Devil's Mine

Through narrow pitch dark claustrophobic tunnels, sheer rock above, beside and below us, through choking dust, oxygen-deficient air, abundant in treacherous gases, and of course the searing heat, we struggled our struggle, just to see what struggles other strugglers have to struggle everyday of their lives. Until they die.
No wonder our operator made us sign our lives away, freeing them from any responsibility should we suffer "any accident, injury or death". More miners die from cave-ins than through any other cause they helpfully pointed out. Oh well, that's alright then. Where do I sign? But sign it we did. There was no way we were going to miss this adventure!

Today miners generally die 10 to 15 years after first entering the mines of silicosis pneumonia. It's inevitable after seven to 10 years but a cooperative medical plan offers a pension of $15 a month for miners who contract it, while they may retire once they lose 50 per cent of their lung capacity from it. Upon death, the widow can collect his pension.
Pedro Blanco started working in the mines at Cerro Rico when he was just 10 years old. (Illegal for those under 18 in Bolivia, but putting food on the table is a priority.) He escaped when he was 15, and now brings curious gringos down to the hell he used to work in.

The dynamite is of varying quality apparently, and the quality of the rest of the equipment could only be described as shit. For these miners low prices take precedence over safety. Helmets go for next to nothing, their protection an equivalent level. We bought a couple of masks to help protect us from the dust and gases. They broke straight away. Lamps are imported from China. "Very bad quality," Pedro explained, "like everything made in China."

On the way to the mines we passed a miners' football match on the local "pitch", worse than some of the pitches in Ireland. A dog drank from a huge puddle in the middle of it while the game was in progress. We learned the miners from the Potosí cooperative beat their fierce rivals from another mine than morning. The players had gone straight to the match after working all day and the night before. Several of the players were still there, absolutely goutered. I could only imagine their state later on (New Year's Eve).

We went on and on, single file, piercing the darkness with beams from our headlamps, ducking and crouching all the while. The air was hard to breathe, dusty and unpalatable, and the heat was rising. Still we went on. 300 metres or so inside we stopped for breath. What breath we could breathe - the dust was making it difficult, while the altitude wasn't helping either. We were 4,250 metres above sea level at this stage, despite being 200 metres or more below ground. Jenny wisely decided at this stage to turn back while she still could. Conditions were only going to deteriorate. We, like fools, continued on.

The mines themselves fit most descriptions of hell, dark, underground, unbearably hot, so the miners naturally presume that the very minerals and metals they are extracting belong to the devil himself. For this reason they make offerings to Tío, usually alcohol, coca leaves or cigarettes, to appease him and to ask him for safety and good fortune.
He was surrounded by said offerings when we arrived. We sat down beside him, happy to take a break, and Pedro produced a can of beer. He opened it and poured some on the ground, asking Tío for his blessings, for a safe visit, happy travels for me etc. He then took a big gulp and passed it on. I too poured some on the ground and made my own wishes before drinking.
Pedro explained that the men work on groups. They basically start digging, and if they find something, if they hit a patch, it's theirs. No one else dares go in or take anything from their find.

The miners don't earn a wage but depend on what they find to provide them with an income. Some are lucky; some have become very rich. Most are not though, finding just enough to scrape a meagre living. Some go weeks without finding anything at all. They have to borrow to stay in the hunt. "Many miners are in prison. They weren't able to pay back what they owed. Some have lost their houses, everything," Pedro pointed out.

Every day when he came home his mother would ask him: "Did you have luck? Did you find a seam?" but the answer was invariably "no".
When Pedro himself started, she asked him the same thing everyday.
Again, the answer was always "no".
Now she tells her friends Pedro did indeed find a seam, "a rich seam of gringitos".

Seams are vertical too, so despite the increased risk of cave-ins, and although they're not allowed, they dig up and down too.
"It's very dangerous. They're supposed to go to the next level below, 20 metres down, and find the seam from there. But they say they need the money. What can you do?"
Experienced miners, usually the leaders in the miner hierarchy and the ones who take the lion's share from any finds, can tell what minerals or elements are in the rock as soon as they see it. Not Pedro though. Probably why he's a tour guide now.

