Surprise

The boys have gone back to The States and I am on my own again. Over the past three weeks, we hauled it all over Colombia, never staying in one place more than two or three nights. Now that I am on my own, I plan to find a slice of tranquility and plop my belongings down for a while. After nearly eight months of travel, I am starting to tire of packing and unpacking.

Mompox, a Unesco world heritage site, is the small and remote colonial town that I choose. Below you can find pictures of this too-cute town and its precious cemetery. Beyond the pictures, this post will not be about Mompox itself, rather an incident that occurred on the way to Mompox.

The bus from Cartagena to Mompox is supposed to take eight hours, though the distance is just over two hundred KM. At this stage in the game, an eight hour bus ride is not a twelve or eighteen hour ride, so how bad could it be?

I wake as the sun is raising and make my way to the bus station where I purchase a direct ticket. Ahh, direct… love the direct busses. Taking a seat on the bus, I am comforted that though it is a long journey, at least it should be relatively painless.

I fall asleep almost at once, dosing in and out as the bus winds its way over bumpy twisting mountain roads. We stop after three hours and I jump off to pee. After attending to nature, I head to the gas station to purchase an empanada that clearly sat too long soaking up oil in the fryer. It is delicious. Then it is back on the bus.

Only an hour and a half later, I wake out of my post empanada coma to find that the bus is stopping. This is strange, usually they don’t stop this often. As it turns out, we are at a bus terminal in a town that I soon learn is called El Banco: a town that cannot be found on my Lonely Planet map of Colombia. I assume that we have just stopped to pick up a few more people. This assumption is killed on the spot as I watch every other passenger grabbing all possessions and getting off the bus.

In my broken Spanish, I ask a woman passing my seat if we need to change buses in order to continue on to Mompox. Instead of answering, she tells me to come with her. This is somewhat typical, no one wants to explain, they just want you to follow. I too grab my bags and exit the bus after my fellow passengers. Once off the bus, I am told that the bus will go no further. I am able to understand that there has been massive flooding and the road to Mompox is underwater. If I want to continue, I am going to have to take a boat and then a taxi/back of a truck the rest of the way. No biggie, but I am not going to get ripped off. I calmly hand my bus ticket to the driver and inform him that I have paid full fair to get all the way to Mompox for that price. At my point, the woman who I followed off the bus indicates that she too has paid the full fair and expects the same. For some reason none of the other passengers are asking for a refund.

After some chatting, waiting and negotiating, the bus driver hands the woman beside me a wad of money. In a kindly hospitable way, the two of them have decided that she will take charge and make sure that both she and I arrive in Mompox for the amount of money the driver has refunded from our tickets. Now that I have a designated nanny, I decide to introduce myself. Josephine informs me that she is a nurse at the hospital in Mompox and she is happy to help me find my way there.

The bus driver points us down the road. Josephine and I walk for a few blocks until we reach a fish market. I do my best to make my way through the crowd with minimal fish slime contact. We arrive at a small dock with four river boats lined up side-by-side. A dock worker grabs my backpack off of me and loads it along with Josephine’s luggage atop the roof of the boat. With shaky steps and the overly enthusiastic assistance of several other dock workers, I take a bench seat on the boat.

Then the waiting game begins. Josephine informs me that we will have to wait until the boat fills with passengers. Unsure of how long that might take, I determine to take this opportunity to enjoy this random slice of life Colombia. We wait. I watch a fisherman throw catfish from the floorboards of his boat to the wooden platform of the dock. Many of the men are wearing mid streaked, knee high rubber boots. After about a half hour, three more passengers arrive and put their luggage on the boat. We keep waiting. I notice a fairly good looking young man at the end of the dock. His hair is gelled into spikes, surely the cool look that impresses the ladies. He is dressed in the ever-popular American Eagle shirt and slightly baggy jeans. My heart smiles as I notice that he is holding the hand of a little boy who can’t be much older than two years old. I assume this child is his little brother. I can’t help but think how nice it is that these two brothers spend so much time together. Furthermore, this young man must be more mature than he looks. Not many 18ish year olds would be caught spending so much time with a younger sibling when they could be out raising hell with friends.

