|
We headed back to Potosi, bouncing down the dirt paths of the Cerro Rico, as the sick woman continued to vomit out of the front window of our beat up Land Cruiser. A few sticks of dynamite rolled along the floorboard of the crammed vehicle while our hard-hats banged the dented metal ceiling. The industrial stench of chemicals still lingered in our sinuses and the dirt still caked on our faces. The poisonous gases had taken their toll on the woman\'s lungs and we knew that she was in dire need of an oxygen tank. Tearing through the dirt paths of one of the world\'s highest cities, we swerved around various livestock on our way to the center. Approaching the hospital, the campesinos looked on as a group of dirt covered men emerged from the truck and carried a shaking, heaving body into the small doorway. |
Earlier that morning, we had headed into the one of the medieval silver mines of central Bolivia. It was a place where men died weekly in the working conditions that have gone basically unchanged for hundreds of years. Passing through the decrepit shanties on the outskirts of town, we climbed up the steep mountain roads as the mustached driver followed the Bolivian custom of riding right only inches from the edge of the towering cliffs. At an altitude of 14,700 feet, I looked off into the red dusted horizon of the Bolivian altiplano to see some of the highest Andean peaks off in the distance. Nearing the end of the road, we came to a few shacks circling a small entrance in the side of the mountain.
As we continued down the tracks, a cold wind blew past and I could smell a strange odor. It was the asbestos, carbon monoxide, and other chemicals that cause most of the workers to die within ten years of entering the mines. The poisonous gases take their toll on the lungs, heart, and liver, slowly draining the life from the desperate souls trying to eek out a living in Bolivia\'s struggling economy. I figured I would save what little respiratory health I had as I wrapped a rag around my face.
The occasional car continued to race for us as we continued further and further into the belly of the beast. Through tight passageways and in between leaky, gas-filled pipes, the workers shuffled past us into the darkness without the aid of a lantern. As many of them enter the mountain before dawn and leave after dusk, they rarely see the daylight. It was as if years of nocturnal living had given them a special ability to see in the dark.
The ceiling began to drop lower as we crawled further into the mountain. Alberto had worked in the mines for four years before becoming an "official" guide. "My father worked in the mines all of his life until it finally killed him a few years ago", he explained. "Working in the mines used to be a local tradition. When I was growing up, boys wanted to follow in their father\'s footsteps. When we were old enough, we would quit school and come to the mines." Working in the mines can be a tempting option for many of them men seeking to provide better incomes for their families. Some of the workers in the co-op mines can make three to four times the average Bolivian income. But the question is "are you willing to trade in years of your life for that money?" After Alberto watched his father die of heart failure, he knew that he had to get out of the business.
Crawling into a skull-shaped opening along the side of the main path, we came to a small altar with a devilish figure perched upon a rock. We were going to pay homage to the lord of the mine. El Tio, as he is known, has the power to take and save lives in the Cerro Rico as he sees fit. He demands no certain lifestyles of creeds. All he asks for is the offerings of coca, cigarettes, and alcohol which the miners bring daily. As our lanterns lit up the figure, we passed around a small flask of miner\'s moonshine. Gagging on the potent sludge, I splashed it on the devil\'s face as it ran down his chest to the pile of coca leaves on his lap. Out from the leaves stood and erect penis. It was welcome news that El Tio appeared to be happy that day. "For you El Tio", Alberto shouted.
After climbing back out of the passageway, we creeped along the tracks deeper into the mountain. Approaching a small hole in the floor, I shined the lantern and backed my way down a shaky ladder through the tight 20 foot drop that lead to the second level. Off in the cold darkness below me, I could hear rumbling and shouting voices at the bottom. Down a tunnel on the lower level, lantern light illuminated a group of men gathered around a hole in the ceiling. "Listo", one of them shouted as he signaled to those above that they were ready. Alberto pushed us back against the wall as an avalanche of rocks and dirt fell through the hole, shaking the walls and earth around us. As a cloud of dust began to blanket the small room, the men began grabbing the bigger rocks and throwing them in the rail car.
As the car filled to capacity, two unfortunate men struggled to pull it down the tracks off into the darkness. When they reached the end of the tunnel, they would pack the rocks into bags and carry them up rickety ladders to the next level. This was one of the lowest jobs in the hierarchy of mine work - carrying the loads of rocks up and down ladders. One wrong move would send them crashing down the shaft with the load of rocks. Broken bones were not an uncommon occurrence. "Load after load, day after day. This is how I first started in the mines", Alberto explained. Just a few years of that type of work can scar a man for life. Alberto\'s chronic backaches, sore throat, and eternal cough will never let him forget his days in the mountain.
Around the bend from the opening in the ceiling was another small passageway leading up to the top of the chute where the men were dropping the loads of rock. Snaking my way through the tight, steep crevice, I approached the chute to see two men on the other side looking down into the hole. A warped and cracked beam was the only way to get across to the other side. As I stood on the tiny ledge, I
