decade ago.

Entering

The tour was a stress-inducing game of stop-start. We would sprint down the tunnel until Ronald, our guide, screamed: “Stop!”. We then scrambled to the sides, hugging the mine wall to avoid 2-ton carts, loaded to the brim with minerals, thundering down the tracks. Up against the cold mine wall, with a German tourist pressed against me, we waited for the all-clear. Ronald shouted, “Move” and the sprint recommenced.

Two things became clear underground. Aside from Andrew, an elderly Australian who I assumed to be lost, the entire tour group was German. The sound of nervous German hence became the norm. The other thing was our guide’s sanity. He twitched, grumbled, and spoke to himself throughout the tour, laughing hysterically at nothing in particular. He had little patience for stupid questions, or any questions for that matter, and growled incomprehensibly at us. Perhaps the perception of ‘normal’ is different underground, but by surface standards, Ronald was a nutcase.

Ronald threw to each passing miner a gift of juice, cigarettes, dynamite, and alcohol, which we had purchased at the Miner’s Market. Their wagons crashed and cluttered down the tracks, resonating long after they were out of sight. The further we ventured in, the narrower the tunnel became. It wasn’t long before my standing position became that of an elderly crouch. Our only link to the world outside was a rusty pipe which hissed oxygen. I felt claustrophobic, an entirely new sensation.

We reached a crossroads and veered left. Here, a ladder extended from a cart into a small hole in the ceiling where 2 pairs of legs dangled. Ronald explained that the silver was exported to a smelter in Chile and that Bolivians received a pittance for their raw produce. Ronald spat the word ‘Chile’. Like many Bolivians, he was still seething from Bolivia’s defeat and loss of their coastline in a war fought over 100 years ago. The story of the trapped Chilean miners entered my mind. Knowing little about the 2010 cave-in hadn’t stopped me from dressing up as a Chilean miner for Halloween at University. Was this finally my comeuppance?

Traffic

Hour 00:45 – El Tio

The miners call him El Tio. He is an interpretation of the devil, a Spanish invention used to scare the Quechua into working. The Spanish are gone but EL Tio, the sadistic uncle, remains. The statue of El Tio was in the middle of a dead-end cove with a sandy floor. At his feet were bottles of pure alcohol, coca leaves and cigarettes. The miners adorn El Tio with gifts to ensure that they are kept safe. Ronald was no exception and placed bags of goods at his feet. My eyes wandered to the devil’s waist. His gargantuan penis was fully erect.

El Tio

A German tourist bluntly asked Ronald how many people die here every year. Ronald’s face turned to disgust. “Don’t ask that when we are under”, he grunted. As is the case in the most dangerous of industries, fate is never tempted, and superstition is rife. For instance, women are not permitted to work in the mines as they are said to bring bad luck. However, an exception has been made for female tourists because of money.

In the company of El Tio and his penis, Ronald explained to us the systemless system the miners follow. Each cooperative chips its way into a section of the mountain. The idea is to follow mineral veins which can be seen on the walls. The most senior and respected miners follow them and harvest the choice rocks. If you are new, you have to hack your way into any random part of the mine and hope you strike gold (or in this case silver). The tunnels now extend far from where the cooperatives originated, and it is not uncommon for tunnels from different cooperatives to meet. A miner may be chipping away into the rock whilst unbeknown to him, on the other side of a mine wall, someone is planting dynamite. The dynamite ignites, it all comes down, and the miner is killed or left to linger in blackness.

Dust hung heavy in the light beams. Ronald picked up sand and let it run through his fingers. “So much silver had been mined from Cerro Rico that you could buy a bridge to Spain”, he whispered, adding “So many have died here that you could use their bones to build it”. A cliché? Yes. But in the dull silence, high above the clouds, yet deep underground, I felt a touch of drama was justified. By some accounts, over 6 million people had perished since mining began. We were interrupted by a miner who demanded a gift. Ronald reached into his filthy sack and gave him dynamite. Ronald rose and explained that we best get a move on. They were setting off dynamite.

Mineral Veins

Hour 1:00 – Deeper

I looked at my watch. Halfway. We were back at the intersection. Ronald shoved more coca leaves into his mouth, and I copied, as explosions thudded in the distance. I naively assumed that we would now saunter back to the entrance at leisure, perhaps stopping to look at some interesting minerals. My heart sank when our mad guide took us left, deeper. Two Germans asked to leave and were escorted out. I chewed frantically, contemplating if I should join them. No. I had paid for this agony and I fully intended to get my money’s worth.

Narrow Tunnels

Back on the main thoroughfare and we were again subjected to cart-traffic-avoidance. The ceiling lowered with every meter. My thighs burned from my crouching run. I found myself at the back of the queue with the assistant guide who poked me in the kidneys to run faster. Up until that point, I had been unaware of his existence. Sweat poured off me and mixed with dust, coating my skin in a thick stew. At every merciful stop to avoid a cart, I pulled the face mask down to cough up dust. It was not hard to see why most deaths were the result of lung disease. We finally reached a crossroads with a tiny black tunnel veering off to the left. Ronald asked anyone if they wanted to work here. “F*** no,” I said, as we entered.

Hour 1:20 – The Hole

Here the walls were only slightly wider than my shoulders, the ceiling was low with rocks jutting out. I was fighting every inclination to wave the white flag and join the Germans outside. I looked at my watch, ‘1:20’. ‘There can’t be much left’, I thought, as more explosions thudded in the distance.

