la luz y la oscuridad en Potosí // the light and the darkness of Potosí

The gravel crunches under our rubber boots as we walk towards the gaping mouth of the mine, a portal into the dark, hellish underworld beneath the surface of El Cerro Rico. As we traverse the undulated, moonlike surface, I try to catch my breath. At over 13,000 feet, oxygen is scarce and the sun is harsh.

I feel the scorching UV rays on my face, the only exposed part of my body. We have been outfitted with special suits, boots, helmets, and lamps--much more protective gear than has been worn by most of the millions of miners who have labored here.

There is an abundance of legends surrounding the mountain and its many names. Some say that it was first known as Sumaj Orco (“Rich Mountain” in Quechua). In 1545, a Peruvian man named Diego Huallpa climbed to the 15,800 foot summit in search of a huaca, a sacred Inca shrine or burial offering (although other sources claim he was looking for lost llamas--it depends on who you ask.) Word spread quickly that the mountain contained massive deposits of silver.

As soon as they heard this, the Spanish immediately began to build mines. The mountain itself became known as El Cerro Rico (“Rich Mountain” in Spanish). The city founded below the mountain acquired the name Potosí. Some say this comes from another name for the mountain, Potoj’chi (Quechua for “explosion”).

Today, the mountain also has a name that speaks to the dark side of its history: “The Mountain that Eats Men”.

Clutching our soda bottles and small bags of coca leaves, we reach the entrance of the mine. We duck inside and are quickly swallowed by the darkness. The narrow tunnel twists and turns, taking us deep into the belly of the mountain. Our boots splash through puddles, trip over stray rocks. Stalagmites hang above us. My headlamp strays from the path to look at the rock that surrounds us on all sides. In some places it is embedded with sparkling minerals and tiny swordlike crystals.

Soon, we turn into a smaller tunnel that leads us to a room-like cavern. Tattered, faded paper flags criss-cross above our heads; empty bottles are strewn at our feet. At the end of the tunnel sits a fearsome, flaming red, devil-like sculpture: El Tío. He is surrounded by offerings of coca leaves, cigarettes, alcohol, and other small gifts.

El Tío is the product of a mix of Catholic and indigenous spiritual beliefs. Miners make ritual offerings to El Tío whenever they enter the mine, asking for good luck in finding silver as well as protection from the mine’s many dangers. The miners believe that it is important to appease El Tío, or else they will experience bad luck or accidents.

We make our own ritual offering of coca leaves and alcohol, then continue through the darkness.

A rumbling sound echoes through the tunnel, getting louder and louder. Our guides order us to quickly move to either side of the narrow track that lines the path. The tiny lights of headlamps grow brighter, and a cart appears out of the darkness, pushed by two miners. The metal cart is filled to the brim with rock material.

We greet the miners, who look to be in their mid-twenties, and they tell us about their day’s work. In a typical day, miners are expected to bring out ten full carts of minerals. This is their third. We give them a bottle of soda and a bag of coca, then part ways. Soon, the rumble of the cart dissolves into silence.

There are thousands of intersecting tunnels connecting the 500 mines of El Cerro Rico (90 mines are active today). For nearly 500 years, these tunnels have flowed endlessly with silver and the blood of miners. An estimated 8 million miners have died in or as a result of working in the mines. Nearly all of them have been poor, indigenous laborers or, during part of the colonial period, African slaves.

Tragically, not much has changed in the past centuries. The mineros (miners) of today are still poor and indigenous. Many have come from Potosí from the campo (countryside), forced to migrate to the city due to severe drought and lack of economic alternatives. The youngest mineros start as early as age 12 or 13.

BOOM. We all jump in surprise at the sound of dynamite. A distant explosion reverberates through the mountains. It feels as if it is right next to us, but our guides assure us that it is far away, and that we are safe. BOOM. My heart pounds. BOOM. BOOM. One of the first things that miners learn is that they must count the explosions so they know when it is safe to return to the area. BOOM.

An estimated 14 miners die in accidents or by health problems caused by working in the mines per month. The life expectancy of a miner is about 35 or 40 years. Many don’t live for more than 15 years after they start working in the mines. Those miners not claimed by accidents or collapses face a torturous, drawn-out death by silicosis or other lung diseases. The last five years of a miner’s life are usually spent between the mines, the hospital, and his home.

And we--we are the lucky ones. After exchanging conversation and gifts with some other miners, we walk toward the light as if drawn by a powerful force that calls us home. The mountain will not eat us, not today. We have the privilege of going into the mines for just an hour, and leaving that underground hell behind. Others do not have such freedom. By economic necessity, nearly every family in Potosí must send a father, husband, son, or brother into the mines. What kind of world do we live in that allows so many lives to be so disposable?

Later that day, just before sunset, I look out over a sea of white, colonial-style buildings from one of the tallest bell towers in town. El Cerro Rico looms in the background. It is a juxtaposition that I will never forget: the beauty of a city bathed in light, and the horror of its dark history.

For more information about the history and geography of Potosí, see this link:

http://latinamericanhistory.oxfordre.com/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199366439.001.0001/acrefore-9780199366439-e-2

#Potosi #Bolivia #studyabroad #mining #history