Soul Mining

(Retrospective)

The Devil and Muiris Llewelyn

I´ve just been downt mine, like a Welshman of yore, rugby and valleys.

Bolivia is the oft derided poor man of South America, which is quite an insult considering they share a continent with Columbia. Bolivians respond to these accusations not with political rhetoric a la Hugo Chavez, or mass bruitality and the murder of its own citizens a la Argentina (in times past); no, they have a much more lucrative and pragmatic approach: they roughly half the life expectancy of their young men by sending them down a near-exhausted mine to extract pitifully small amounts of zinc, tin, and silver ore, which is exported abroad, processed, and sold to, yes, Bolivians. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Cerro Rico, Potosi, a mountain slowly sinking as man pulls its guts out in the hope of danglesome worthless glister.

One thing you must know, friend, is that the mine is the Devil´s realm. It is his larder that the miners steal from, and it is to him that they pay their respects; repest to "Uncle" or "Tio" for the wealth he provides at the cost of limbs and black lung. Stories abound; the man who implored Tio for a rich vein of silver, and was rewarded, but at the cost of a human or llama foetus every day unto death, to appease the dark overlord of the underworld. Soon, with wealth on his side, money in his pocket, whores on his arm, the pact was forgotten and Faustian miner experienced a streak of bad luck a mile wide and the length of infinity. His wife died; his house burned down; his daughter lost her wits; and he remained healthy, sane and intact enough to Job-like suffer the consequence of meddling with and scorning Tio.

Another supplicant to Tio´s burgeoning church thought it would be fun to play with TNT and ammonium nitrate in close proximity to two coworkers. They were immediately maimed and died later after the most gruesome suffering imaginable (both families were destitute and could not afford morphine, despite their wives´ best efforts in the only other Potosi industry of note, prostitution). he works in the mines to this day, shunned by coworkers and as yet uncharged by the terrified police. Lately, it is told, a young gopher witnessed the miner being devoured by a devil-like apparition, emerging unscathed afterwards. The miners take this as Tio assimilating the miner´s soul and await his rapid demise. The story is illustrative of the madness which pervades the place, stoked by the fatalism of the workers who have an average life expectancy of 45-50 years and thus value only silver, not life and slowly their lungs scar and contract, oxygen deserts them and they die.

Pedro, Let Me Follow You Down

As we descended we encountered first a makeshift museum, complete with a statue of Tio (these statues are common, and serve as points of worship); then to a winch station with monosyllablic Bolivians hauling baskets of rock and mineral ore up a vertical shaft. Our guide questioned one:

- How long have you worked here?
- Fifteen years
- How old are you?
- Fofty two
- Do you have a family?
- Four children

A chill filled the room, as the near-deadman continued to heft stone and contemplate his end, as did we.

We descended further into the belly of the beast via anklecrack tight tunnels not designed for men of my dimensions, as my neck curled upwards, my back downwards, contorted like an old man on a diet of arsenic. Pedro, the guide, spit lore and politics as were breathed in the dust and slid and scraped down, avoiding vertical shafts and rail buckets full of stone. We saw the other end of the winch operation, with pidgeon chested men shovelling rock and stone delivered by sweating and heaving comrades displaying a downright Stakhanovite ethic. My lungs felt the choke of dust and silica and I was invited to play miner. As I dug I thanked God that I was not Bolivian, did not work here, and would not die at 45. As I left, one of the old boys grimly complemented me on my shovelling surprisingly effective, he said, "for someone with such womanly hands". Better to have womanly hands than no lungs, I thought, equally grimly.

Did You Drink and Mine?

Further down to the fourth level and we happened upon a group of about 15 in a cavern drinking rotgut (96% ethanol) and lemonade, and we huddled in a corner a watched. Word got around; the gringos in the corner are Irish; they´ve brought booze; they have a little Spanish. Suddenly, my hand was being broken in the grasp of a man called simply "the Bear" as he poured the firewater into a plastic cup and gave it to me. A drop for the Pachamama, a drop for Tio, and a quick Hail Mary before I threw it back and felt my throat boil and my limbs twitch. The cycle was repeated about 20 times, and Irish-Bolivian relations were infinately enhanced as we drank in the most bizzare session of all time, 600m underground, in a mine, with devil-worshipping Bolivians. Further weirdness pervaded as John, refined as he is, asked if we could buy a round of beers. No problem, as a gopher scuttled off to the top and returned with a bottle of Potosina for everyone. The aforementioned diplomatic efforts were furthered (infinity to the power of n) and we laughed and blathered in broken Spanish until we were all completely peeloothered. We ascended, not minding now the vicegrip pinch or the suredeath falls. As we emerged into sunlight, I felt glad that I was out of that realm, and into a more benevolent one. Noone had been hurt, TG.

Then Pedro took out a few sticks of dynamite.

Traditional Bolivian Bomb Recipe

For this you will need:

1. TNT, one stick
2. Plastic carrier bag, one
3. Ammonium nitrate, 500g
4. Blasting cap and fuse, one
5. A spare piece of ground
6. Several drunk Bolivians
7. A lighter
8. Balls

Method:

Warm the TNT by rolling it between your palms. Break in into three pieces. Lay these side by side, mould them together and put them in the plastic bag. Set aside.

Open the packet of ammonium nitrate and spill half on the floor. Place the rest in the plastic bag with the TNT. If you have done this correctly you will still be alive.

Press the blasting cap and fuse into the centre of the TNT and tie closed the bag, fuse protruding. Take a picture. As this is happening, one of the drunk Bolivians will inevitably light the fuse, much to the amusement of all gathered. Start to run.

Place entire device on spare piece of ground. Garnish by running away in blind panic. Await "bang" sound.

Cooking time: approximately 2 1/2 minutes.

And finally..

Later we went for drinks with the miners and wound up in a total horrorshit divebar scumbucket of a club where I was offered sex for 40 Bolivianos (roughly $1.20), which I politely declined (I went for the Bs 30 option instead - just kidding Mammy). The mines, it seems, are not the only thing in Potosi which cause crippling disease in return for a pittance.


Next time...

Fishy Basquaise....

The Uyuni Salt Flat; salty, and indeed, flat....

Why Mitch Albom is a total and complete and unforgiveable and unreformable asshole....