The Exploitation and Contradiction of South America - Blowing My Mine: Volume 3, Episode 2

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From last episode you might recall...nothing, so read it again because nobody wants to wait around for you while you search for the understanding of such transcendental topics. The miner's strike lasted three days. Whether it was resolved or the miners couldn't afford to feed their families by missing work (which would be an unfortunate irony), I will never know. But assuming that nothing probably changed, life did go on. And we were able to, once in Potosí, make the decision to empathize, rationalize, patronize, exploit - call it what you will - the deplorable situation of the miners by taking a tour of the mines given by a former miner.

He has extended his life (for a cut in pay) by improving his English during his years underground and has been hired to lead tours. After putting on our rented gear of pants, a jacket, boots, helmet, and a lamp, we headed to the area of town where the miners buy their dynamite, coca leaves, and booze (most miners drink alcohol at all waking hours). We had the forsight to purchase a bottle of Singani (a strong, cheap liquor made from grapes - like Italian Grappa) that morning along with a liter of Ceibo, which is 100% alcohol and costs one dollar - the miners mix it with water. It tastes like burning. We also bought gifts for the miners, a bunch of coca leaves for us, and some dynamite for later.

On the way into the mine Andy and I had a shot of Ceibo for good luck but spit a good part of it out into a lighter flame to prove we could breath fire. We entered, hunched, past some antique but still functioning mining equipment. All were fairly quiet on the way in; Andy and I because we still couldn't talk from the burn of the Ceibo in our throats and our cheeks were packed tight with lejia and coca.

I don't need to go off about the conditions in a mine, do I? Dark, musty yet dusty, rank-smelling, dirty puddles and small openings. Increasing heat the further in you spelunk. A film of mud covering your hands and any bare skin, a film of sweat brewing under your thick protective suit. Eerie silence shattered only by piercing, metallic grinds, blasts, or screams. But our group was just concentrating on keeping the pace of our guide, Pedro, as he snaked his way through the shafts with his tiny Incan frame. Meanwhile we struggled not to trip or smash our lights against the top while bending as low as possible at the knees and lunging forward to keep pace. At 4200 meters, it seemed like a recipe for hypervenhilation.

Each time dizziness became nearly overwhelming the juice of the coca leaves slowly leaking down my throat always seemed to be the factor that kept me alert and on my feet. Finally, the shaft widened a bit and the ceiling raised to where I could almost stand up. We all slowed when we saw Pedro, who stood smiling next to an appalling ceramic devil which blocked our paths. We all took a seat to rest as Pedro told us about the devil, Tío, who had horns and a cigarette in his mouth, and whose feet were covered in ash, coca leaves, and an assortment of liquor bottles. He eplained:

All the miners gather on Saturday after their last day of the work week (they have only Sundays off) to drink with Tío and each other. They pass around bottles of Ceibo and Singani in a circle in celebration. But equally important to getting drunk is pouring out a small bit of drink as a sacrifice to Pachamama (Quechua for "mother earth") and then another bit for Tío. Pachamama is a simple enough concept as it was explained to me. The harvest, the seasons, the fertility of women: these are things Pachamama can control and can therefore be asked for and thanked for with the pour from a bottle. In the weeks before we arrived, llama sacrifices were also being made at the entrance to the mine every Saturday as another sacrifice to Pachamama. The blood stains were evident near the opening to the mine. This is a way of giving blood back to the earth without sacrificing the miners themselves, who are needed to farm the mine.

The second pour from the bottle is to Tío, who is the god or devil of the mine, depending on how things are going at the time. Even before Spanish rule, which started 350 years ago, the miners worshiped Tío; cursed him for his evil and bad luck, thanked him when times were prosporous, but always poured liquor and dropped coca leaves at his feet. When the bottle came to Pedro he poured twice, took a monstorous chug of the 100% alcohol and, unphased (due to his years in the mines), asked Tío for more Japanese tourists.