My gaze drifts as four more passengers arrive. Josephine and I chat about the heat and I take note that I have sweated through my shirt. We keep waiting. I have donned a Zen attatude about the whole situation. Waiting and traveling go hand in hand.

We have sat at the dock for nearly two hours when we acquire the last two passengers required for departure. We all put our life jackets on. The bulky foam presses against the sweaty back of my neck and I am ready to get a little breeze off the water.

As the boat driver is untying the boat, the young man with the spiked hair kneels down on the dock beside us. His little brother sits down at his side. He begins to talk and all of my fellow boat passengers listen intently. My Spanish skills allow me to understand that he is named Jorje and he is indeed eighteen. I am proud of myself for my correct guess. He continues on, but I can no longer understand what he is saying. He lifts up his dark green t-shirt and I see that he has a large wad of newspaper stuck to his side about four inches from his belly button. The wad of newspaper is held in place by packing tape. Now this is strange, I lean forward a little trying to comprehend what is going on. Then with his left hand, he pulls at a piece of tape and the corner of the wad of newspaper. I can see the skin that it was concealing and there, right in the middle of the previously concealed area is a silver dollar sized, perfectly round hole.

“Oh shit,” I blurt out, as I notice slightly shinny, bubbly-pinkish- white matter oozing out the hole. My hands fly up to my mouth. Was that what I think it was? In a haze of shock, I realize that my fellow passengers are handing the man money. The newspaper has been returned to its prior position and his shirt lowered. Though I can no longer see the spot, the image is burned into my mind. There was no blood. The hole was cleanly made, likely by a surgeon. The most alarming thing of all was the bulbous glistening matter that appeared in that window through the abdomen. Josephine sees the shock and confusion on my face. She leans over and whispers,
“intestinos,” and then mutters something about how the man is very sick. I start to pull myself together. Okay, okay, I am digging in my purse. I can’t think straight. Before I can extract a bill, the boat is pulling away.

Further down the river, I have a moment to compose myself. I am ashamed at myself for my outburst and the look of disgust and surprise that the young man must have seen on my face. To top it off, I didn’t even pull myself together quickly enough to give him any money. Clearly he is deserving of a little charity.

This is not the first time I have come in contact with suffering and injury. On the scale of dead babies with oversized heads, paraplegics and lepers that I have come across in my travels (mostly in India), this wasn’t even that bad. But this is the first time that it has ever snuck up on me and caught me completely unaware. For the first time in eight months, I have been truly surprised.

My New Happy Place

The beaches at Tayrona National Park cannot be reached by road. Lane, Erik, Mick our new Ausi friend and I are dropped at the entrance. The path leads into the jungle. It is midday and the air is thick with humidity. I am sweating before we even set off. We have barely walked a minute when we spot a poisonous frog amid the foliage. It jumps away scared by our movement. We continue on down the path in single file. The sound of scurrying creatures echoes out from every tree root cranny. Each footfall meets a bed of squishy browning leaves. Leaf cutter aunts carve not just paths but hand-wide highways across the forest floor. We hike up, down, around and through the overwhelming density of life.

I find myself jumping from sandbag to sandbag in order to cross a river. We climb over giant grey rocks, their presence not allowing the growth of as much sky blocking plant life. Our first view of the beach stretches out before us. Soft yellow sand as far as the eye can see. The wind picks up and we comment to each other on the ferocity of the waves. Curling masses of water crash down against the beach. Signs warn that this first beach is dangerous. We must continue on. The sun strikes our skin leaving behind pinkening pigment. At least the wind evaporates a bit of sweat. We have passed the beach and find ourselves back in the jungle. This time it is not for long. We emerge again to find a tiny sandy bay with clusters of more rounded grey streaked boulders. I remember reading that the indigenous tribe that used to live in this area worshiped these rocks.

Back into the jungle. Two hours of hiking and we emerge to find a fully-fledged camp site. Tents spread out in every direction. A long house contains rows and rows of hammocks, where we will sleep. There is even a restaurant, a small convenient store and in true South American style a footbol field. This strange place will be our home for the next three days.

After ditching our stuff we head straight to the beach. The water is cool and refreshing against our skin. Sunlight streams through layers of water and reflects off small flecks of gold (actually mica) that float and swirl in the waves. Pelicans fly in V formation, their bodies skim the water’s surface. I wish I could stay here in this moment forever.

