Vale un Potosi

We’re still in the bus but I can sense that Potosi is a different place. The legend is that sometime in 1462 the Inca Huayna Capac made a fire in a place called Sumaj Orcko (Beautiful Mountain in Quechua). When the fire went out he had smelted a vein of silver. However, when he went to sleep he dreamt a voice that told him the silver is meant for someone else. He woke up and abandoned his find, calling the area Ppotojsi, Quechua for ruin. One hundred years later, the Spanish, after having found out about the silver, had built a city of 150,000 – the biggest in the Americas, rivaling Paris, London, and Sevilla with its riches. In Spain people still use the saying “worth a Potosi” to describe something invaluable.

As the taxi turns onto the main square, I see the truth in the legend. The facades of two beautiful cathedrals light up the darkness of the night. On the opposite side the majestic building of the Old Spanish mint, where the famous silver coins of Potosi were produced for the Spanish king. But there’s something else. As the cold night falls, the square is full of young people strolling, talking, laughing…

There’s life here beyond the drunkenness stupor of the Carnival in Oruro. Perhaps, the residents of Potosi haven’t forgotten that they live in what was once one of the greatest cities of Earth. Perhaps, the difficult life in the world’s highest altitude city has at least awarded them joy of life that is easy to sense.

Dominating the entire town is Cerro Rico, looming 800 meters above all the buildings. Once this was richest mountain in the world, providing countless treasures for the Spanish Empire. It’s estimated that the silver mined here was enough to fuel the Industrial Revolution in Europe and that it laid the foundations of the Western banking system. A single ship with Potosi silver, lost in the waters of Ecuador, was estimated to be worth $400 million when it was discovered in 1997… Another grim estimate puts the number of deaths in the mines at 8 million over 500 years.

The face of the mountain has nothing natural about it. There are all kinds of shapes and colors as if every square inch has been dug up and examined. Soon night falls, but a line of lights climbing to the top makes sure I don’t forget about the monster in the dark.

The three of us go to a restaurant, where the 4,200m altitude takes its final toll on the Waygoer. Barely breathing, he tries to charge his laptop in the restaurant’s plug. Something is not working, so the he starts puffing angrily, while the manager gets very riled up about not being asked permission. The Waygoer’s had it, so he gets up and leaves Alex and me to have our dinner.

The next time I see him is the following morning in his hotel room, packing his bags. The Waygoer is moving to lower altitudes. I’m not happy because I’m really taken with Potosi. I want to find out more about this place. So I decide to let the Waygoer and Alex move on to Sucre, 3 hours away and 1700m lower and stay on alone in Potosi.