Red Hill Mining Town

Uyuni to Potosi, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,000 metres to 4,070 metres

“Through hands of steel – and heart of stone

Our labour day – has come and gone…”

RED HILL MINING TOWN – U2, The Joshua Tree

It was just before 9am and braving the crisp morning Uyuni air without my fleece, I strolled the bustling streets in search of Andean Salt Expeditions. The shop was a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I was visiting it in the hope that by some remote chance, my fleece had found its way there. Odd looks from the locals as I knocked on a heavily bolted door, and shouted ‘HOLA!’ through the broken window above it. No response! Apparently, there were no Salar de Uyuni tours running today. Cold and annoyed I wandered back to the Hotel Toñito, dodging men with fruit laden carts and a herd of school children, looking the part in their white smocks.

I made it back to the hotel in time to meet our small, Partridge Family style bus. Inside it was clean, seemingly comfortable despite the limited room. Although the bus had quite conveniently collected us from the Hotel Toñito, this was a local bus, and so we soon picked up a few more tourists and locals after a short ride from the hotel. Some of the girls in our group were helping Glenn in finding a woman and gave some of the boarding Scandinavian tourists a rating. There were three of them actually, and all slim and blonde. So poor Glenn didn’t know who to pick after a flurry of nods and winks from the Tucan matchmakers, the most conspicuous of which was Helen Wright. This earned her the nickname Cilla Black from Glenn, given Cilla’s notoriety for hosting the British version of the show Perfect Match, aka Blind Date. After Cilla and her cohorts gave an older, aesthetically challenged Bolivian woman the thumbs up for Glenn, our group were in fits of laughter. All were laughing with the exception of Alpaca Alan. Apparently a good nights rest had not seen an improvement in the belly department. We soon set off, anticipating the 6-7 hour journey to the mining town of Potosi.

Dany had given us the low-down on the Uyuni to Potosi route the previous night, and so it was no surprise to us when the road became unsealed soon after leaving Uyuni. The road out of Uyuni proper was fine, but as we began the climb into the foothills outside the town, it became unsealed and extremely bumpy. It was hard to determine whether the shaking bus, was due to an appalling road, or whether it was because the suspension on the bus were no more than a couple of rubber-bands in tension. On reflection, I would say both. As we said farewell to the low lying town of Uyuni and the magnificent glimmering salt-pan beyond it, the road became a winding, corrugated pass. The valleys of the green foothills were scattered here and there with cacti, and although not as steep as some previous Bolivian roads that we had been on, still provided a few heart flutters.

We attempted to pass some of the time ignoring the groans from underneath the bus, by playing a few games. FYN! didn’t get a run this time, but a quick game of Hearts saw myself regain some pride by defeating Jane; who had previously beaten me on our trip to Machu Picchu. We did have to stop playing though, as with all the shaking, it seemed to stir the volatile Bolivian belly bacteria within. Both Margaret and I began to feel extremely queasy. I tried to overcome this by introducing another game to the Tucan group. SNAP! It was called. Don’t worry! There are too many rules in this game to even consider me putting them down. Basically, it’s like charades only with snaps of the fingers. This entertainment saw us through to our first stop, a small poverty-stricken village.

The buildings were mud-brick dwellings, and the dusty, muddied road was rank with the stench of human and animal waste. The less than appealing surrounds were not enough though to quell the enthusiastic children now milling around the bus. Actually, our exit off the bus proved quite humorous. Given that it was our first stop for the day, then this also meant the first toilet stop. So there were a few patrons more than busting to go, including myself. Unfortunately, there were no loos on this tour. So you had to go and find a remote spot. But, where does one find a bog in the middle of a bog with no bogs? Maurie certainly embraced this dilemma wholeheartedly and left the bus in a mad sprint, running around like a wound-up meerkat in search of his hole. Perhaps a better description of Maurie’s bog-hunting antics came from Glenn, comparing Maurie’s dash for a slash to a scene from a Benny Hill skit. This earned Maurie a nickname, from the moniker wielding Glenn. Maurie Gartland (“Benny Hill”). After I called upon all of my “Forrest Gump” mojo, I ran the length of the street, avoiding dog-muck and pot-holes to eventually find a remote patch of dirt. Bladders relieved, it was then a more sedate journey back to the bus, negotiating inquisitive school children this time, and eventually boarding the bus with a tad more dignity than we did when we left it.

