Blog Roll

The Bolivian silver mines of Potosi are a popular tourist destination. I found this hard to believe. They´re dangerous, working mines where 16th century techniques are still used. There are explosions, cave-ins and poisonous gases. The tour group disclaimer states: "Even taking all precautions there is a chance an accident can occur… in the case of a cave-in you will be in as much danger as the workers in the mine (more miners die from cave-ins than any other cause)". The mines are buried inside a mountain at about 4,500m. In dusty, cramped conditions the altitude can make it even harder to breath. I reassured myself with the thought of our friend Bec going down the same mines a year ago, and she returned unscathed. When I got on the bus I saw 11 of the 16 tourists were women, many of them sturdy looking young Danes.

We were taken to the miners´ market and encouraged to buy gifts, you know the kind of things - sticks of dynamite, ammonium nitrate, detonators as well as fizzy pop and coca leaves. So 16 of us got back on the bus dressed as miners (complete with hat and lamp), each carrying one of these goodie bags. I was just thinking about the 16 sticks of dynamite when the driver shouted at us not to leave them on the floor in case they got too hot.
There are hundreds of different mines here, all in Cerro Rico, which means rich mountain. Its conical, red peak overshadows Potosí, apparently the highest city in the world. Silver has been mined here for about 450 years and most of it was taken away to enrich the Spaniards who used forced labour to get hold of the booty. It´s estimated that as many as eight million people died in the mines by 1800. The majority were indians, but there were also thousands of African slaves. They often worked 48-hour shifts sustained only by coca leaves. Initially the Spanish took a dim view of this habit and the Catholic church pushed for an outright ban. But they soon noticed how much more productive it made the workers. It was legalised and taxed so they could squeeze even more out of the slaves who were now working to pay for the thing that sustained them.
We walked into one of the older, more secure mines. The tunnel was about 5ft high and lined with hissing airpipes, carrying oxygen deep into the mountain. After about 50m we stopped at a small museum, basically a cave with a few exhibits. There was a statue of the devil - every mine has one. El Tio, or the uncle, is considered to be the spirit of the mountain and these Catholic miners worship him when they enter the mines. Their attitude is: we´re now in the underworld where God has no influence. They give the Tio offerings like cigarettes (see pic) and coca leaves. Once a year a llama is sacrificed and its blood is thrown across the entrance to the mine. This ties in with traditional Andean beliefs where sacrifices were supposed to keep the gods happy. “The more llama blood, the less miners´ blood,” explained our guide.

We headed further down the tunnel following trolley tracks and reached a very low passageway leading to a hole that took us down two levels. Clambering down here was more like potholing. It was getting hotter and dustier and I kept banging my head. A few people turned back. We reached a more open tunnel but here men were straining behind lurching two-tonne trolleys laden with ore. We pinned ourselves to the walls listening to the ominous rumble getting closer. Then the men´s headlamps appeared and they passed by, two at the front, two at the back, all diagonal in their exertions. All the faces I saw were those of teenagers.
We followed them to a cave where men shovel the ore into baskets which are pulled up to higher levels. We didn´t get to see the work at the rock face and didn´t hear any explosions inside the mountain, apparently because it was a Saturday. So we started to head back up, back up through the narrow, steep passageway. This was the hardest part, scrabbling upwards on all fours, feeling the roof of the tunnel on my back. It was hot and dusty and I couldn´t get enough air. I was gagging on the scarf I was wearing around my face to keep the dust out and my legs turned to jelly. When we stopped to rest I still couldn´t breath properly. I was reassured by the fact everyone seemed to be in a bad way, and we`d only been down there about an hour. Once on the exit tunnel I could feel the cooler air and started to relax, then the guide behind me said, ´hurry up now please´, in one of those self-consciously calm voices that betray panic. A trolley was coming, I didn´t know which way, but started to run, lolloping through the tunnel and banging my hat on overhead rocks and beams. Outside I felt ridiculously exhausted and we watched as the guides let off some dynamite – just for a laugh.
Kids as young as 10 work in some of these antiquated mines and most miners only last 15 to 20 years before they´re coughing up blood with silicosis.
“About 40 miners die from accidents every year,” said the guide, “but many more die outside the mines from lung diseases.”
He explained how about 15,000 miners work in the mountain, all in different co-operatives. Silver is now scarce but zinc and lead make it worthwhile. On average these men make about 135 quid a month, about the same as a teacher.
“We know of the dangers, but in Potosi there is no alternative,” he said.

These are pictures of the Uyuni salt flats, the largest in the world at 4,000 square miles, apparently the size of Switzerland. About 40,000 years ago the whole area was part of a giant lake part of which evaporated, leaving these flats. (Some 60 million years ago the South Atlantic came inland to this point, forming a massive gulf from the coast of present day Argentina. The lake was created when the Andes were formed). A few metres down there is still water but the salty crust is tough enough to support people and vehicles. Men mine the salt, scraping it into small pyramids which are later shovelled into trucks (pic above). They take out about 25,000 tonnes a year. We travelled across the flats to an island where ancient cacti sprout from this rare patch of soil. One is thought to be 1,200 years old.

The surface of the island is covered in fossilised coral (once on the sea bed) which sits on top of volcanic rock. The flats are surrounded by extinct volcanoes and we spent the night in the shadow of one of them, its reddish caldera illuminated by the setting sun. Our accommodation was a salt hotel, so called because it was completely made of salt, apart from the roof. The walls were built with bricks cut from the flats which looked like breeze blocks and the floors were covered in loose salt. In the dining room the tables and chairs were also cut from salt (pic below). It was all quite rudimentary and a bit nippy but quite a strange experience, especially when you´re looking around for some salt to have on your dinner.

The next day we rose at dawn to catch the sun bursting across the flats.
Later we walked up to the volcano. Looking back the wide band of white looked more like a low strip of cloud rather than a permanent feature below the horizon. The landscape was hard to comprehend. On the way up we stopped at a tomb where there were eight mummies. This is all that´s left of a small village dating back to around 600AD. It´s thought that the village died out following a long drought. Some hair and skin were visible on the remains and locals still come up here to give offerings like coca leaves. We didn´t hang about.