An extremely uncomfortable four-hour bus journey was necessary to escape from barren Uyuni to Potosi. The lady who sold us the ticket thought it worth specifying that the road between the 2 towns was tarmac. In Brazil, Argentina and Chile we had taken tarmac highways for granted. Not so in Bolivia. Here, they were the exception and not the norm. Throughout our travels, the fearsome reputation of Bolivian buses had reached our ears so we were pleasantly surprised when our driver turned on the engine and the bus was not overcrowded. Unfortunately, the cheapest tickets become available just as the bus pulls away and the sound of the motor was the cue for Bolivians to swarm our vehicle. A tidal wave of bright-coloured clothes and dubious smells overwhelmed us as men and women perched themselves on our arm-rests while others sat or lay in the aisle. The bus became a market-on-wheels as the new arrivals tried to sell us all sorts of weird and wonderful items. Thankfully, the journey was in the day-time and - by South American standards - mercifully short, so we were intrigued by the spectacle rather than worried.
Potosi was once the largest and richest city in Latin America but as we walked around the streets it became manifest that it has tumbled down the rankings. Now, Potosi's principal claim-to-fame is as the world's highest city (4070m). Potosi owed its wealth to the riches in the rocks mined from the mountain on which the city clings. Therefore, Ben and Ed, undeterred by the Lonely Planet's warnings, decided it would be a good idea to go on a tour of the silver mines. Tom, well and truly deterred by LP's horror stories of explosions, falling rocks, runaway trolleys, asbestos and silica dust, wisely decided to opt out.
The company we were to brave the mines with were incredibly amateur, and made us begin to feel a little anxious about what we had got ourselves into. Before we entered the pit we were given a taste of the coca leaves with some quinoa ash. This numbs the mouth and takes away the sensation of tiredness and hunger. The miners constantly have a ball of coca in their mouths the size of a tennis ball, it is easy to understand why they need so much coca once you have experienced what it is like down the mine.
The dynamite
We were kitted out as if the Earth had undergone a nuclear apocalypse and made our way to one of the 500 entrances to the mountain. We were met with a baptism of fire when, a mere 100m into the darkness, our guide started shouting at the top of her voice to retreat as quickly as we could. We clambered our way through the darkness, our lungs suffering from the thin air, now filled with carbon monoxide, asbestos and dynamite fumes. From the murky depths emerged a 1.5 tonne trolley, trundling along the rails which run like arteries throughout the whole mine. We quickly lost the first member of our group...
...who decided that the dark and claustrophobic environment was not for her.
Our guide was extremely informative, if a little grumpy, and with each new fact she dropped, the idea of staying in the mine became less and less appealing. All the miners work for themselves in groups of 3-6 and there is no large company which employs the men. Each miner can expect to earn between B$80-200 a day which is the equivalent of £8-20. This is all dependent on the rocks which the miners manage to excavate. Silver is the most profitable but there is also copper and tin present in the mine. There are 3 types of miners; the Helpers who push 1.5 tonne trollies out from the bottomless depths of the cave to the freedom of the outside up to 10 times a day; the Assistant Manager who oversees the helpers and aids The Manager, who is responsible for using the dynamite and electing where to continue digging. 5 years are spent at each level before "promotion". Some of the boys working down there were as young as 14. We found it hard to believe but apparently there are some 16,000 men working in the mine, we saw a total of 20 in our whole 3 hours in the mine. Most miners can expect to die aged 60 of respiratory problems due to the carbon monoxide and asbestos in the mines. Lonely Planet had convinced us that - in theory - a few hours exposure should not do us too much lasting damage... These mines are the places of nightmares.
Miners at work
As we rounded another dark corner, our tunnel vision provided by the dull lamps came to rest on an ominous horned statue... The Catholic Spaniards began the tradition of devil worship among the Bolivian miners. An icon of the Tío (named Uncle due to the protection the devil supposedly provides) is situated in each mine to receive sacrificial offerings of alcohol, coca, cigarettes and llama foetuses from the miners. In return the devil guarantees good health and fortune. The icon of the devil looked completely in its place in the hellish environment of the mines.
