Wretched mines, amazing biking, and an historic city

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Hola,
I arrived in Potosi, Bolivia, a few nights ago and am glad that I did. The town is a great mix between typical (but never usual) Bolivian markets and narrow colonial streets packed with kids in uniforms trotting home after school or on their way to a bar. The first night was spent just walking around exploring the watering holes around the city with a new French friend whose name I have forgotten (c'est la vie quand tu... uh.... travel). After a day spent relaxing and playing soccer with some kids (who, although half my height and half my age, kicked my ass) I found a sociable hostel and had a short sleep before rising early to head to a tour of the local silver mine.

First, a little history. Potosi, the world's highest city at 4070 meters, was once a thriving and enermous colonial city (the largest in the world, claims my tour guide. Google claims the largest in "the Americas") founded because of the nearby goldmine of a gold mine (at the time the most fruitful in the world). When the Spanish found the mine they raped it and its local people using slave labour, starting with the locals and eventually black miners brought in from Africa (see pic below, startling). These miners were forced to live inside the mine for SIX MONTHS on end, without ever leaving, to increase efficiency, and worked upwards of 22 hours a day. Many died within months of starting their slave labour and the total number is over seven million over the last 450 years.

After visiting the mine you can see why so many have died as the conditions of the mine has not changed much in that time.

Gearing up at about 8:30 am, we headed into the desolate wasteland near the towering hershy-kiss shaped mine. The ground was a dusty yellow but any earth poking upward was a bright redish colour, indicative of a plentiful mine. Our two busloads full of cameras and people made a quick stop at a local market where, much to our surprise and my delight, we were able to buy TNT, no questions asked, from a little store. In one hand I held a stick, like a fat cigar but more...potent, and in the other hand I held the delicate detinator. Explained my guide (in inpeccable English... and Hebrew... and French... and Quecha... and Spanish... all for $10 a day) "if you were to hit this against, say, this wall here, you and your buddies would be dead". At this point the girls winced nervously and the boys eyes, now like saucers, stared steadily into the distance, obviously imagining the possibilities. Next, of course, came the special brand of alcohol the miners drink. Made from sugar cane and costing, for about 30 ounces maybe, five bolivianos or about sixty cents, the drink contained 96% alcohol. We all took a sip, some of us two, and felt the burning and the buzz moments later. The guide, an ex miner himself, took a long gulp. And why not, he was tough as nails: he had worked in a mine from the age of ten to fifteen before changing professions (this is techincally illegal and in reality common: the children, smaller, are used to get and light dinomite into small holes that older men cannot get into). After this we bought some coca and some gifts for the miners, including TNT and Coca Cola (I am getting less sure of which is more destructive...) and off we went to the mine.

First we learnt how the silver is extracted from the rock, interesting in its own right but not something I will go into. The next stop was the mine entrance. The busses snaked up the dusty foothill to the mine covered with the disposed-of distinctive, small, green bags used for Coca leaves. There is a great deal of history to Coca: before the Spanish the Coca epidimized the socialist nature of their culture. You always had enough Coca for another and offering a chew was a usual icebreaker. After the Spanish and Christianity colonized (which is a word I try not to use: it hides the reality, one where a earth-loving, socialist, culturally distinct world was ravaged by a foreign power. To this day people are, rightfully, quite angry. And after seeing the mine you can see that the people are still very much ruled by foreign power) the church outlawed Coca, calling it a sin. But, after the Spanish saw that it lowered production in the mines, they again allowed it... but of course taxed it. Nowadays it is easy to get Coca, but for a time it was more valuable than silver on the Bolivian market and was, for a time, even used as a currency. I remember feeling a sort of half guilt half pity as I entered the dark, narrow entrance to the mine, a feeling that would not leave but would change in important ways throughout the day. Covered head to toe in gear most miners could not afford, we (a group of eight very nice people, all white and all English speaking) tucked in our arms, bowed our heads, and followed the track into the darkness. The mine was as bare as an operation like that could possibly be: no lights, no air pumps, nothing man made except a track carrying the trollies and the sweat drops spattered all over the ground. Soon the air became hot and unbearably dusty causing most of us the wheeze and cough. Many times we had to hug the wall as men pulling two tonnes of silver, mostly headed to Europe, literally ran by tugging on ropes attached to the trolly and dripping with sweat. About 30 meters in we stopped to catch our breath, which proved impossible.