More Pics Of Tayrona:

Colombia's Desert Coast

Taganga is far from what I was expecting of a Caribbean Coastal town. The hills around the fishing village are desolate and covered in cactus and bushes with yellow flowers. The deep blue water contrasts with the dry brown landscape.

It is 5:45 and the sun is beginning to set. From my vantage point on the shore, I am in perfect position to watch the fishing boats return home for the day. The carved wooden boats are as weathered as the men who captain them. Deeply lined faces reveal toothless grins as they great each other on shore. Once their boats are properly tied, they retrieve plastic bags bulging with the bulbous bodies of their day’s catch.

A child walks by, with one hand grasping a large fish under the gills and the other holding a string leash loosely tied around a skipping puppy’s neck. The fish’s tail brushes the sandy beach as the child makes his way along.

The sun has gone below the horizon. It is time for me to make my way back to the hostel. Time for dinner. The dirt path leads up a hillside. I fallow a young man who carries a boat motor over his right shoulder.

Nicely done Colombia.

A Religious Experience

Medellin Colombia is much larger than I expected it to be. The city can’t be contained by the valley where it originated. Buildings have creeped their way up the sides of the surrounding hillsides. After an all-night bus ride, I am glad to be at the hostel. I decide to spend some time in the hammock instead of venturing out into the afternoon rain with Erik and Lane. We have plans for the following day and I intend to be well rested.

The next morning, we meet a friend of one of Erik’s friends who lives in Medellin. Adriana meets us on the steps of a museum that houses Fernando Botero’s artwork. With warm smiles, we introduce ourselves to Maria, who is in her early forties and works nearby. It is always fun to have a local show you around town and we are lucky enough to have Adriana as our tour guide for the morning. Our first stop is her work. We enter a shop where they will take any picture, scan it into a computer and then transfer the image to a coffee mug, mouse pad, t-shirt or well anything. Adriana explains that this is the first job she has ever had. She has worked there for 3 years. After the tour of her place of employment, we depart to ride the gondola up the side of the mountain to get a great view of the city. The ride gives us plenty of time to chat. Adriana is a single mom with two daughters who are 14 and 18. Her husband was killed four years prior. When I ask what happened to him, Adriana tells me that he was shot. Oh, I am so sorry. Was it an accident? She informs me that it was no accident, he was murdered. I decide not to press the subject further. On our way back down, we are met by Maria’s older daughter, Paulina. Adriana informs us that Paulina will show us around in the afternoon. Before taking her leave to return to work, Adriana makes us promise that we will come to her house for dinner that evening. We agree.

That afternoon Paulina shows us around the city and takes us to the aquarium. As the day comes to a close, we agree that the three gringos should go back to the hostel to buy bus tickets for the next morning and to shower before dinner. We plan to meet Paulina at the subway stop nearest her house at 7pm.

We arrive at the subway station to find that is a rather large stop. Rain is pouring from the sky. There are two entrances and after searching both twice, we cannot find Paulina. Luckily we have the families address written down. We decide to hop in a cab so that we are not wandering the streets of a strange neighborhood at night in the rain. I flag a taxi and ask him if he is familiar with the address written on the paper I hand him. He nods enthusiastically and assures me he is. We load in the back of the car. The driver proceeds to execute a five point turn in the middle of the road before we head off in the opposite direction. The windshield wipers of the car are working overtime as the driver speeds up to gain momentum as we drive straight up hill. The city blocks in this area of town look as though they were built on terraces with the houses clinging to the hillside. The steepness of the streets is comparable with those in San Francisco.

