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Published: September 12th 2008
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Potosi.
Famous for Cerro Rico, the scarred reddish hill whose proceeds propped up the Spanish Kingdom for over two centuries with silver. Unsurprisingly, there is a mass of history here from a fabulously wealthy era gone by. The colonial architecture is testament to the population and wealth explosion that occured around the mining activities. Even now its splendour can be seen everywhere.
But not so apparent is the underlying human element - a story of atrocious proportions in the need (and greed) to extract more and more silver from the mines. Slaves, and forced indigenous labour were mercilessly harnessed to extract ore. To increase production, a law was even passed to force the slaves to live in the mines. Figures of 8 million deaths are typical.
Silver was the Spanish lifeline, and it was milked for all it was worth. Inevitably, the supply had to dwindle, and the demand for silver had to fall. Fear not, for copper, tin and zinc were also in abundance, and the city still supports an impressive population on this (and little else). At around 4500m elevation, people hardly come here for the climate.
And so it was a ´must do´to find a
This is what it looked like -
Photo taken without flash. Having descended a 70deg chute with no heaad room, Anne was close to freaking. good tour company (ironically: Koala tours), and have a look in a real mine. Health and Safety legislations of any country would be utterly unmerciful on a tourist and a mining company in cahoots, taking tourists into a working mine - apart from Bolivia. And what an unforgettable experience...
Donning the most rediculous overalls, hardhat with light, and gumboots, we were escorted off to the ´Miners Market´ to be informed about all the products we would like to buy for the miners (and the miners would like us to buy for them): 96% ethyl alcohol (yes, to drink), cigarettes, coca leaves, 2L soda bottles, dynamite with fuses, etc. Interesting to note: nothing of any nutritional value. At this stage, Benj is feeling like a cow on a milking turnstyle on Queen st, with a bunch of locals gawking at this cluster of oddly dressed bovines. On principle, refusing to buy alcohol or cigarettes for miners, our group happily/dubiously walked out with six sticks of dynamite with fuses and accelerator, three bags of coca leaves, 3 bottles of fizzy (and 6 chocolate bars Benj had thoughtfully brought for the workers previously).
The tour progressed through an ore processing plant,
The light was on...
... but no-one was home. where the occasional (spaced out, coca chewing) worker sat amongst the most chaotic collection of equipment whiring, transporting, centrifuging, and settling the raw ore into something worth exporting. Each worker was generously bribed by our guide with a dose of our coca leaves, and our guide profusely translated to us how thankful they were from their minimal response.
And here ended the speculation that we were being had. The mine entrance took us to the ´first level´: a nice level rail cart equipped cruise, with the periodic duck under timber props holding up massive loose bolders, suspending their gravitational urge to turn us into pancakes. Fully expecting things to get much worse, we were not dissapointed. The route through the whole ´second level´ was actually just the tight, low twisted confines of a compact worker intent on extracting a valuable but minimal seam of ore. The last thing on his mind would have been a 6´2" tourist going for some kind of warped life experience. Benj gets passed like a tornado by two compact miners off to work. Arlene´s claustrophobic tendencies, combined with a head cold, not to mention the 4700m joyride from sea level made the remarkably physical
All for a little of this shiny black stuff
The enriched ore is then sold to other countries to be completed. The waste products, including HCl, is flushed down the river with the tailings. No surprise - this river is dead. job of clambering on all fours a touch more difficult. But not to be deterred, both she and our French friend Anne overcame all the terror and footed it with the group to the very end.
Although the third level with its organised rail cart tracks gave us some respite and head space, we managed to find a miner tapping away in a tight tunnel down from us. While we gawked and gaped and photoed, this guy kept up a slow, steady tap with his mallet on a steel chisel as he relentless bored a hole large enough for a small dynamite charge - which we happily provided him. The translated conversation was gobsmacking. At the tender age of 32, he had sent 11 years tap tap tapping, and bang bang banging the tunnel we were in. All 50m of it. We could see a thin vein of silver in the ´roof´- about 3mm wide. But this guy had found a richer vein that was about 7mm wide, and he was working away at ´liberating´ this from its resting place.
A quick note on health and mining. The physical act of mining combined with the altitude is enough
to make these guys neglect any form of respiratory protection. Symptoms of respiratory disease (on average) start after 10 years of entering the mines, and kill by respiratory silicosis 20 years after that. Now we understand the remarkable number of lawyers and doctors in Potosi (in that order).
As soon as we were reunited with the first levels´ easy going trainline, Arlene´s turbo boost kicks in, and she shot out of that black hole like an exocet in the Falklands war. We are now so utterly respectful of the experience we have been given, and emerge to the light after 90mins, leaving these good folk to do their 6 day weeks. Ustedes son increíble. Gracias no es suficiente.
After that anything else in Potosi had to be done with a dazed look, somewhere in between comprehension and no comprehension at all. Having seen the mines, the next logical stop was the Museo Casa Real de la Moneda, the colonial fortress where they produced the coins of value to the Spanish, Latin American, and then ´global´economy. From an industrial perspective, Benj was in awe of the exhibits detailing the progress from:
* an indian slave bashing a die
to produce one coin, leaving a front foot impression in the wooden floor from the forceful and repetitive task
* a manual threaded press to produce a small number of coins simultaneously
* a room full of now defunct wooden gears made from Spanish Oak, and imported for the purpose of increasing output, driven by oxen
* opst independence, the change in coin production to produce local currency
* steam driven press for mass production
* electric driven press with belts and pulleys everywhere
Ironically, the final chapter in this bizarre saga of ´progress´, is that Bolivian coins are now produced in Spain.
On the insistence of the remarkably friendly woman at the counter of the Museo Convento de Santa Theresa (who clearly had a vested interest), we managed to squeeze this museum into the morning of our departure from Potosi. The two hour guided tour ended up being much closer to three as our eyes grew wider at the reality of the utterly secluded lives of 16th-18th century convent life - from the handing over of the second born daughter to never see her family again, or anyone other than a nun for that matter. Unbelievable.
Para ahora, adios minas. Gracias y vivir largas.
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