Down t'pit

Potosi, Southern Bolivia

Our sole reason for coming to Potosi was to visit the famous silver mines. A source of enormous wealth for the Spanish during colonial times, the mines are now all but spent and the locals operate hundreds of small independent mining operations in the mountain on a co-operative basis. The work is hard, the hours are crappy, pickings are thin and conditions are often described as "medieval". The local tour guides do not recommend visiting the mines it you are claustrophobic or asthmatic and they warn that many people find the trip a harrowing experience. You also have to factor in, of course, the fact that Potosi is the highest city in the world at 4090 metres (13,500 feet for you old folk) above sea level and temperatures in the mines can often reach 45 centigrade. Sounds like fun! Count me in. Cara, being a good, old fashioned claustrophobe, decided against it and left me to check it out alone.

First thing the next morning, we were kitted out with our rubber boots, overalls and miners hats. Then we were off to the local market to stock up on goodies to take along as gifts for the miners. I can only assume they do this so that the miners will appreciate us being there and not collapse a mineshaft on our heads for their own personal amusement. Feeling a little flush, I splashed out on a stick of dynamite, some fuses and blasting caps, a few big bottles of coke, a couple of packets of cigarettes and a large bag of coca leaves. And all for about two quid! Beat that, Sainsburys. I decided against taking them any bottles of neat sugar cane alcohol (98% Vol, their tipple of choice). Call me old fashioned, but when I'm hundreds of feet underground in a confined space, I don't want my hosts off their faces on pure cane alcohol, swinging a pickaxe and thinking about how to get a few chuckles out of the gringos.

Before going into the mine, we first visited the mineral processing plants where the metals and other useful minerals are extracted from the crap dragged out of the mine. Even here the workers continually chewed coca leaves and wandered around with their cheeks packed full like big hamsters. Various unpleasant chemicals are used in this process and the life expectancy of the plant workers is not much higher than that of the miners. We wandered around aimlessly and tried not to accidentally blow anything up or fall into the unguarded flywheels or churning vats of the extraction process.

After this we made our way up to the mine proper. The entrance tunnel was like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, but at least we could walk upright, albeit crouching down and with me cracking my head repeatedly on timber beams and low slung rocks. Praise be for hard hats. The whole place reeked and the air was thick with dust and chemicals. Breathing at this altitude is not easy at the best of times but in the heat of the mine and continually sucking down lungfulls of dust, it started to get very taxing very quickly. As we made our way down through the various levels of the mine we met many workers, and more than a few of them looked like they had spent just a bit too long in the dark and eaten a few too many coca leaves. Say hello, pass off a few sticks of dynamite and move on before they drop one in your wellies. As w were travelling, our guide Juan was filling us in with the details of how the mines worked and what jobs the miners did. They earn pisspoor money and not many of them live into old age. They seemed a cheerful bunch, but they never liked to down tools for more than a few minutes at a time and they were down the mine for 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, slogging their guts out and sucking down a bit more dirt every day. Deeper we went, and the further we travelled into the mountain, the smaller the tunnels became. They were pretty tight to start with, but after about an hour down there I was crawling on my belly through ever downward spiralling tunnels with nothing in my field of view but the feet of the person in front of me. At one point we came out into a larger shaft and followed the tracks used by the boxcars for transporting the smashed rocks to the surface. I found myself at the head of the group and headed down the tunnel. From behind came the shout that a cart was on it's way down the tracks and we needed to clear out of the way. That part of the tunnel was too narrow to stand aside so I picked up the pace and kept going forward, stooping to miss the low ceiling. After a few dozen metres, the sound of the car on the tracks was getting louder and I looked behind to discover that apart from one other person, everybody else had gone back the other way to safety. We looked back and saw the lights of the miners helmets as they pelted down the track toward us with their 2 tonne carriage of rocks. At that point we realised there was a convoy of empty carriages coming down the track in the other direction. We looked back up the track, we looked up ahead at what was coming around the corner, we looked at each other, we both said "Shit!" and started running. We shouted to the miners up ahead that there was a full carriage heading towards them and we could hear the wheels of their cart squeal as they hit the brakes. We finally reached the turn in the tracks and jumped to the side where the tunnel widened by a couple of feet. A few seconds later the full carriage came screaming past us a few inches from our noses and smashed in to the head carriage of the other column. The empty boxcar was knocked back into the one immediately behind it and spilled off the tracks. Miners flew in all directions. So did the curses and accusations. We watched the miners square up to each other and waited for the rest of the group to catch up. Myself and the Australian guy with me let out a big sigh, I took off my hard hat to wipe the sweat off my face and immediately cracked my head on a piece of wood. Our guide eventually caught up to us, looked at the train wreck up ahead, looked at us and said "I bet that was interesting. Okay, let's keep going". Off we went into even smaller tunnels that would make a mole give up and buy a caravan.

As we headed back up to the surface, I fell behind a bit and fell to the back of the group. The tunnel we were in became smaller and smaller and eventually I was on all fours, scrabbling uphill in the dust kicked up by everyone else. I looked to see where everyone else was and they seemed to be scampering off into the distance like seasoned professionals. The last lamp glow disappeared in the distance and I was alone. The rock walls of the tunnel, constricting, closed around me like a fist and pinned me there. I could feel myself getting more and more anxious, my pulse was racing and the butterflies in my stomach were going wild. I could see nothing in front of me and nothing behind me. All that existed in the world was the small round patch of dirt and stone lit up by my lamp. Suddenly I was aware of the huge mountain closing in around me and there was nothing I could do. My lungs were screaming out for air but all I could manage to was keep panting and sucking down the noxious fumes and dust, but it did no good, I couldn't breath, and in just a few moments I would start to see black spots in front of my eyes and I would pass out. The only sounds that reached me were the distant booms of dynamite explosions inside the mountain. Boom, boom, boom, the shock waves rolled over me and dust fell from the rocks into my face and eyes, sticking itself to the layer of sweat sprouting from my skin. I thought "Oh my God, I'm trapped down here. I am going to get stuck in this tunnel and nobody is going to find me. I can't breath. I'm suffocating. OH MY GOD, I'M TRAPPED, I CAN'T MOVE. I'M GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHH SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE !!!!!!!!!!!"

...........and then I remembered that I'm not actually claustrophobic, and everything was fine. I got up, set off to catch up with everybody else and walked out of the mine with nothing else of any interest happening. Bit of an anticlimax, really.

Once we were all out of the mine and we'd guzzled around 20 gallons of water, one of the guides, Daniel, pulled out the one remaining stick of dynamite and went to work. He split the stick into 3 pieces and buried it in a bag of ammonium nitrate. In went the blasting cap and the fuse, the whole lot was wrapped up tightly in a carrier bag and lit. Before he ran off to bury his bomb in the dirt he very kindly passed his little package around the group for a photo opportunity. Now there's a novel experience! When the fuse was half burned down, he snatched the package and ran hell for leather across the patch of dirt and threw it into a hole in the ground. We stood there, cameras at the ready, and waited for the explosion. We waited, and waited some more. Then the dynamite exploded, we all flinched, and a dozen people took photographs of the sky or their own feet. If you want to know what it's like to have a stick of dynamite go off a few yards away from you, I can only describe it as loud. Very loud. And I don't mean loud like your nextdoor neighbours on a Saturday night. I mean loud like you can feel it rumble across your insides and hear it echo around your head long after the smoke has cleared. Now you can't buy fireworks like that back home.

On the whole, a very interesting experience but I sure as hell don't want to work there. Stacking shelves in Tesco when we get back doesn't seem quite so bad now. Where do I send the application ?

Mik