Black Peter, White Pedro

I am quite worried about going into the mines. The more I read about it, the less safe it seems, yet the more interesting. According to several websites I discover, these are some of the least ventilated, most prone to cave-ins mines in the world, using centuries-old methods of dynamiting the rock for ores. The average miner can retire and enjoy state benefits on the tenth year of work when his lungs are 90% blocked by silicosis and he’s got a year left to live…

Nevertheless, I venture into the offices of a mine tour recommended by the book and after some reassuring answers regarding safety equipment and guides, I decide to go the next morning.

I show up at 8am and am treated to a pleasant surprise. Across the street from the office is one of Potosi’s most famous colonial houses, now turned into a museum. I have decided not to go as they charge $25 for using video inside and the Waygoer isn’t with me anyway, so it’s unlikely that I would need the footage. However, I had read in the book about a very grotesque mask of a grinning Bacchus hanging over a passage between two inner courtyards. Made in 1865, its original meaning is unknown, but many believe it epitomizes the feelings of the local Indians toward the departing Spanish. At this point, I am resigned to not seeing it, but as I realize that I’m half an hour early and turn around, I see that the front gate of the house is open and the giant Bacchus is grinning straight into my face. I film away shamelessly.

Happy with my early morning fortune, I get into the bus with another 11 people and go to a house on the skirts of the Cerro Rico, where we’re outfitted into miners’ clothes, helmets and headlamps, split into two groups and introduced to our guides.

My group has three New Zealanders, two guys and a girl, and a tall Swiss kid, looking all of 15-years of age. Our guide is Pedro Blanco. I like him already. Since I am going into the Mouth of Hell, the local name for the mines, I’d absolutely want to be taken by a former miner called White Peter.

Pedro first shows us the Miners’ Market, where he introduces to the different types of dynamite: Bolivian – best quality, used to blow up rocks inside the mine; Argentinean – not as good, still useful; Peruvian – worst, only used for during Carnival or to wage vendetta. Then he let’s us sample the miners’ liquor of choice – alcohol potente – 96.75 pure ethanol sold in industrial plastic bottles. According to Pedro, it is the miners’ main currency in dealing with their patron saint – El Tio – the devil ruling over the Cerro Rico.

“If the production is good, we need to pay El Tio extra, so we drink more. If the production is bad, that means we haven’t honored him enough in the past, so then we need to drink even more than in the good times.”

El Tio is a relentless taskmaster, it seems.

After we buy dynamite to give to the miners as a present, we go to the food section of the market. There we buy bags of coca leaves and watch the guides eat a massive breakfast.

Since the mine is very contaminated, it’s impossible to eat inside. The solution is to eat a huge meal before and after going in and then chew a giant ball of coca leaves mixed in with leija, a paste moulded from the ashes of plants. This bola activates from the saliva and enhances the effect of the coca.

Finally, it’s time to go to the mine. The rickety bus is struggling up the mountain, when suddenly there’s a huge explosion somewhere beneath my seat. All the gringos on the bus jump with shock and look startled in my direction. There’s dust floating up from my bag of dynamite. No one seems hurt and when I look into the bag I refute the suspicion that one of my detonators has gone off. Soon we arrive at the entrance of the mine and when we get off the bus we see that one of the bus tires has literally exploded.

A man comes out of a dark shack near the entrance. His whole face seems deformed. There’s a huge ball of coca in his mouth, he has cotton in his nostrils and his eyes are blood-shot. It’s an awful sight. One of the Kiwis decides to have cigarette before going in, just in case the air inside isn’t as toxic as advertised.

We switch on our helmet lights and head into the mine. Even the entrance passage is completely different from what I imagined. It’s about 5’5” tall and there are cables and wood planks protruding everywhere. I’ve covered my mouth with two bandanas and already have real trouble breathing. I test the choice between not seeing what’s ahead and hitting my head repeatedly into the ceiling. Neither option seems viable. The other guys in the group have decided to forego breathing through the bandanas for now, so are forging ahead without much breathing problems.