We arrived at a creaky wooden plank which Ronald called a bridge. I wiped the sweat from my brow, the brown liquid stung my eyes. On either side of the ‘bridge’ were sheer drops into nothingness. Dizzied by the height, I slipped. My water and coca leaves fell from my pocket and shrunk into the black. I licked my dry lips, thirsty. I had wrongly assumed going underground would at least spare me of any heights. This was not to be. The sides of the tracks were littered with great holes dropping into the earth.

The 'Bridge'

The terrified Germans, a surprisingly calm Andrew, and I arrived at a small Bolivian-man-sized hole in the ground where the tunnel ended abruptly. “We are going down”, said Ronald. I stared at the tiny hole in disbelief, it plummeted at a sheer angle. The lack of oxygen at this height had given me a splintering headache. Whilst Potosi is 4100 meters above sea level, the mines are 400 meters above this. I can only assume it was the lack of oxygen which resulted in my next decision.

Of the 12 remaining in our group, only six went down, and I was one of those idiots. An electrical wire dangled down the middle of the hole which Ronald told us not to touch. Not only did I touch it, I gripped it tightly with each slip. The warm electrical buzz was a small trade-off to avoid tumbling down the hole.

The Hole

The tunnel dropped in two stages. The first led to a cave with another sandy floor, like a beach in hell. Here, two miners sat chipping at minerals and listening to Cubano jazz. The younger one was supposedly 17 years old, but looked about 50, with permanent frown lines cut deep into his blackened face. Ronald had pressed throughout the tour that no children worked in this cooperative, despite reports stating child labour was commonplace in Cerro Rico. But, with age seemingly accelerated to the point of irrelevance, it was impossible to say, by looking at them at least, which miners were minors.

I arrived at the second stage of the descent, squeezing down a narrow rocky hole to get there. Four Germans proceeded up where I had come, already having received a talk. Down in the depths, it was me, Ronald, Andrew, and a man drilling holes into the wall. The holes were perfect cylinders which the man then neatly filled with sticks of dynamite, fuses hanging out. Ronald said something about ethical tourism but was interrupted when, with no warning, the miner lit the dynamite fuses. With that, the miner and Ronald scrambled up the hole at lightning speed, yelling at us to follow. I was up last, practically pressing my head against Andrew’s ass, who slowly hauled himself up.

Planting Dynamite

We emerged back to the hell beach. The German’s had long since returned to the tunnel. Ronald explained that explosions caused the earth to be unstable and so, to my horror, we had to wait until the dynamite went off. Jazz music melodied on. To my right, the 17-year-old was now thumbing explosive powder into dynamite sticks. And to my left the man continued to chip at silver, producing fiery sparks. I looked at the explosive powder heaped on the floor and back to the sparks, less than 1 metre apart, too exhausted to care.

Three loud explosions went off, and the earth beneath shuddered. A wave of dust from the hole flooded the cave, shrouding us in darkness. I covered my face with my muddy balaclava and wheezed heavily. Yet, far from being terrified, I felt a sense of contentedness in my state of helplessness. There was nothing I could do but wait. The dust stabilised and the light from the above tunnel shone through. Ronald said we could move on. As I left, I glanced back at the solemn miners who continued to chip away at rocks in the darkness.

Back up in the tunnel, I studied my cave-mates. Filthy, wide-eyed, and exhausted. Except for Andrew, whose uninterested face would not look out of place at the bank.

Working

Hour 2:00 – Escape

We were back in the main tunnel, leaving the smell of dynamite behind. A stupid grin crept across my face as I heard the familiar hiss of oxygen and the welcome sound of rumbling carts, a noise I had once loathed. As I sprinted between cart intervals, banging my big head again and again on the widening tunnel, all I wanted was a hug. Finally, a bright circular light became clear down the tunnel. It was the entrance. We were pulled to the side for one last, cruel wait as a procession of carts passed. Traffic was busy, the miners were heading out for their lunch break.

In this final pause, I noticed the word ‘Dick’ scrawled across the helmet of a tall German. I wondered if he knew that he had ‘Dick’ on his head. Indeed, we were all dicks for being here. Ronald barked at us to run, one final push. As we ran, the light grew brighter. The glorious sunshine beckoned me on, ignoring my aching thighs. I could hear a cart coming up from behind, I stubbornly carried on, wishing, and hoping we weren’t stopped again.

Underground Dicks

My wish was granted. El Tio had liked his gifts and for them, had afforded me safe passage through his world. I burst from that wretched cave into magnificent daylight. The world was vivid, a view I had once perceived as desolate was now a beautiful painting. All around, the miners were upturning their carts. I spat out giant balls of well-chewed coca leaves and breathed in a deep, dustless breath.

Changed Perspective

Hour 2:30 – Reflection

The tour group shuffled, traumatised and silent, to the bus. Onboard, no one said a word, everyone coughed. I cranked the window open and thought. This was dark tourism. It was fascinating, but the real reason we had come here was to be horrified. Horrified that this actually exists, to gawk at the miners, and, maybe, feel a little bit better about our own lives. Down in the darkness where time stood still, my senses were exhausted to the point where I forgot all about worry, sadness, or fear itself.

Before

At the Miner’s market, we gathered our clothes and peeled off our sweat-soaked gear. I jumped in fright at some tinkling Christmas decorations and continued to jump at things throughout the day. Now out of the mine, I posed my burning question to Ronald, “How many people have died?”. The rest of the group listened intently. “This year, from cave-ins, 59”, he replied. Only to add, “Don’t be sad, you survived”.

After