After a few moments it is clear that our driver does not know where we are going. We drive up a steep slope only to go careening down one parallel street one over. When the house is not found at the end of that street, the driver allows the car into reverse, he backs the car up ten feet up hill then floors the gas to build momentum for the next uphill section. The pavement is wet and slippery and the car only makes it half way up the next city block. Looking over his shoulder, he puts the car in neutral and releases the break. Gravity pulls us backwards at an alarming rate and I thrust my hand to the dashboard to brace myself. I turn to see where we are going and notice that the back window is entirely fogged over. Comforting. We hit the flat section of street and then roll backwards up the pervious hill. The car makes it almost to the top when the driver switches gears and we jerk into forward motion. This time as we descend, the driver floors the gas peddle. We fly. I feel like I am on a roller-coaster ride with the streets acting like a strange half pipe. This attempt is successful and we make it to the top of the next hill. However, we do not find the address. The driver releases the break and again we are rolling backwards. Once at the bottom, I hand the driver the paper again and ask him to call Maria’s house line for directions. This cab doesn’t have seatbelts and I am tiring of rolling down the hills backwards and seeing my life flash before my eyes. The driver complies and has a long chat with Adriana on his cell phone before putting the car back into first gear. After a few more minutes and at least three more half blind backward free falls we arrive. I am so glad to get out of the cab that I don’t even argue when he overcharges us.

Adriana and Paulina meet us at the door. I am hungry and excited for some traditional Colombian cooking. Upon entering, I am a bit confused. The apartment itself is very nice. It is painted a cheery yellow color, the sofa is modern and the hard wood floors are polished. The strange thing is that there are rows of plastic chairs lined up in the living room to face the kitchen. Furthermore, there are over a dozen people milling about the room, some have even seated themselves in the chairs. Lane, Erik and I are directed to sit on the couch and Paulina tells us that we will start in a moment. I look at Erik and Lane, we don’t know what to think. We are all unsure of what is going on. I look around and do not see a dinner table. I can see the stove and there is only one pot atop it. Aren’t we here for dinner? Not wanting to be rude, I introduce myself to a little girl and her mom who are sitting in the chairs nearest the couch. Paulina brings over pineapple juice for the three of us and we accept it gratefully.

For the next few minutes, we look around smiling and trying unsuccessfully not to look like clueless foreigners. Suddenly five more people make their way into the living room and take seats. The new arrivals great others in the room. Adriana stands up and positions herself between the living room and the kitchen. She is joined by another woman and a small boy. The room grows silent and all the seated guests turn their attention to her. The lights dim and it is the little boy who speaks first. His eyes are pinched tightly closed and his hands are clasped. I notice that everyone in the room has bowed their heads. I glance at Erik and Lane, we all bow our heads and clasp our hands. Maybe this is the pre-dinner prayer? The little boy’s words come more quickly, then Adriana starts praying over him, speaking a separate string of words. The other woman at the front of the room prays out loud as well. Before we know it, the whole room is praying separately with eyes closed. We sit and listen, trying to remain as respectful as possible. I can understand a few of the words, but the speed and number of people speaking is too much for my limited Spanish skills. Suddenly the room grows quite and contemporary Spanish Christian music is turned on over a stereo system. The lights go back up. I allow my eyelids to part the smallest amount so that I can see what is going on. The whole crowd begins to sway and hold their hands palm up in the air. We, the three gringos, determine that it is appropriate to open our eyes and we also sway along. I would not call myself a very religious person, but I am enjoying watching the events unfold. After the music, there are more prayers. Then Adriana reads a passage from the bible and gives a short talk. After the talk, she asks if anyone has questions. Several people do, though I can’t understand what they are asking. After all questions are answered, Adriana says a prayer for each person in the room. She gestures at each guest in turn. When she gets to us, she prays that we travel safely and that we find God wherever we go. More music, more collective praying and then the lights snap on and Paulina arrives with a tray full of cups of coffee. It has been an hour and a half since we entered the apartment and I am now fairly sure that Adriana is a neighborhood preacher. I am not sure however, if we will be eating dinner.

Now that the service is over, several of the guests leave. However, it looks like most are inclined to stay to talk with the three gringos. Our attendance at the prayer session has somehow removed reservations about us. All shyness has gone out the window. Before we know it, we are treated like members of the family. A little girl introduces me to her stuffed dog while another one strokes my hair and asks if it is always so straight. Paulina flirts with Lane and a little boy climbs all over Erik. The CD in the sound system is switched and we are listening to reggae tone. Grandma decides to come out of her room to see what’s going on. Then the dancing begins. The little kids go first followed by Paulina and her younger sister who manage to convince Lane to join in. I am enjoying the opportunity to practice my Spanish with the remaining guests. We enjoy ourselves so much that I lose track of time, until Paulina pulls the three of us aside and makes us sit down in front of arapas piled high with barbeque chicken, mozzarella and avocado. We feel strange because we are the only people eating, but Paulina assures us that everyone else has eaten and that we should go ahead. Not wanting to offend anyone, we dig in. The food is delicious. It is after we have eaten that Paulina takes orders for the rest of the room. We feel guilty that we were fed first, but there was no way we could have refused the food without offence. The night flies by and before I know it it is 11:30pm and time to make our way back to the hostel.

