Places of Nowhere

It was not just hard to smoke; it was furthermore a very unhealthy thing to do. Nevertheless I continued in order to keep up with the local miners who smoked one cigarette after another regardless of the 4000 meters above sea level where we were all hanging out. The air in the Bolivian mining city Potosí was thin, even thinner on the top of Cerro Rico, the rich mountain, remaining symbol of Colonialism that still holds an inexhaustible treasure of silver. The colonizers had departed long time ago but they had left the miners who until now are crawling into the depths of the mountain digging silver and tin. However, Cerro Rico is not just the fountain of silver, but also the shelter of the devil god Tio, who is believed to be the possessor of the mine. The legend says that the devil would not just let the miners take his riches for granted. Therefore it is necessary to offer up sacrifices and once a year pay him homage with a huge celebration. Once in my life I was lucky to be at the right spot at the right time. An accidental meeting in the narrow streets of beautifully colonial built Potosí with a former mine worker had led me to the top of the mountain where I was now standing, smoking, observing. One worker obviously had left his best times behind him: he was leaning against his fellow worker; sleeping drunk. The rest of the men were busy positioning three Alpacas in front of the mines’ entrance. The women gathered in a decaying stone house, waiting for their turn. It was the duty of the smallest boy to cut the throat of the Alpacas, which later would be offered to the Tio, while four huge miners where taking hold of their legs. Afterwards the more experienced men would remove the skin of the animals and together with alcohol, which was poured over the dead body parts, finally make a fire for the Tio. The blood of the Alpacas had thoroughly been collected in small bowls in which the men carried it to the surrounding houses, smashing them against the stony house walls – an act of sanctification. As I was watching the women, who were now busy preparing the left overs of the dead animals for a future common meal, a miner with a bowl in his hands passed by me, soaked his hands full of blood and suddenly painted my face with the very same. The former miner, who obviously had noticed my horrified face, turned to me and said: “Don´t be disgusted. It’s really rare that they do that to foreigners. It’s an honor. You are blessed now. You are lucky.”