The problem is acerbated by the lack of oxygen; over 4km up and deep inside a mountain, the lungs gasp for whatever air they can get, dust, carcinogenics and all. Jenny was right to head back when she did.

Eventually we make it down to the third level, 65 metres from where we started. A rickety old wooden ladder brings us down to where more tracks ran off into the darkness.

Behind him come two more, pulling a trolley laden with rocks by ropes slung over the shoulders, sweat glistening on their foreheads, teeth gritted, with two more miners behind, pushing the trolley with all their might, sweating and gritting as well.
They all greet us good-naturedly and are very happy with the dynamite we bought. After exchanging pleasantries they go one way, we the other.

I spot some sparkly shit glistening on the walls.
"¿Que es?" I ask.
"Arsénico."
"¿Es peligroso no?"
"Si. Muy peligroso."
It's everywhere. Unavoidable.

It gets damn hot in the depths of the mines. 30°C where we were but 45° or more further down. Forget about protection, the miners here work in their underwear. Some of them wear nothing at all. "They go a bit crazy down there in the dark and the heat," Pedro pointed out.
We meet the other half of our tour group. Argentinians who think the sun shines out of their arses. Not down here it don't. Nothing shines down here. Soon they're singing and dancing, much to the miners' amusement. One of the Argentinians starts whistling but is immediately warned to desist. "Mala suerte," Pedro explains. He's very serious all of a sudden. No whistling allowed anywhere in the mine.
It's time to head back. I hope the bad luck doesn't kick in. Before we do however, we all turn off our headlamps. The eyes don't adjust because there's nothing to adjust to. Not a twinkle. Nada. Total darkness. Blacker than Thatcher's heart.
We move on. It's a real struggle getting back up a level, climbing and crawling through the narrow passageway again. Gasping for dust-choked air and sweating from the heat and exertion. On hands and knees I make it back up the first level, hair stuck to the helmet from the sweat. I already feel safer.

I finally make it, blinking in the sunlight, gulping in the fresh air.
I throw away my mask in disgust. I'm caked in dust and can still feel it in my throat and lungs. Jaysus, it's horrible!
None of the miners wear masks, good, bad or indifferent. It's too hot to wear them and they only restrict breathing in any case. Air laced with deadly particles is better than no air at all.

His brother has a similar story, leaving a well-paid job in Santa Cruz to return. The lure of the lucky strike always brings them back.
"We say Tío is calling us," Pedro laughed. "He calls us back to the mine."
He himself, of course, hasn't really escaped, bringing tour groups there every day. "I love my job, but I know I have to change it," he admitted. "Doctors say even an hour a day is very bad and I spend two hours, sometimes four if I've a group in the afternoon, down there everyday."

"One miner, that's his cabin there," he pointed with a nod of his head, "was working with his brothers when there was a rock fall. Huge rocks trapped him up to his waist. His brothers ran up shouting for help and all the miners ran to save him. He was crying, in terrible pain. He couldn't move.
"They started lifting out the rocks. One guy lifted one out but then more came tumbling down. The miner cried and asked them to look after his wife and children. He begged them to blow him up, to put him out of his pain. But more rocks kept falling and the miners had to run to save themselves. It was very very sad."

"That's why you should dynamite in the evenings and come back to dig the next day," Pedro reasoned. Of course, there's no night or day under the mountain. It's always dark.
"Sometimes miners fall down holes too when they're drunk," he added. Ninety-six per cent proof - I'm not surprised.

More pictures from the mine and the other associated shenanigans can be seen here: http://picasaweb.google.com/faheyc/PotosiMine#
fuuuuck! you're nuts!
ReplyDeleteMines extraction is really a difficult task and requires various labours efforts since it requires lots of hard work efforts for extracting the mines therefore the condor blanco mines managing director is focusing on it
ReplyDeleteMines extraction has effected various people life.Since mines extraction needs exploitation and that effects the other people life since people living near mines area have to left their home
ReplyDelete