After another couple of hours driving on a god-forsaken road, I soon was blessed with the ability to predict an oncoming jolt. Like the delay between lightning and thunder there was a sudden dip from the bus, followed by a short pause and then a vertebrae popping pulse. I learned to hate the pause, the apparent death knell. The longer the pause, the deeper the pothole or undulation, the more intense the jolt. In the words of Dany – quite simply a horrible, horrible journey! Matters became worse when the groaning bus began to negotiate another steep winding pass. Half way up a meandering road through a boulder cluttered valley, and the bus came to a stand still. We were stuck there for a good half an hour as the driver and his companion began jacking up the fuel tank. The road was so uneven, that at this steep gradient the fuel tank was now dragging along the road. Excellent! What was better was watching the driver pull out a trusty hammer and pound the fuel tank into submission so as to gain those valuable inches above road-level. We were all amazed, and even more anxious when we eventually re-boarded the bus. For the first few miles, we were anticipating a fuel leak and shouts of “Fire in the hold!” or whatever the Bolivian equivalent was. If there was an explosion, then we would have surely been finished off by one of the massive, precariously perched boulders that lined the slopes above us. By sheer luck we negotiated the pass successfully. “WAHOO!”

Only one more inconvenience now – a few locals boarded the bus. What appeared to be a local woman and her daughter made themselves at home in the aisle. This is often the case in Bolivia, and certainly one of the joys of taking local buses. And no, I’m not being sarcastic here. Despite the farina laced body odour and their apparent oblivious attitude to sitting on seated travellers, I thought it was quite interesting. It was quite common for locals just to flag down a bus, hop on and then get off where they pleased. No formal bus stops in Bolivia. I actually, felt quite sorry for the pair that had boarded, particularly for the daughter. She stood for a while, but not for long, as the quaking bus soon sent her pale. Shortly before arriving in Potosi her and her mother left the bus much to her relief and also to the those she was leaning against.

A short stop as the bus driver decided to refill his water bottle at a running stream, before the final approach to the highest city in the world, Potosi. The city is the highest, being at an altitude of 4,100 metres. As we arrived on the city’s outskirts, the poverty of the place was almost overwhelming. The road still a mess, wound its way through makeshift, half-built houses. For a while we travelled passed a dry riverbed full of scattered refuse and foraging pigs. It was horrible. After ten minutes of making our way through the town, we finally came to the Potosi bus-station. A glorified Bolivian car park. To my surprise Braulio was here waiting to transfer us to the hotel. To my even greater surprise was the returning of my lost fleece. I was simply amazed. My faith in Bolivian’s was absolutely soaring at this point. They can’t clean laundry properly, and struggle to get a meal to you on time, yet they manage to return an article of clothing to me, in a town hundreds of kilometres from where I had initially lost it. This was miraculous. Forgotten I had the arduous journey on the junk-worthy bus.

LOST ITEM COUNT: Now down to two

As we entered the city centre, to our pleasant surprise the city had a much cleaner and affluent feel. The main plaza had well manicured gardens and there were some attractive colonial looking buildings. We arrived at the Hotel Liberatador in central Potosi in the late afternoon. Both weary bodies and laundry were all soon checked in, having a rest before we were to head out to dinner.