I catch up with my group at the Mine Museum – a carved out, 15-meter niche inside one of the walls. At the entrance, sitting is El Tio himself – a red devil sculpture in human proportion holding a bottle of wine, a smoking cigarette in his mouth, his member protruding between his legs.

Inside the museum, there’s quite a bit of information in English, ranging from the history of black slaves living and dying in the mines to geological information on the different ores to the range of respiratory diseases plaguing the miners. Pedro asks us whether the English on the various brochures is good. It definitely is, but Pedro declines taking credit despite his excellent English. He tells us the materials were written by Western volunteers, spending time in the mines. When we ask him where he has learnt his fluent English, he replies “In the mine, talking to people like you.”

It’s time we move to the next section, though an even narrower passage. Small miners quickly come up from behind, pass me and then disappear in the darkness. I’m really struggling as the temperature is rising. Finally we pause for a break. We spend the next half an hour at the intersection of several tunnels asking Pedro all kinds of questions about the life of the miners, the likelihood of making it rich, Bolivian politics and geology. I film the whole conversation despite the darkness. It’s really interesting to meet someone bright, knowledgeable and funny who has spent most of his life working in such terrible conditions

The tour continues and this time we’re going down to the lower levels. The only way to go through is to slide head first, stomach on the floor, back against the ceiling. I feel a shudder of claustrophobia, but push on, my hands smeared in a mystery liquid flowing down the walls. Thank God the Waygoer isn’t here, he wouldn’t have made it much past the entrance.

Suddenly there’s a roar through the mines. One thought goes through everybody’s mind – collapse! It’s momentary as we see the source of the rumble. It’s a big cart pushed by 4 miners long the rails.

When we get to the fourth level we run into a half naked man hammering into the rock. Pedro tells us that he’s making holes for the dynamite, but since the rock is very hard he can only make about 4 holes a day. The man is wearing no breathing protection and here the air is so thick with debris that the camera is completely covered with white powdery stuff. The smell of metal and various chemicals is overwhelming. We give the man some dynamite and coca leaves and move on to another small room where two guys are shoveling rocks and dust into a large drum.

One is called the Priest, while the other one is known by the name of his village. All miners have Quechua nicknames, Pedro tells us. His translates as pig-head, not because he’s stubborn but because he loves to eat.

We give the men some soda and start our ascent to the surface. On the way we see four men pushing a cart full of rocks up along the rails. In the dusty darkness their half-naked sweaty bodies sprung in incredible exertion seem inhuman. It’s as if the devil himself has given them super power in exchange for everything else. Pedro tells us that the cart weighs more than 2 tons.

As we crawl on all fours back up, I hear a strange noise behind me, followed by a yell. It seems some small rocks have dislodged from the ceiling and fallen onto the man crawling just after me. He’s unhurt, but everyone doubles the efforts to get out as soon as possible. The ascent lasts about 20 minutes and at the end I’m spent. I take up the tail of the group, gradually falling behind, as I can’t seem to catch my breath through the bandanas while bent over to try to protect my head. I just hope there are no intersecting tunnels ahead that could lead me away from the exit.

Finally, light! After half an hour of walking, my pulse nearing 200, I can see the end. Just before I step out into the light, a thunder shakes the whole mountain. Pedro turns around and smiles – that’s the dynamite. We run out.

Everybody is covered in dirt and trying to catch their breath. Some who had chosen not to cover their mouths are coughing profusely. The smoking Kiwi lights up another cigarette to clean out his lungs. I look at the front of my bandana and find a thick layer of dust, which would have been in my lungs otherwise. Exhausted and silent we take the bus down to the city where our dirty miner gear is immediately thrown into buckets of soap water.

Pedro offers a free tour of the mines in the afternoon, but there are no takers. It’s been an amazing experience, but it’s hard to imagine repeating it. We shake hands with our charismatic guide and split every which way. I head over to the hotel to take a shower, collect my bags and taxi to the bus terminal. It’s time to catch up with the Waygoer, but on the way to Sucre I can’t stop thinking about the souls trapped in the Mouth of Hell and the price they pay for their dreams.