Down the pit

On the morning of our mining tour we met up with our vivacious, chatty guide, Roberto, and having followed him around town for half an hour, we finally got on a local bus along with 9 other assembled tourists (2 Argentineans, 2 French and 5 Israelis). Roberto claimed to have mastered many languages, including French, Hebrew and English.  He gave them a good go, but in reality, we understood more of his Spanish than his English. He certainly didn’t lack enthusiasm or knowledge though, having worked down the mines from the age of 9 for 10 years to support his family as he was the eldest of 12 children.The first port of call was to a mining cooperative processing plant. It used to be all private mining companies but following the revolution in 1952, mining was nationalised and miners have been organised into cooperatives, of which there are 40 operating today. The plant was basically a yard where they crushed rock, sorted it and packed up the good stuff for sale. This is largely zinc, copper and tin. The bottom has dropped out of the metal market recently leading many miners to leave Potosi and look for work in agriculture in other parts of the country or Argentina. Some of the workers were not too pleased to be hassled by our group and tried to wave us away which Roberto took not notice of whatsoever.

Next it was time to get our high quality mining equipment sorted. On our way to the equipment shop we passed a group of tourists wearing fine matching overalls. After 20 minutes in the shop we emerged sporting tatty shell suits, wellies and hardhats, looking like a cross between Gazza and Bob the Builder.

Looking like this we were taken to the miners market where we were encouraged to buy strong fags and coca leaves for the miners. There was plenty of big bottles of nearly pure alcohol for the miners to offer to the devil of the mines and to get hammered on (neat, pure spirit brings luck for finding pure veins of mineral, proves how manly you are and is cheap). We also picked up a little dynamite at the corner shop, as you do. The coca leaves are part of life for the miners and go hand in hand with the history of the mines. By chewing coca leaves, workers can stay in the mines all day, working and staving off hunger. The Spanish used to control to distribution and price of coca in order to control the miners. A little mini bus, struggling on the winding mud track, led us to the entrance of a mine. So with lamps on and shell suits crackling with static we trooped into the hole in the rock. The tunnels were occasionally high but mostly necessitated walking with a stoop. Near the entrance was a shrine to the Christian God- the God of the world outside. Miners believe that God cannot see deep into the mines. Beneath the Earth is the realm of the Devil, or ‘Tio’.Shrine to the Christian God

The air was damp and dusty with a distinctive smell- arsenic. Due to the arsenic, damp and dust, a miner working full time in the mines is unlikely to live much over 40 years of age. We passed several miners chipping away at the rock by hand as we followed our guided tour. One of these men we spoke to had worked in the mines for nearly 30 years. He had a cough and as our guide pointed out afterwards, this was due to his lungs being clogged with dust and he would probably be dead within the year.

Further into the mine we came to the Tio. Every mine has a Tio and all miners make offerings to Tio every Friday asking for good fortune and protection. When a miner dies or is injured in an accident it is Tio’s doing. The Tio was first introduced by the Spanish mine owners as a way to keep slaves in line. As most slave workers were highly superstitious they were told they had to work hard to please the God of the mine. God in Spanish is Dios but there was no ‘d’ sound in the native Ketchua language hence Tio. I carried out some of the ritual with the strong spirit. First a swig (which I could feel burning down my throat for a good ten minutes), followed by some drips on the ground for the Earth. Then it was Tio’s turn: a splash on his left leg, for luck for the miners; a dribble on his large manhood, for virility (or luck with the ladies if preferred); and a sprinkling on his right leg, for my own luck. Real miners also light cigarettes for Tio and sprinkle coca leaves before getting totally battered on the neat alcohol.

After a couple of hours underground, we emerged from the darkness back into the rainy day, felling extremely glad that we didn’t have to work a 12 hour shift. Or indeed to spend 4 months permanently working underground sleeping 4 hours a day, as unfortunate slaves used to do.All that was left to do was the fairly needless activity of blowing up the dynamite purchased earlier. After a four minute wait for the fuse to burn, off it went with an incredible noise. This was at least a reminder of how harsh the work is in the mines, as the noise and dust underground when the dynamite goes off must be unpleasant to say the least.

Back down from the hill and out of our trackies, we reflected on a fascinating tour that helped to bring home the incredible and sad history of mining in Potosi.