Dinner was at a restaurant on the main square in Potosi. The food was average but still fine. Dany amused us with his Coca-Cola and beer mix. Apparently it’s quite the rage in Peru. I can’t say I tried it. Having been rested earlier most of us ventured out to a bar/café. (Those that didn’t were the not so macho mature folk. Alan was still feeling dicey, and Horst, Kim and Dan had opted for an early night). It was a bit daunting entering this particular establishment. Walking down some rickety stairs to a bar in a converted basement. There were a few locals in the place, and no gringos apart from ourselves. We were quickly plied with jugs of ale, and Ian “The Drinking Games Master” soon had us playing a game, albeit a much tamer version of our exploits in Uyuni. The drinking game merely required a person to think of a celebrity’s name that started with the letter of the surname from the previous one. If you were smart enough to think of a double letter celebrity (eg Marilyn Monroe) then the game reversed in the opposite direction. The only drinking required was when you were thinking of a name. But, it wasn’t enforced. Deep down, everyone was still coming down from the cachasa frenzy in Uyuni. After a couple of hours playing this game, we headed back to the hotel and discovered that the staff had elected to do some painting. Braving near overpowering fumes of varnish or paint, we made it to our rooms and knew no more. Just as well really. No point in dwelling on the following day’s advertised exercise in claustrophobia. The mines of Potosi.

 

It wasn’t too early a start for us. 9am and Braulio was waiting for us with the transfer bus for those taking the Potosi mine tour. Most of us had elected to take the tour, but there were a few exceptions. The most notable one was Alan. Ian had requested a doctor for his dad that morning at breakfast. So, all was not well with Alpaca Alan. Those that had opted out were some of the female contingent. Anne (“Bite My Ass”), Jane (“FHM”), Laura (“Laundrette Fret”), and Helen (“Cilla”) had thought better of taking the half day tour. To be fair though, the description of the mine tour wasn’t exactly appealing. We were all kind of wondering ourselves, whether we should be doing it. The mine tour included at least three hours in the Potosi mines, where the temperatures can range from minus 12 degrees Celsius through to upwards of 40 degrees Celsius. Add to that the shafts were cramped, not well maintained, not well ventilated and some places would require you to crawl. The tour came highly recommended for everyone, everyone that is except the asthmatics or claustrophobics. I had experienced both of these maladies in relatively minor forms in my life. So, it was with some trepidation that I did embark on this tour.

The ever reliable Braulio (hey, he returned my fleece he was now short of a Bolivian God) was on time for the tour. The bus that picked us up literally drove us all 30 yards down the road and stopped in front of a house. A few taps on the door, like some sort of secret society, and we were greeted by a dog and a toothless local woman who directed us towards the back where our mining kit awaited. Wellies, yellow coveralls, and helmet were all supplied. It seemed everyone was issued with a normal coloured looking helmet except for myself. I was presented with a red one. I couldn’t help but think of my Papa Smurf nickname at high school. Within minutes we were kitted up, and heading back to the bus. I’d say all the locals must have thought we looked like idiots, in our brightly coloured get-up.

Our first stop on this particular tour was the miners market. It was customary for tourists to purchase some basic necessities and luxuries for the miners, and present them as gifts later. As we approached the market, the towering Cerro Rico revealed itself. After having seen it, it was difficult to understand why we had not previously noticed it. The mountain literally towers over Potosi. Cerro Rico, which means Rich Mountain, is indeed mineral-rich. Its desolate, orange-red exterior is scoured with streaks of grey, silver and countless debris; tell tale signs of the mining that takes place. It is this red-hill where all the mining takes place in Potosi. Despite having been mined for centuries, the mountain is still yielding deposits of tin, lead, zinc, and silver in small amounts. Apparently, it never used to be that way in Potosi. Centuries ago, Potosi used to be the largest city in South America due to the silver rich veins of Cerro Rico. But the reserves have since depleted and so too the prosperity of the town. The mining yields are now far too small to interest large mining corporations. The mining operation has been left to the locals, and so only a few small co-ops now operate there.