At this point our guide explained the way in which the miners distributed the money, as this was now a cooperative mine. Divided into groups, each group was free to explore the mine as they pleased and each man in each group got an equal share of the profit. We were shown statistics saying that 92 percent of people working in the mines said they were doing so only because no other work was available elsewhere, which at this point did not seem surprising at all. He also explained that, now that the mines were nationalized, the mood amongst the miners was quite jovial, as we soon found out. They were constantly laughing, joking, kicking eachother, and - ALWAYS - chewing coca. Then, bowing his head slightly and lowering his voice, he explained that the average life span of a miner in the bigger, more polluted mines, was twelve years from the first day of work. Some of us felt a wave of a vague guilt flood over us. One man checked his watch.

After a couple more hours of coughing, slouching, crawling, and intensifying the uncertain feelings many of us had, we got a chance to meet some of the miners, all of which only went by nicknames. "Granny-fucker" showed us how to shovel material into giant bags. Dogshit-face let me push one of the trollies, which derailed and was swiftly lifted back on the track. All the time they moved very quickly and without complaint. The whole time you got the sense that these men were like brothers - military like. They loved eachother and were mutually motivating eachother. Speaking only Quechua they asked, through Pedro, our guide, where we were all from and what we did for a living. The common answer was "London" and "Student", two things as far from this man's opportunities as the moon. After posing for some photos and kissing the cuter girls, they were back to work and thankful for the coke. The whole time the feeling in my stomach wouldn't go away: I did not feel pity any more, it was hard to after seeing how happy they were. I did not feel the same kind of guilt, either, although it was still there. What grew, though, was a feeling I have had the whole time in South America: human spirit is not contrained by much and, as hard as it is to believe, I think these men were happier in their lives and their skin than was the average tourist. Just a lot sweatier, a lot colder at night, and a lot less educated.

After leaving the mine after two long hours (imagine six months) we blew up some dinomite on a nearby hill which caused a whole different kind of feeling in my stomach: like getting punched. Cooooool. Normally I would have spent more time describing this part but it really would not be fair.

After shaking our heads a few times, exchanging semi-serious feelings about the miners, we were back to our hot showers and fleece jackets and soon headed out for dinner and beer. One girl, obviously having a mixed feeling of her own to the whole day, remarked that in the last two days she had spent more than one of these men made in a month. We discussed the issue over wine.

Hypocrisy is invisible. It IS possible to care and not give a shit at the same time. I am getting very unsure of myself.

Today I went on a bike trip through, among other things, the Devil's Cave to the nearby thermal lake. The road, often times dirt, wound through the center of a very steep valley whose walls had various horizontal layers of vibrant colours, ranging from red to yellow to maroon. It looked like a rainbow had crashed on the rocky, cactus covered valley wall and became contorted. After weaving around several red and blue hills, colours strait from a bag of Smarties, we eventually arrived at the Laguna. At a delightful 25 degrees, Lisa and I soaked for over two hours and played with the sulfurous mud. The laguna, it turns out, was in fact a waterfilled valcano's crater: Cool! After drying off in the sun we went to the nearby town, Miraflores, for lunch and a cold drink. After checking out the town's amazing concrete spa and pool, filled completely with water funneled off the valcano, we took a bus back to Potosi where I am now.

Tomorrow morning I head to Uyuni for the salt flats. My stomach is almost back to normal. Other things, though, remain shaken.

Ciao for now.

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Photos

Mines and Biking
Yes that is TNT. Yes, that is a fuse. And, yes, the fuse is lit. Welcome to Bolivia.