"For better tips, Pedro?"
"No, they are shorter than Europeans and can keep up in the mines."

Then, on a more serious note, Pedro went on to describe the darker relevance of Tío. Tío is a word like amigo or dude. The Spanish men use it to refer to each other as such. According to belief, Tío can appear as an apparition in the form of a white-skinned, red-bearded, pink-cheeked devil who causes pain and suffering to the native people. Tío is the white man. The white man is the devil. And he represents the source of all evil when he appears. Maybe it was the aftershock of the sip from the one dollar bottle of Singani, as it certainly wasn't the heat inside the shaft, but that thought blew my mine and sent a shiver down my spine. Being the devil myself, it was difficult to pour out to Tío after that, although I did curse him the next morning when a girl scored a goal on me in a high-altitute Sunday football match. It was the highest I'd ever played.

Now let me reiterate that powerful forces from deep within the earth working millions of years have concentrated certain natural elements into deposits, and that is the bottom line here in this mine. Take away exploitation and add rationalization and 400 years of time, these miners are doing what they choose to do for a living. Or at least that is how one miner explained it to us as he pounded his stone-age chisels into solid rock with a hammer as we watched from a much tighter and hotter area a few levels higher (we had ascended) in the mine.

I sang out, "It's getting hot in here!"
"So take off all your gear," finished Andy, as the combination of Ceibo and lack of oxygen (or as we like to call it, the alcotude) was obviously starting to affect our brains.

The first miner we met was called Cientoseiscientos. Cientoseiscientos, like many other miners, came to the mines from the farm by choice in order to earn more money. Because of this he spoke no Spanish when he arrived; only Quechua, his native language. His peers gave him his name the first time he asked for his wages which were 160 Bolivian Pesos (ciento sesenta). But not being able to speak Spanish he could only say cientoseis cientos (one hundred six hundred). He was an anomaly as he was about forty (looked 70) and still alive and working. One of the lucky ones...I guess. 100/600 passed our group in the mines but he paused to pour some Singani to the earth for Pachamama and Tío, accepted some gifts, then disappeared down another shaft into the darkness.

Our group took a seat in a cramped area where a young shirtless miner was working. He spoke some Spanish and took a break from slowly, methodically pounding his hammer and chisel into the solid rock wall to talk to us about our countries and our significant others. Meanwhile we tried the dubious novelty of slamming the heavy metal mallet against the spike, making millimeters of progress every five hits. After a space large enough to fit a stick of dynamite inside was hollowed (one full day's work), the miners blow the rock and spend days clearing the rubble by hand, and, after sifting through looking for tin deposits, transfer the broken rocks to the entrance of the mine by archaic cart. All the while they breathe in tiny particles and poisonous gases that will most certainly lead to their death.

After three hours in the mine, blowing my mine, I felt like I had learned, seen, and experienced more in one half day than in any other day in my life. But the day was just beginning. We were all hungry, tired, hot, dirty, dizzy, had alcotude poisoning, and needed to leave the mine. The group exploded some dynamite outside and headed down the mountain to return the gear. Later Amber, Andy, and I went to some thermal baths in the mountains outside of town, which steam cleaned our bodies but not my mind or conscience.

In all my comfort, the same questions kept running through my mine: What keeps these men in the mine when the salary is barely beneficial and their life is in jeopardy? What is the impact of tourism? Are we helping the miners with our gifts or by buying so much dynamite and blowing it off only raising the price of it so miners won't be able to afford it? Are we also helping the mine owners and tour industry tighten their financial stranglehold on the miners and their families by bringing our money here? Are we treating the miners like animals in a zoo? What is the culture behind this tough breed of people and their profession outside of the tour groups' and public's eye? We didn't know it at the time but when our guide, San Pedro, invited Amber, Andy, and I to meet him later that night (he thought we were interesting and spoke good Spanish - probably), all these questions and more would be at least partially elucidated.


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