To the market we arrived. First stop is to purchase dynamite. I kid you not. Dynamite is readily available for sale in Potosi, and apparently to anyone. (Arrive early though, rumour has it that Al Qaeda members are queue jumpers). For a mere 10 Bolivianos ($1.45 US, $2.50 AUD, £1 GBP), Margaret and I bought a stick of dynamite complete with fuse. No one seemed to worry too much about us handling it. It was all such an unbelievable experience that it was like. “OK. I’m holding a stick of dynamite. Cool!” Images of Wiley Coyote came to mind. Fortunately for everyone a Road Runner didn’t present itself. Who knows what might have happened, particularly with my implacable desire to break into a trot. Braulio informed us that we would explode some of the dynamite later, but some we would reserve as gifts for the miners. Our purchases were completed at the Dynamite Shoppe with a facemask. The fumes were to be quite bad in the mines, so we all made sure we had one.

A short walk around the corner and we’re in the thick of the miner’s market. The market was bustling with life. The local women were manning (well therein lies an oxymoron) the stalls. For it is only the women that are actually allowed to attend to the shops and stalls in the market. All the men either work in the mines, or are left to some other duty requiring intensive labour. If a man were to manage a stall, he would be considered not to be a man; even a homosexual. So, while the women were in their stalls, the local men that we saw in the market, were the miners partaking in a meal before starting their shift. The stalls were extremely interesting. They sold all the vices of the Potosi miner. Vice is a harsh word.

What was a vice to us, was deemed a basic necessity by the locals, as it was these things that enabled them to get through their day in the mines. Okay, so what do we have here? The ubiquitous Andean coca leaf. Bags of the stuff! The Potosi miners, like the Incas of old, chew coca leaves to help deaden their senses. They chew loads of leaves at a time until it had formed a solid mass in their mouth. The resulting cocaine that’s extracted into the system would remove any desire to eat, and increase their energy levels. So we have coca, what else? Next, we have some alcohol. Well, not just some alcohol, but all of it. 100% alcohol to be perfectly correct! The miners would drink the stuff, perhaps to wash down that odd coca leaf that got stuck in the throat, but more seriously to help them take their mind off their daily toil. Then some cigarettes. Which ones though? The cheap ones or the more recognised brands. The cheaper cigarettes looked lethal. No filters and looked as though they threatened to give you a dose of emphysema by just looking at them. Margaret and I finally made some purchases. We bought some coca leaves, some good cigarettes, alcohol and a bottle of good old Coca Cola to wash it down with. There’s nothing worse than a Potosi miner with coca breath. The Coca Cola should sort that out.

With our tour of the market completed our bus began the snaking climb up the serpentine road that lead to the mine shafts of Cerro Rico. Braulio had graciously relieved us of our explosives, and took them for safe keeping. Just in case anyone of us proved to be a little more unpredictable than he? After climbing the base of Cerro Rico, we arrived at the point where the mined material is sifted and grounded. Some local women were here, painstakingly picking through mining refuse, and chipping away at it in the hope of obtaining some silver or saleable metal. It was very humbling, to watch these women do this. A short distance past the women were some out-dated and non-functional grounding equipment and beyond that lay the city of Potosi below. As we headed back towards the bus I noted the pigs rummaging around some piles of mining debris. Images like this really brought reality into perspective – we had literally taken a step back in time.

Climbing Cerro Rico and this time we stopped at a simple church perched on a precipice overlooking an outstanding panorama of Potosi. We took some time to admire the view and had the obligatory group photo. Shortly after a wander around the closed up church, and having said a short prayer, Braulio informed us that he was going to explode some of the dynamite. Just before this though, the fearless Bolivian posed for us with a stick of dynamite in his mouth. This guy was Bolivia’s answer to the Wiley Coyote. He then proceeded to demonstrate to us how to insert a fuse into the stick. Opening up the stick it revealed granules of green. Looked innocuous enough. It was time. Braulio pounded the slopes of Cerro Rico, and then planted two sticks about 100 yards away. Soon after lighting them, he casually ambled back towards us. Five minutes he gave them.

Roars of fright and amazement as the first exploded shortly on three minutes. The noise was incredible. It was as though, the detonation triggered another explosion in your chest. Having recovered from the shock of the first blast, we were almost prepared for the second.

Braulio: Don’t try this at home!

