The Mountain That Eats Men

Our guide, Ronald Fuertes, was an ex-miner. A local from the city of Potosi, he had been one of the lucky ones who had escaped his previous job to work in the tourism industry. During a visit to the miners market earlier, he had explained how we as tourists play an important role in supporting the workers by bringing them small gifts of coca leaves, dynamite and fizzy drinks. Chewing coca leaves helps suppress the appetite, fizzy drinks provide energy for the 12 hour shifts.
As we stood at the mine entrance, the two metal cart rails unfurled before us like a tongue, waiting to swallow us up. It was pitch black inside with only headlamps to guide us, and our ears rung with the high-pitch hissing of the hydraulic pipes. We ducked under ancient ceiling supports that had crumbled or snapped in half, and had to run at the thunderous approach of speeding mine-carts. We skirted bottomless black holes and climbed ramshackle wooden stairs, while Ronald explained how not much has changed in the last 450 years. The equipment is old, and while some drills and mechanical winches exist, most miners still use picks, shovels and dynamite. The conditions are so desperate; the miners even worship the devil (or ‘Tio’), despite being devout Catholics. Each mine has its own Tio; an unnerving figure with horns and bulging eyes that is showered with gifts to prevent the loss of miner’s lives.
As we descended on our hands and knees the temperature started to increase, reaching 35°C. The gasses became worse, and despite the makeshift face mask I was wearing, I could taste the arsenic and sulphur in the air. Aside from tunnel collapses, silicosis is the next biggest killer in the mountain, ensuring most miners won’t live past 40. We came across a young boy sleeping on a pyramid of rubble; just one of many children working here Ronald told us. Usually when the father dies his sons have to follow in his footsteps. Sad proof of the local saying; ‘we eat the mountain and the mountain eats us’.