I had very different expectations about how the night would go, but Adriana and her family have reminded me once again that going with the flow and allowing the moment to take whatever form it desires tends to work out. I will forever remember my religious experience in Medellin Colombia and the warmth of Adriana’s beautiful family.

Reunion In Bogota

It only took me all night and most of the day to make it to Bogota Colombia from Santa Cruz Bolivia. Erik (my little brother) was waiting at the hostel. He too had flown all night from Colorado. Haggard and exhausted, we drank a celebratory beer. Both of us excited for the two weeks ahead: the first time we have ever traveled together without mom and dad. Should be interesting...

After a refreshing night sleep (as refreshing a sleep as one can have on a Friday night in a large hostel) we set out to explore the city and meet up with Erik's friend Lane who flew in on a different flight.

The first thing I noticed about Bogota was the abundance of street art. Vibrant colors and slightly twisted imagery decorate brick walls.

The architecture in the central plaza offered a perfect backdrop for practicing Ninja moves.

Erik and Lane could not help themselves but look at and chat with all of the beautiful Colombian woman. Colombia is said to have the most beautiful woman in South America. If it were not for the distraction of betting on which bowl a guinea pig would crawl into, I might not have been able to pull them away from their broken-Spanish wooing attempts.

On of my favorite sites in Bogota was this Church that was painted in White and Red stripes. It reminded me of the peppermint castle in Candy Land.

Though the city has quite a wide selection of restaurants and food stalls, the best meal we had was at the bus station. The rotisserie chicken is juicy and delicious. Even better, it comes with plastic gloves so that you can devour it with your hands guilt free.

Where is a machete when you need one?

“After you swim in the waterfalls, you must do the hike to Pelermo. All you have to do is walk up the side of the mountain and once on top, you can’t miss the trail to Palermo. You can see the road the whole time.” The Finish man explains with excitement. “The views are just amazing” This sounds like a great plan to me and my new English friends Angie and John. We decide to set out after breakfast the following morning.

A half hour taxi ride lands us in Cuevas, a quaint little town that is home to three tranquil and beautiful waterfalls. It’s a beautiful day and butterflies twirl around my feet as we make our way down the winding path. After a nice swim we decide that we should indeed try the hike that the Finish man recommended. We even think we have located the trail. My heart thuds in my chest as we climb strait up hill. The sun is hot on the back of my neck and within a few minutes, the cool swim under the falls is a distant memory. As we climb, a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains stretches out before us. After much huffing and puffing, we find ourselves at the top of the mountain with an amazing 360 degree view of the surroundings.

“So this is where the way to Palermo should be obvious” John says as we eat the croissants that we brought along. As far as I can tell, there is no path that indicates where a hiker should continue. But as promised, we can see the road and a town below. That must be Palermo right? We decide that continuing down the other side of the mountain will be our best chance at not getting lost, the road will be visible the whole time.

Making sure to walk in zigzags on our way down the other side of the mountain, we head in the direction of the road. About a half hour into our decent, we notice that the terrain is getting quite a bit steeper. Actually, parts of the side of the mountain fall away in sheer rock face. But it’s okay, we negotiate our way around those parts to manageable grade. It is at this point that we start asking ourselves if we should have just returned to the waterfalls along the path that we originally came up.

“Ahhh.” I hear Angie cry from behind me. “I just got bit by something. I heard a hiss.” Please don’t let it be a snake, I think to myself. I look up the mountain behind me. Angie is crouching down and clutching at her ankle. Not a snake, not a snake, I chant to myself as I make my way back up to check on her. When I reach her, both she and John are sitting down to have a proper look at her ankle. There is a good sized puncture wound and the area around it is swollen. But I can’t see two points of entry that are typical of fang marks. John and I convince Angie that we need to keep moving. If she did get bit by something poisonous, we are going to have a really hard time getting her down the mountain. We need to move now. We descend another twenty minutes and Angie is feeling better. It doesn’t appear to be a poisonous snake bite and I am thankful for it as we have taken to scooting down the steepest parts of the mountain on our asses.