The Devil, El Tio
We ventured 2km into the depths of hell before turning back. During this time Ben had hit his head countless times on the low ceilings, these mines were not built with Westerners in mind. Having had a shovel thrust upon him, Ed tried his hand at a bit of rock-shifting. Just a few minutes taste of the back-breaking and lung-shattering work was enough for the rest of the group to realise that they did not want to give it a go. We emerged from the mines slightly shaken up but glad that we had gained a little insight into what working in the mines entails. We cannot imagine ourselves ever returning willingly into one of these mines.
Our journey to La Paz that evening was a feat of travelling-genius. Our never-say-die attitude enabled us to bend the laws of time, space, fatigue, altitude, hunger and probability. The odds were stacked against us, but somehow, through sheer determination, we made it. The Bolivians are notorious for their spontaneous road-blocks or 'bloqueos' (this word still sends shivers down our spines). Whenever, the workers have the slightest grievance they decide to inflict as much damage and mayhem on the rest of the country's citizens and roads. While the French might express their discontent by going on strike, the Bolivians do what they do best - they block. We had been assured that the roads to La Paz from Potosi were clear and we would be there after a routine 8-hour journey. At 1.30am our bus ground to a halt. Huge explosions sliced through the night air and shook our bus. Ben and Tom were petrified and their minds immediately leapt to the worst case scenario - were we being held up? Ed, meanwhile, was blissfully immersed in Friends Season 1 and did not seem to notice. It was not until the sun rose at about 6.30 that we discovered that frustrated miners had shut off the road. Having seen the horrors of the Potosi mine, we found it hard not to sympathise with them. However, our sympathy was disappearing faster than you could say 'Lake Titicaca'. There we were; 4000m high. 4 hours drive away from La Paz. With nobody to drive us. And no roads to drive on. Challenge accepted!
'Of Mice and Men'
'Of Ben and Ed'
Anybody see the similarity?
At 9a.m. we decided that the only option was to stride boldly through the block. We were not the only ones to think of this solution, though, and it appeared as if half the population of the Andes had had a similar brain-wave. It felt like we were part of a mass-migration and Tom likened it to a scene from 'Of Mice and Men' and the American Dust Bowl of the 1930s. We strode, shimmied, tip-toed and hobbled our way through 5km of angry miners who were blowing up dynamite left, right and centre. A jumble of rocks littered the road making it impossible for any mode of transport to pass. Even if a bus had tried to get through, we had a feeling that the dynamite may have been used in a more destructive way.
Fortunately we picked up a taxi at the other end of the roadblock. Our over-friendly driver decided to give us a completely unnecessary tour of Oruro, the town we now found ourselves in. If any of you have heard Bolivian music, you will be aware that it consists of panpipes and a somewhat repetitive drum rhythm. Our taxi driver decided - on our behalf - that we wanted to hear this music as loud as the car speakers would allow. Our patience was wearing tenuously thin.
After walking another 2.5km through Oruro we crammed ourselves in to a minivan which promised us that we would "definitely" get to La Paz. After all our trials and tribulations we were more than sceptical. 3 hours of predominantly off-road driving ensued in order to avoid the blockades (think the Paris-Dakar rally and triple it and then you'd be close to the conditions we endured). We finally arrived in La Paz, or what we thought was La Paz. We had actually arrived in El Alto, 9km away from La Paz. In any other country this would be no issue, grab a taxi. In the centre of La Paz, however, there was a further protest and, just to be different, a road-block. We had to crawl 3km through another demonstration, keeping our heads down to attract as little attention as possible from the dynamite-wielding miners. This did have one advantage and provided us with proof that every cloud has a silver mining (sorry, lining). Since we had to walk rather than drive into La Paz, we were able to appreciate the city's buildings sprawled across the imposing, snowy Mt Illimani at sunset. Our breath was taken away - and not just due to the altitude of the highest capital city in the world. Stunning
This journey should have taken us 8 hours. It took us 22. But we made it safe(ish) and sound(ish).
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