The Potosí Mines
A rickety van dropped us at a block where locals and tourists were milling between rows of tables. Unlike local markets we had visited so far, selling scarves, bags, and bead jewellery, this market offered breakfast and tools for the local miners. Fuses, detonators, TNT, and nitrate were laid out, the sight of them strange, yet familiar from hours of watching television. Our palms itched for some explosives, and we asked our guide if we would have an opportunity to blow something up on the tour. He answered with a nervous laugh and incomprehensible mutter. Our persistence paid off and he begrudgingly allowed us to open our purses. In addition to the precious dynamite, we bought some coca leaves and alcohol as a gift for any miners we might meet, and were fitted with our outfits, headlamps and all.
The mine tour had us first, clumsily descending a wooden ladder into a shaft splattered with ritual llama blood. Step after cautious step was made in too-big gum boots that flapped about our calves. The tunnels were, on the most part, carved out high enough to stand upright comfortably, and occasionally opened into a cave with a ceiling several metres high. Other parts of the tour required crouching down to the knees to clamber through a hole.
I would say that the place was a nightmare for those studied in workplace health and safety, but then, anyone could have seen how hazardous these mines were, even for tourists. We climbed up rocks, climbed down rocks, scampered over loose boulders, ascended coarsely constructed ladders, and even crossed plunging mine shafts over a single wooden board. Our headlamps cut through the penetrating darkness, but sometimes visibility was hindered due to the fine white dust speckling the light beams. "See that stripe on the wall?" our guide indicated. We turned around to see a striation in the rock immediately above us, and nodded. "That's asbestos."
As we returned to the beginning, we met a lone miner searching for tin. His face was weathered, with deep wrinkles across his eyes and forehead. He smiled a toothless smile, his dark hair peppered with mine dust. He might have been seventy, but I knew he was probably in his forties, aged by decades down the mine. The mines were once an enviable source of silver which the Spanish conquistadores exploited, at the expense of the lives of the native Indian population who were forced to work in harsh conditions. Now, it is mostly mined for other metals like tin and zinc, but the work conditions are still very poor. The culture of the miners is one of chewing on coca leaves and sipping on 96% ethanol to numb their pain. We passed on our gifts of coca leaves and alcohol for which he seemed genuinely grateful.
Back on the surface, our guide led us to a spot on the hill and showed us how to make dynamite. There was a long fuse, which allowed us more than enough time to make our way to safety over the rubble...
The mine tour had us first, clumsily descending a wooden ladder into a shaft splattered with ritual llama blood. Step after cautious step was made in too-big gum boots that flapped about our calves. The tunnels were, on the most part, carved out high enough to stand upright comfortably, and occasionally opened into a cave with a ceiling several metres high. Other parts of the tour required crouching down to the knees to clamber through a hole.
I would say that the place was a nightmare for those studied in workplace health and safety, but then, anyone could have seen how hazardous these mines were, even for tourists. We climbed up rocks, climbed down rocks, scampered over loose boulders, ascended coarsely constructed ladders, and even crossed plunging mine shafts over a single wooden board. Our headlamps cut through the penetrating darkness, but sometimes visibility was hindered due to the fine white dust speckling the light beams. "See that stripe on the wall?" our guide indicated. We turned around to see a striation in the rock immediately above us, and nodded. "That's asbestos."
As we returned to the beginning, we met a lone miner searching for tin. His face was weathered, with deep wrinkles across his eyes and forehead. He smiled a toothless smile, his dark hair peppered with mine dust. He might have been seventy, but I knew he was probably in his forties, aged by decades down the mine. The mines were once an enviable source of silver which the Spanish conquistadores exploited, at the expense of the lives of the native Indian population who were forced to work in harsh conditions. Now, it is mostly mined for other metals like tin and zinc, but the work conditions are still very poor. The culture of the miners is one of chewing on coca leaves and sipping on 96% ethanol to numb their pain. We passed on our gifts of coca leaves and alcohol for which he seemed genuinely grateful.
Back on the surface, our guide led us to a spot on the hill and showed us how to make dynamite. There was a long fuse, which allowed us more than enough time to make our way to safety over the rubble...
you got dynamite. i'm jealous! sounds interesting at the mines. i would have enjoyed it as well.
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