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.

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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: