Potosi sits at 4,070 metres above sea level, making it the highest city in the world (La Paz is only 3,500 or so once you descend from the dizzying heights of its airport). It's also a UNESCO city of culture. But these aren't the only accolades it's ever held - in the early 17th Century, it is also said to have been the biggest and richest city in the world. Bigger and richer than London, Paris,.....apparently. The source of all this wealth: Cerro Rico (rich mountain). A peculiar red hill that sticks up awkward and alone from the surrounding countryside, replete with huge seams of silver, zinc and lead. Hundreds and thousands of tons of silver has been extracted, and most taken straight down to the 'Casa de la Moneda' to be made into coins, medals and table finery. Over the next two centuries, the cities fortunes declined as silver was found more cheaply elsewhere, but luckily the lavishly decorated buildings still survive in good condition.
And what of the miners? The government mines have long since closed, but around 800 are still working there, alone or in small collectives, searching for whatever is left.
They may as well be playing the lottery - some find a good seam and get rich, others dig for up to a year without taking a dime home to the family.
And no government means no regulation: no-one is checking who is digging where, how much of the inside of the hill has now been carved away and whether the next dynamite blast will bring the whole structure crumbling down.
Which brings be to the 8 million miners that have died since the mines opened. And the 25 who still perish each year.
Our guide told us that yes they were sad when one of their friends was killed, but that each body was an offering to 'El Tio', who in return will protect the other miners, and bring them good fortune.
El Tio is the devil - a statue of him resides in each separate mine in the hill. The miners give regular offerings of coca leaves, cigarettes and alcohol to keep Tio happy, themselves safe, and money in their pockets. Jesus has no place down here- it truly is a hell on earth.
We suit up in a house a mile or so down the hill: jacket, trousers, boots, helmet and lamp, and we had to buy a handkerchief to wrap round our faces to keep the dust out.
All smiles, we head up to the miners market to buy some presents for the miners: Coca leaves to chew to stave off hunger, soft drinks (really? I thought, but it's so hot down there and they never have enough water with them), and...dynamite.
A quick trip to one of the local, crude refining plants (the sludge that is exported is still a large proportion of rubbish), and we're ready to enter the mine.
Level 1: almost big enough for me to stand up, and gets some fresh air from the entrance. We stop to make an offering to Tio (and attempt to mend his broken penis - oops), and give out a bottle of fanta to a work group on their way out.
Level 2: getting warmer and dustier. We back ourselves up against the tunnel walls as a cart passes (they have no brakes), and begin to descend a steep and slippery chute down towards level 3, occasionally stopping to allow someone to pass us on their way up.
Level 3: we've lost two of our group; a mild asthmatic and a very large American, neither of which had taken the warnings in the guidebooks seriously. That's the problem coming from our cotton wool-protected societies: we think that anything we're allowed to do is obviously safe, risk-assessed, and accessible by near 100% of people.
This is Bolivia - no-one's responsible for you but you. You're on your own.
But I kind of like the concept. I think it teaches children to be more independent, conscious of their surroundings and responsible.
But this mine: this is maybe taking it a bit far. Around 800 children work down here, and they have no choice - maybe they are fatherless, maybe their family is just that poor. At least they also go to school. But what's the point of a free education system if you get kicked out when you can't afford the uniform unless you work down the mine 8 hours a day?
Level 4: The air is thick with dust, the temperature is somewhere between 30 and 40, and we crawl on our knees down the rocky passages to a small work group who are making holes in the rock for dynamite.
Most of the accidents in the mine are dynamite related, and mostly preventable: you lay 10 sticks, 8 of them blow, and you go back to see what has happened to the last 2. As Lionel Bart would say: that's your funeral.
Or you blow all your gear, and go back to inspect the results without waiting overnight for the dust to settle. That's your funeral too.
Or maybe you don't make the appropriate warnings to the other work groups around you before lighting the fuse. Maybe a rock fall will be their funeral....
Our guide tells us that most miners die of silicosis simply from breathing in so much dust (life expectancy 35-40), and that most rock falls oddly happen when no-one is in the mine.
We ask the one of the miners what they think of tourists coming down the mine.
'As long as they bring gifts, it's ok'. There was also some unrepeatable sexual comment made in the local language of Quechua, but that can only be expected from men who are locked away in this hell-hole for up to 24 hours at a time...
Ascending back up the rickety ladders ('look out for the second rung; it's a bit dodgy. Oh and the third. And the fourth a little bit too'), and slippery, dusty chute, my natural inclination is to pull down my mask to cool down a little.
Big mistake.
As a climb, I breathe heavily (don't forget the altitude), and inhale so much dust I can taste the ferrous rock in my mouth. Put the mask back up.
One level up, the guide offers us the chance to see another part of the mine, or carry on outside. The decision is unanimous: we'd seen enough.
The mine is a labyrinth, and without calling out for the guide whenever I lost sight of him round a corner, I would have easily taken several wrong turnings and landed myself in serious trouble.
I don't remember the last time the phrase 'seeing the light at the end of the tunnel' had been so apt or welcome. We emerged gasping at the fresh air, legs and backs aching from crouching, throats raw and eyes stinging from the dust. But almost not a word of complaint - we were just in awe of these guys that endured that and more for 8 to 12 to sometimes 24 hours at a time. 6 days a week. Playing roulette with their fortunes and their lives.
Feeling slightly guilty for wasting good gear, we blew up a stick of dynamite on the hill for fun (the photo of me holding the dynamite bomb with the lit fuse is one of my favourites so far), learning how to prepare it to get the best explosion (if I get arrested on re-entry to Britain for attending a bomb-making class, put in a good word for me will you?, and headed back into town to try and shower off the dust.
The debates, still continuing 5 days later, range from health and safety, the possibility of getting rich versus the possibility of getting dead, free will and choice, child labour, voyeurism on our part and whether the tourist draw is contributing to the perpetuation of these medieval conditions.
But the idea that no-one is in charge of the health and safety - I may be cotton wool-wrapped, but that just seems like a disaster waiting to happen.
Hang on: 8 million? Already happening.
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