This occurred within about thirty seconds of the first. Even knowing what was to come, shocked profanities and expletives were the order of the day, finally culminating in nervous laughter. Margaret’s rather vocal “Jeezus Christ!” in response to the explosion resonated with Glenn – who later dubbed JC to be Margaret’s new tour name. All in all, I’d say Braulio got a great kick out of it all. With our nerves on edge it was then time to journey further up Cerro Rico’s slopes for the tour of the mineshafts.

We arrived outside our shaft, to the look of several bemused Potosi miners. They did seem to be friendly enough. As Braulio and assistant equipped us with lamps, (some electric and others powered by a naked flame), some of them helped me out with adjusting mine, and others just gave grimy grins. At least that’s what I thought they were. It’s very difficult to gauge a smile from someone when they have a ball of coca threatening to burst from their cheek cavity. Our lamps lit, we entered the shaft. It wasn’t too bad initially. The mine was cool, the air was fine and you could stand up right. All was fine, until the light from the entrance finally disappeared and a terrible sense of foreboding enveloped us, as too did the dark. Shortly into the darkness and Braulio shouts from ahead to inform us that a mining cart is coming. This was to be a common occurrence. We were fortunate at the moment, as there was enough room for all of us to wait in an alcove, while the trolley passed. Apparently later on this may not be the case, and we may have to backtrack quickly in order that we don’t get crushed by miner’s pushing a mineral-laden cart hell-for-leather.

As we stopped in the first alcove, the miners pushing this particular trolley stopped. One of them was chatting to Braulio, and after a short-while it was revealed that he had been in the mine for a number of years. His younger brother had also been in the mines for a shorter length of time, but had died a few months ago from silicosis of the lungs. We were all taken a back by this revelation, which was imparted to Braulio with such matter-of-factness that it was obvious death due to the mines was a common and well accepted fact of life in Potosi.*

* In fact during the short tour of the market, Braulio had already informed us that he originally came from a mining family in Potosi. He and a brother were now two that survived a family of ten. All of who had been lost to the mines in one way or another. He and his brother were lucky and had escaped working in the mines. Braulio had gone to college and studied tourism. Regardless of the pain this guy’s gone through, he still conducts the tour with a cheery demeanour. It was now extremely difficult to begrudge the man for being so emotionless when hitting the dog in Uyuni. The average life-span of a Potosi miner is 40 years of age.

As we journeyed deeper into the mines, it became damper underfoot and substantially cooler. The initial generous ceilings were now encroaching on our heads, requiring us to bend down at regularly intervals for fear of knocking your lamp or worse. Eventually we came to a small alcove, where a bizarre looking statue had been erected. It was El Diablo, or simply the Devil in Spanish. The miners believe that if they respect the devil, then he will bring them good fortune in the mines. Apparently they take more credence from him down here, than they would from a few prayers in the church outside. They certainly had shown respect for Diablo, by giving the red-clay structure an impressive horned head and indeed a rather horny demeanour. The statue was complete with erect phallus. The local miners had adorned it an assortment of coloured confetti, coca leaves and alcohol. In keeping with tradition Braulio splashed the statue in the alcohol we had bought and threw some fresh coca leaves on the ground. It was almost like a bizarre rite of passage, in order that we gringos could journey safely, deeper into the mines. So much for the Catholic upbringing of myself and Margaret! What would our parents think if they could see us now – Devil worshipping in the bowels of the earth?

Further on, and to the worst part of our mine experience. The tunnel had virtually caved in on itself, and the only way forward was by crawling on your tummy through a crevice. This was very testing for my mild claustrophobia. Although, we only had to crawl for a short distance, the rocks seemed to bear down on me. To help me to get through it, I had to ensure that there was no one immediately in front of me. If I couldn’t see where I was going, then was no way I could have done it. But, Margaret and I both managed to do it. A fear conquered – a brief victory perhaps. Thankfully, the distance was short, and we were soon standing again in a wide cavern. Once everyone was through, Braulio gave us a few more facts on the life of the Potosi miner. For one the wages. Like anywhere in the world, your experience determines your salary. For the miner coming in at the grass roots level, he can

Cerro Rico: Red Hill Mining Town

expect to earn 7 Bolivianos per day. That’s $1 USD, $1.50 AUD, or 80 pence. All this, for a staggering ten to twelve hours manually intensive work in these cramped and ill-equipped conditions. Someone with more experience (with explosives for instance) may earn anywhere between 20 Bolivanos or 50 Bolivanos per day. Still a pittance by our standards.

