The depths of height 2
A trip to Potosi wouldn’t be complete without a tour of the mines that made this place both a source of fortune and a source of death for millions of people over the centuries right up until the present day. While Em was content to come along and see what happened outside, I plucked up the courage to enter the mountainside and experience the truly horrific working conditions that have barely changed since the first traces of the mountain’s vast riches were discoveredin the 1500’s.
With acetylene lamps prepared (present day alchemy in practice) and face masks fixed, I, along with six others, stood for a final few moments in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the small stone huts that marked the entrance to the Rosario co-operative mine. A small gauge track ran from the dark mouth of the horizontal shaft, and even before we entered the tunnel a rumbling noise announced the arrival of the latest one ton wagon being pushed out by a couple of miners.
Stepping back quickly to get out of the way, they sailed from the dark depths into the daylight, smiles of satisfaction (or was it relief?) across their blackened faces as they put their feet to the ground and brought the wagon to a halt before tipping its contents down the mountainside towards the filtration shed.
A quick glance into the throat of the shaft and then we were in with barely room for two people side by side, hemmed in by walls of stone dating back from Colonial days. We had to move very quickly over the first 100 metres since if a wagon came down the track there’d be no room to avoid it and we would simply be crushed against the sides of the shaft. But moving quickly at over 14,000 feet isn’t easy, coupled with 8 inches of gooey mud disguising the rail tracks and a lowering ceiling that in places was less than five feet high.
But our group made it to a small alcove where we had a chance to stand to one side and watch the next wagon whizzing past on its way to daylight, with two miners heaving hard to get out of this hell hole. We pushed on again, and while the floor dried up the ceiling continued to encroach from time to time, making it necessary to stoop for metres on end while all the time the air was a rancid mixture of dust, poison and stale heat stifling all attempts to breathe.
Gradually we lost the colonial shaft walls as we entered deeper into the Cerro Ricco (Rich Mountain). From time to time we’d hear a shout ahead or from behind us, or see a flickering light appear; this would be a cue to get in to the side of the shaft as quickly as possible, turning feet sideways to the tracks as one ton of the earth’s bowels roared only three or four inches from the tips of the boots we’d been given (no hard caps round here!). There was a real possibility of these wagons de-railing and three or four did just that in front of us. At these times, and in the most stifling of conditions, four or five miners would gather around the wagon, chant “Tres, Dos, Uno” and then heave it back onto the rails, before regaining the momentum and heading for outside.
After around 25 minutes hard slog and with the fumes of the acetylene headlamps merely providing the icing on the noxious cake we were breathing we came to a junction and turned west. Soon afterwards there was a small branch track which ended up in a space no larger than a couple of telephone booths laid side by side. At one end was a shaft disappearing upwards, while in the middle was a mound of rubble around which four miners worked with shovels. A large empty bag came hurtling down the shaft with a thud and the miners began frantically filling it from the pile of rubble. Once filled a hook was attached and it swiftly disappeared upwards, to be replaced by another empty bag just in time for a wagon to come rolling into the telephone booth with a another ton of the mountain’s innards ready for despatch. The toil and effort would be astounding in any environment, but here, with the vile air, the cloaking gloom and the suffocating heat of exertion bearing heavy on those present – well, I was beginning to suffer.
Not wanting to disrupt the ‘enjoyment’ of the others on our trip, I tried to hang out for a while longer. We retraced our steps from the despatch area and then had to climb steeply up a 25 foot headwall to an even smaller alcove above the tracks. This was where the miners had their rest periods, and the seven of us plus guide managed to find rocky perches in this sardine can of a hell hole while we were joined by three or four of them, ruddy cheeks and soiled teeth showing the effects of their lives in the house of Mestapholes.
We passed drinks around that we’d brought for them along with ‘gifts’ of dynamite sticks, TNT and coca leaves galore, not forgetting the harsh black tobacco cigarettes they preferred. Names, occupations and ages were traded between strangers – one lad was only 15 and expected to live for another 15 years before the cynanide and sillicon dust killed him off. In that time he would hope to be lucky, hit a vein of silver or other precious metal and savour the daylight that his riches would bring him. Unlikely though – the mountain is pretty much exhausted now of anything that would make a man rich, and the miners earn around 15GBP per week for their 11-12 hour shifts.
The heat of the place, the fumes, the dust, the smoke, the darkness, the altitude – it got to me eventually, and rather than be carried out unconcious I swallowed my pride and asked for the exit door. Not before I almost fainted though. My head was spinning, my fingers numb, eyes smarting and knees trembling as I half slid, half fell from the miners refectory back on to the track, just in time to see yet another wagon of the earth’s guts come heading towards me. I missed that one more by chance than skill and the next few minutes I can’t really remember.
I do remember the guide asking me what time it was (which I found funny), and then crashing out in a small layby next to an icon of Challa, the spirit that the miners regularly worship for their own well being. I remember the guide clutching a small bottle of the 97% proof alcohol supped in these places and rubbing it over my shoulders and neck, her hands rough but calming as I felt the earth beneath me begin to melt. And then I remember bits of the next 25 minutes as she led me out, I clutching her hand, ducking and stooping, bouncing off walls, tripping over tracks, melding myself to the shaft walls as yet another wagon hurtled past, praying for the daylight that would signal the end of this body-wracking experience. It didn’t seem to come for a very long time.
And then, suddenly, there it was. Outside at last, gasping for air, the world swimming around me, noises distant and unclear, my head pounded to breaking point, my throat full of crushed glass, my feet detached from my body, floating, drifting……..
And there was Em. Sat beside me, rubbing my neck, talking to me, giving me water, chocolate, comfort, security.
I’d been in the mines for about 90 minutes. Many people retreat after only 10 minutes. I’m pleased I did it, but would I do it again? No thanks!
Tags: Bolivia at last!
mihai