We are near the bottom now and can see several farmers working in their corn fields. They wave at us. Only about 200 meters to go, I figure. But then comes the jungle. There is no turning back now, we will just have to continue on. I lead the way into the enveloping bushes and trees. Immediately, my hopes of a path or an easy route through are squandered. We are going to have to fight for the last 200 meters. Little do I know what a fight it will be. There are branches, branches and more branches. The branches have vines growing between them. The vines have prickers on them. I use both hands/arms to hold aside foliage long enough to step through. I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. All we can do is keep moving downhill. With every step, splinters penetrate our skin, branches lash against us, but we are making progress.

“I think we went the wrong way.” I joke. I move forward, still in the lead. I manage to push aside a very thick clump of branches only to find that I am dangling over a five foot drop into nothingness. I am already stuck with no option at return.

“Guys, I don’t know about this one, it’s really steep. If you can go another way.” I yell behind me. I take a deep breath and cling to the branches as I lower myself down the drop off. Once I release my arms, I am happy to find that my feet hit ground, not for long. I am sliding. It turns out that I have landed on wet grass that doesn’t hold me. Swoosh, water soaks the back side of my clothes. I slide along for several feet until thankfully I am saved by, you guessed it, more branches. Having been unable to find an alternative path, Angie and John slide down behind me. We are all sweating profusely. Their arms and faces are scratched, twigs are stuck in their hair. I know I can’t look that much better. Finally, we locate a gap (about two feet of space where we can look out) from the foliage. The farmers in the fields wave at us. We wave back. They gesture that we should go to the left. We quickly agree to take their advice. Back in we go. At this point I am vowing to purchase a machete for all future hiking. We continue to rip out way though the vegetation.

“Hey, we did it. There’s a corn field ahead. We made it!”

“Yeahh” John and Angie call out behind me. The last ten feet through the jungle are the least graceful of all. We plow ahead as though we have not seen civilization in months. Finally through the corn field, we pass the farmers as we make our way to the road. They are all laughing at us. We laugh too. The giggling continues, relief making us giddy. Once on the road, we are able to flag down a passing local bus. As we board, I can feel every eye watching us. I can hear the thoughts of our fellow passengers. Who are these crazy gringos disheveled, covered in mud, bleeding but laughing.

My new friends at the base of the mountain we just stumbled down.

The Underworld

Quick background: Potosi Bolivia is the world’s highest city (according to Lonely Planet) at 12,210 ft above sea level. This city was once the largest and wealthiest in South America due to the silver found in the surrounding mountains. From 1545 to the 1800s the Spanish got almost all the silver used to make coins from Potosi. Now there is no silver left, but tin and other minerals are still found in the mines. The remaining minerals make continued mining profitable.

______________________________________________

My stomach swims inside me. For the last 15 days or so, I have been weighing the risks trying to decide if the Potosi Mine tour is for me. I am not huge on confined spaces and reminiscence of the news reports of the trapped Chilean miners plays on a loop in my mind. The guide book warns of falling rock, confined spaces and generally hellish conditions. However, the travelers I have bumped into along the way have spoken highly of the experience. So, in the spirit of seizing the moment, I sign up.

After breakfast, I join my fellow travelers in the back-most courtyard of our hostel. We are greeted by our two guides. Both are former miners and speak English relatively well. One by one, we are dressed in rubber boots, water proof pants and jacket. One of the guides fastens a belt holding a battery pack attached by a cord to the helmet-mounted head lamp. As he tightens the belt into place, he says.

“Barbie, I will take care of you. Don’t worry.” He smiles at me, several of his front teeth are missing. He must be able to see the fear in my eyes.

“Thank you so much. I need to be taken care of.” I tell him. I am not offended at being called Barbie, it’s not the first time it has happened in South America. There are nine tourists and two guides in our group. We board a mini-bus and off we go.

Our first stop is the miner’s market. Our guides lead us into a shop (more a cubby hole than an actual shop) that sells dynamite. All eleven of us cram in. Our guide holds up a stick of dynamite. He informs us that dynamite is illegal in most of Bolivia, but for 20 Bolivianos (less than $3) we can buy some as a gift for the miners. He casually tosses the stick of dynamite at me. I am shocked, but luckily pull myself together quickly enough to catch it. He tosses a stick to each of my fellow travelers. I flinch each time the explosive flies through the air. “No, it is no problem look” The guide grabs a stick of dynamite puts one end in his mouth and pulls a lighter out of his pocket. Striking the lighter he holds the flame against the other end of the explosive, as though the dynamite is a cigar he is trying to light. A few seconds later he removes the flame and puts the lighter away.

“See, it’s safe.” After that display and a few minutes of handling the dynamite, the fear wears off. Why not take a picture with it in my mouth? We all purchasing explosives and we stroll down the road to another shop. Our guide pulls out a large white bottle of liquid.

“This is very good alcohol. Very strong. 96%” He points to the label where the content of alcohol is indicated. He unscrews the red cap and pours liquid into it. “Before we drink, we always give some to the earth so that we are safe in the mines.” He tips the red bottle cap and lets a few drops of liquid fall to the ground. Then he lifts the cap to his lips and takes down the remaining liquid. His face morphs into a look of agony. He coughs and sputters but recovers. He pours another capful of liquid and hands it to one of the German men. He pours a bit to the ground and downs the rest, the three Irish tourists take their turn. Like good Irish men, they each take two capfuls. The Japanese girl standing next to me takes a shot and then it is my turn. I can’t be the only one who doesn’t participate. I want luck on my side today. My offering to the earth is slightly larger than anyone else’s. I dump at least half of the capful to the ground. I curse inside my head and down the remainder. My mouth makes an involuntarily croaking sound and for a moment I am sure I am going to vomit. I shudder a bit and quickly hand back the capful so that it can be passed to the next person. My throat burns. Now that we have each taken a shot, we purchase coca leaves, work gloves, juice and bottles of the liquor to bring into the mines; more gifts for the miners.

Back in the bus, I can all feel the alcohol irritating the lining of my stomachs. We joke that the shot must be the most dangerous part of the day. Little do we know. A few minutes later and we are at the mines. As I pear at the mine shaft, I am sure that we will go through another access point. This one looks far too small. But I am wrong. We switch on our head lamps and in a single file, walk into the darkness. Only a few paces in and we are ushered into an enclave off the main shaft. A statue sits in darkness until it is illuminated by our headlamps.

“This is the devil.” The guide explains. “We are closer to him than to heaven, so we must make gifts before we go into the mines.” It is clear that all the miners take their offerings to this statue very seriously. The statue is covered in coca leaves. Bottles of liquor and juice surround the figure as well. One by one, we each poor a bit of the alcohol we have purchased over the statue.

Having made peace with the devil, we continue on. We fallow cart tracks (used to move rocks in and out of the mine). The ground is wet and my water proof boots slosh through the mud as we move quickly along at a crouch. The shaft is supported by beams of wood. Running along the ceiling is a network of rubber tubes that carry air used to operate the various machinery used in dislodging rock. The air grows staler with every step. My headlight illuminates dust that floats weightlessly in the surrounding blackness. I survey the rock around me. I am in a geologist’s wonderland. Streaks of blue, green crystals, shining silver formations, orange stalactites and wool -like asbestos line the wall. Water drips from above.

“What is this?” I ask the guide, pointing to orange drips.

“Oh, that’s arsenic.” His tone is easy. “You can touch it. Just do not get it in your mouth.” Fabulous, I can feel arsenic running down the back of my neck.

After about 10 minutes of fast crouched walking, we encounter several miners working with a wheelbarrow and shovels. The men all have sweat dripping down their faces. Each holds a golf ball sized wad of coca leaves in their cheek. Coca is chewed my many Bolivians. They believe it holds many medicinal purposes, one of which is that it helps with altitude sickness.

“Quickly," the guide says. "You have juice.” I remove the bottle of juice from the burlap bag that was provided for me to take into the mines. I hand it to a miner who smiles a toothless grin and nods in thanks.