Leaving the cavern we continued to head down a reasonably sized tunnel, stopping only occasionally for miner carts. At one point we came upon a set of miners, who were busily loading some bags attached to an unseen pulley, and some others loading a trolley. It looked extremely hard work, and more so when four slightly built miners struggled to get a trolley back onto the tracks. They seemed unfazed, and their cheeks swelled from the balls of coca in their mouths. Leaving this section we descended deeper and into more stifling conditions. The air suddenly became stale bordering on putrid as the tin oxide dust become increasingly pervasive. It was at this point, I’d had quite enough of the tour, and I was particularly concerned when Braulio suddenly directed all of us to start filing down this apparent hole in the tunnel floor.

Ostensibly what was a hole, was a makeshift set of stairs to a small cavern, where a lone miner now sat tapping away at the sloping rock before him. His name was Griego and he was around 50 years of age. A highly experienced miner and one that had ignored the mortality average. He was busily punching a hole into the rock, in order to place a stick of dynamite into it. Braulio gave us a visual demonstration of where the dynamite might go, by handling the stick and placing it near the surface of the stone where Griego worked. This was fine for the most of us, but Helen Shelton had noticed that the naked flame from Braulio’s lamp was awfully close to the fuse of the dynamite. Despite not having noticed this, the rest of us were all anxiously filing out of the stifling hole after Helen, as soon as Braulio had finished his spiel. We left some of our gifts behind.

That last hole come cavern was the turning point in our tour, and to our immense gratitude we were making our way back to the surface. Although I knew we were heading out, the air had become noticeably fresher and cooler, it seemed an eternity before the light of the entrance revealed itself. I ran the last few metres. It was a great feeling to be out in the open after having our senses deprived for but a mere ninety minutes. We only really caught a glimpse of the hardships faced by the miners of Potosi, but it was enough to understand why a cocktail of cocaine, nicotine, alcohol and caffeine were needed just to keep them going. We are indeed a lucky people.

Our tour was finished by mid-afternoon, and so after returning all our mining equipment we rejoined the rest of the group for lunch. Having an afternoon to ourselves Margaret and I elected to catch up on email in one of the local Internet Cafes. It was excruciatingly slow. So slow, was it accessing the internet that both Margaret and I both gave up in frustration. As we left the café, Margaret told the proprietor that the access was extremely poor and that she never intended on returning. Her disgusted outburst was extremely amusing, considering we were leaving Potosi the following morning. As evening approached, Margaret and I wandered into the local market, just around the corner from the colonial-style Mint. It was a huge indoor flea market, and it was extremely interesting. Aside from the usual stalls selling traditional Bolivian items, there were about ten benches lined in a row, each one being a different café. As we passed, the local owner would wave us over to buy a meal. It was very funny. All we could do was put our hands to our stomach and feign being full. But the most odd thing we saw was in the butcher stalls. Nothing goes to waste in Bolivia, for they had horses heads on sale. Complete with muzzle, and bloodied rearing teeth. They were very macabre, but strangely curious to look at. The God Father could have had a field day here. On enquiring of the stall owner what they actually were, he said “Vaja” which means cow in Spanish. It’s quite possible they were cows-heads, but with the way the lips had been removed revealing the teeth, it reminded me of an unfortunate Mr Ed.

With our appetites renewed, we rejoined the group for a meal that evening in a restored woollen-mill. It was really quite fashionable, and the least we had expected in a third world town like Potosi. Dinner was average, but the setting amidst old looms, and other mill paraphernalia made it a worthwhile experience. The evening concluded, for Margaret and I, when we returned to the hotel, while the majority of the group decided to kick on at one of the local bars. The day had literally been a blast.