After a 2 night monster bus trip from Huaraz, Peru to La Paz in Bolivia, we stopped for a day of rest to send some packages, eat ice cream and drink beer. From there, we were back onto another night bus en route to Potosi. Potosi is historically one of the most important cities in Post-Colombian South America. It is one of the world’s highest cities, and was established by the Spanish in 1546, to access the incredible mineral wealth of the adjacent Cerro Rico (rich mountain). Cerro Rico was the main source of silver that funded Spain’s empire, and Potosi quickly grew to be one of the biggest and richest cities in the world, with a mint, mines and streets paved in silver. The symbol of the Potosi mint is even thought to be a possible origin of the $ symbol.
The mining came at a cost: a huge amount of slave labour was used in the mine, and an estimated 8 – 12 million deaths occurred as a result of mining activities at Potosi, from a mixture of exposure, cave ins, silicosis and mercury and arsenic poisoning. Mining continues today, although the mining is run by co-operatives. More on this later.
Our first taste of Potosi’s history was at the old mint, now a museum. The museum minted coins which were then transported back to Spain to fund their entire empire. A lot of the old infrastructure is still in place, and it was really cool to see the similarities and differences in the equipment as it changed from mule powered, to steam and finally to electric. The museum also had one of the best rock collections we’ve ever seen. Bron was right in her element, but even I was enthralled by the diversity and quality of the collection, made from all parts of the world.
The next day, we hit the main event: the Potosi mine tour. Originally, we’d been unsure whether this was something that we actually wanted to do. Were we likely to be killed or exposed to dangerous chemicals? Was this an ethical thing to do? Were we empowering miners to do significant harm to themselves (anecdotally, the average life expectancy of mine workers is around 40, versus 66 for Bolivia)? Ultimately, we decided it was probably safe enough for a few hours, and that given both Bron and I work a lot in the mining industry at home, seeing how bad this industry could be would be valuable life experience.
First stop was the miners market, to buy gifts for the miners we were going to visit. There was Bron, an Englishman called Malcolm and myself on the tour, and we each bought 2 big bottles of juice and a big bag of coca leaves. Additionally, we picked up a couple of 500mL bottles of 96% drinking alcohol and the biggie: for $2, you could buy a stick of dynamite, a detonator cap, ammonium nitrate and fuse wire. Between us, we bought 2 kits. As a funny aside, the President was visiting Potosi later that day, and the miners were all heading down and throwing bits of dynamite in his direction as fairly loud fireworks. From the market, we headed to check out one the several refineries outside (and in a few cases inside) the town. Suffice to say, these probably wouldn’t get environmental approval to be constructed in Australia.
From here, we headed to the mountain, and met a couple of teams of miners. The miners ranged in age from 15 to maybe 50 (although you age pretty quick in there, so that’s a very rough guess). Before the miners head in each day, they drink some of the horrifically strong drinking alcohol, mixed with juice or water, and chew coca leaves, while having the only meal they will eat on their shift of up to 24 hours. Once in the mine, the presence of arsenic means that food is a no-no. We got chatting with the miners, and one of the guys invited us to a cock fight at his place the next day. We thanked him for the offer, but suggested we probably wouldn’t be able to make it. After leaving a few gifts of coca leaves and gloves, we headed on into hell.
And hell it was. Incredibly cramped, I’d have been lucky to get away without concussion if I hadn’t been wearing my helmet. For a good part of the mine, I was bent over double, listening for the shout that informed us that some guys were coming pushing a trolley of ore. That’s two guys, plus one guy steering, pushing a cart that weighs 250kg empty, plus maybe 750kg of ore. Pushing it a few hundred metres, on rickety old tracks. Below a roof often less than 4 feet high. Moving a minimum of 20 tonnes of ore per day. With virtually no water. The two gifts most valued are juice and coca leaves (which supresses fatigue, hunger and thirst). Malcolm and I tried pushing a full cart for maybe half a run. It’s harder than it sounds. These guys have jobs that are harder than all other things.
To get to the current workings areas for this team, we had to scramble up a steep scree gap in the rock, with a 3 metre drop off under the beams we were using for leverage. These guys were pulling pneumatic drills, dynamite and construction materials up, and then dumping ore back down. With the exception of the pneumatic drill and dynamite (and in some places, electric winches to lift up ore: if no electricity is available at that point, the ore’s moved up by the good old fashioned arm-strong method) everything is done by hand. Shovelling the ore into wheel barrows, dumping, re-shovelling the ore into carts, sorting, moving the material, it’s all done by hand. In cramped, dusty conditions. Shitty work my friends. Shitty work indeed.
After heading around the mines for a couple of hours, leaving gifts for our hard-working miners, our guide detonated some dynamite for us. He’d previously worked as a blaster in the mines to pay his way through university (and still moonlights as a shot-firer pretty regularly), so I guess he was as qualified as anyone gets down here, which is to say that someone showed him how to do it, and he did it and survived. The fuse had a burn time of about a minute. We didn’t know how loud it would be, or exactly when it would go off, and it was pretty nerve-racking waiting. When it finally went off, it was loud. And that was only 1 stick: for a normal blasting, 8 is typical.
Our last site was a shrine to Tio: the devil-like god of the under-ground, the Quechua’s male counterpart to Pacha Mamma (mother earth). Tio sat resplendent on his throne; red skin, big horns and his larger than life member standing proudly up – miners (and, ahem, some tourists) touch Tio’s penis to bring sexual power and fertility. Tio was introduced by the slaves hundreds of years ago to protect them from the Spanish, and he still plays an important part in the day to day religion of the miners, protecting or killing them, rewarding them with high quality ore, or punishing them with low yields.
This tour certainly wasn’t a nice experience, but it was an amazing one. For all of the miners’ works, they earn the equivalent of about $400 per month. So for sacrificing around 25 years of their life, they earn the equivalent of a high school dropout flipping burgers in McDonalds in Australia. This is a good (not amazing) income in Bolivia, but still. It makes me feel happy to be going back to a consulting job, where the only safety concerns I have are trying to prepare safety plans detailed enough to satisfy BHP. Where my career span is about the same as the lifetimes of those working in Potosi. Where a bad day is one where I realise a job might go over budget or I can’t get a model to work. If you’re in a position to read this, thank your lucky stars.