“Quickly, we must go.” We continue on at a fast pace following the tracks. A few minutes later the guides pull us off into a crevice off the main track. “We wait for the carts.” After a moment in silence, three miners come rushing buy pushing a rusted metal cart that is overflowing with rocks. After they pass, we continue on. I start to realize that our fast pace is required so that we can clear the tracks and allow the carts to move past.

“Okay, this way.” Our guide gestures toward a portion of the wall comprised of loose rock. I don’t understand, where are we supposed to go? As I move closer, I can see that the 45 degree angle of loose rock leads to a small hole about five feet above where I stand. The guide begins to climb, rock displaced with every footfall. He lays his body flat and using his elbows and knees to slithers through the opening. My fellow tourists and I look at each other. The same question is on all of our lips; are we really about to do this? One of the Irish kids takes an audible breath. In a quick motion, he runs up the slope of rocks, then presses his body to the ground and disappears through the opening. After a few others go ahead, it is my turn. The ground moves below my feet. I use my hands to steady myself and notice that the rock is wet to the touch. Once up the slope, I press the front of my body against the loose rock and use my elbows to pull myself along. Ahead, my headlamp illuminates a slightly larger cavity that continues to bend upward. The rock is more stable here; larger pieces and easier to climb. As I use hands and feet to propel my way upward. I hear the guide yell at me.

“That rock, that big one there. Don’t touch it. If you touch it the ceiling will fall.” I am glad he told me, as the rock that stretches from ceiling to ground looks like a great hand hold. Instead, I rely on smaller rocks along the wall to pull myself up. Finally I arrive in a cavern that is not much bigger than my bathroom at home. The tourists who have gone before me are nestled into a corner. I join them and wait for the rest of our group to arrive. Eleven of us are crammed into this tiny space. The air is hot and thick with dust. I know we are all sweating under our water proof clothing. I try not to focus on the cramped space and avoid thinking about how little oxygen is able to reach this area. I can feel the beginning of a panic attach clenching at my lungs. I am just thinking of the Xanex in my pocket that I brought for just such an occasion when I hear the guide’s words.

“No one put your hands in your mouth. Do not touch anything that will go in your mouth. Your hands are covered in arsenic.” Well, there goes the Xanex plan. I try to steady my breath and focus on what the guide is telling us rather than the overwhelming claustrophobia.

“So the miners are in here for ten or twelve hours a day and they do not eat. But they need to chew coca leaves. It keeps away the hunger. Does anyone know what they do to clean the arsenic from their hands so that they can put more leaves in their mouths?”

“Water” The German girl volunteers.

“What about the alcohol?” I ask, thinking that the 96% alcohol would make a good cleaning agent. The guide shakes his head at both guesses.

“Urine” the English man volunteers. The guide nods. “They pee on their hands and go like this.” He scrubs his hands together in a washing motion. “Pee is a really good way to clean off the arsenic. Then they can eat more coca leaves. Does anyone have any more questions?” He looks at us expectantly.

“How many people a year die in the mines?” The English man asks.

“Last year, only 33. Most of them were children.”

“Do a lot of children work here?” I ask.

“Oh yes. At age 12 they can work here. Children and adults get paid the same. 80 Bolivianos a day (about $11.25). It is really good pay. The miners make the same in one week as people in other jobs make in a month.”

A shout comes from a crack in the rock below. I had not noticed a small opening to one side of the chamber.

“They are ready for us. We go.” The guide says. He sticks his feet through the opening and turns onto his stomach. “Like this.” He slides through the hole feet first. In a moment he is gone. One-by-one we slide on our stomachs through the hole, further under ground. Once through, we meet more workers, I give the protective work gloves I purchased earlier to a boy who doesn’t look much older than 13 or 14. He takes them appreciatively, breaking through the plastic and pulling them on his bare hands. After two hours of scrambling, ducking, climbing and generally being scared out of my mind we move toward the exit. I can feel the cool air from a distance. When I see the slightest glimpse of daylight ahead of me, I breathe a sigh of relief. Muddy, sweaty and tired I emerge into daylight. I don’t think I have ever appreciated sunshine more.

Other pics from the mines: