Hier gibt es diesen Artikel auf Deutsch.
My breathing is heavy. Never before have I been to a place as high in altitude – at about 4,300 meters – and as low in oxygen. But neither can I rest, nor can I enjoy the view. Instead, I descend into a stifling and dusty mine.
The beginning is not too bad. We follow the tracks for the trolleys. The ground is wet. At times I am wading in 20 cm of water.
But then we turn right into a narrower, lower, darker drift that resembles a cave. A shaft goes down 45 meters at a right angle. We use the shaft next to it. Not quite as deep, not quite as vertical, so I am not in complete free-fall as I am sliding down. These pants will have to get sewn.
I had some scary notions before I decided to go into one of the active mines of Cerro Rico in Potosí in Bolivia with Jonny, a former miner himself, and a few other visitors from Europe: The darkness. Narrow corridors, maybe claustrophobia. My biggest fear was getting stuck in a narrow passage. Embarrassment would top the peril. And of course a cave-in, followed by dying of hunger and thirst, by suffocating or freezing to death. Now, while brachiating down slippery boulders in darkness and in wellingtons, I realize that the gravest danger lies in slipping and breaking a leg or smashing my skull. After all, I am in the mountains. Inside a mountain, even. But without any rope or harness, only a headlamp attached to the loose helmet, slick rocks everywhere and dynamite in my backpack.
Yes, dynamite.
To convince the miners to allow us to visit them at work, we went to the market before in order to buy gifts. Jonny recommended that each of us should purchase a stick of dynamite, with detonator and fuse of course, a few cans of beer and a bag with coca leaves. I don’t know how much the dynamite cost, but I paid 25 bolivianos (about 3.30 Euros) for the whole combination – in which as an anti-alcoholic I replaced the beer with juice, which would later earn me very evil eyes from the miners. Thus, the dynamite can’t be too expensive. The market in Potosí is probably the only market in the world where you can get explosives with detonator, alcohol and drugs for the price of a kebab. (I wouldn’t be surprised if out of all sentences in all my articles about Bolivia, this is the one to increase tourism to Bolivia the most.)
Our small platoon has only been inside the mine for five minutes, and I am already beginning to regret the decision. As so often, curiosity had prevailed over fear. And the price of 12 Euros for touring an active mine for several hours was too enticing for a cheapskate like me.
One level lower. We are walking bent over until we have to crawl on the floor. On wobbly wooden panels, we cross deep holes. In a side corridor we meet Grover. Usually, the miners only go into the mountain in teams of three or four, but today he works alone at this badly accessible spot.Grover is 21 years old. He began working in the mine when he was 16. Jonny, who only guides tourists now, began at age 13. Child labor is legal in Bolivia. The schools run an evening shift for children who work during the day.
I ask Grover why he is working alone today. “The prices are not good right now. So, many don’t want to work at all.” I don’t understand what he means, have to ask him again. Then, a 21-year old crouched in a narrow shaft in almost complete darkness, interrupted by the sound of distant explosions, explains that the number of workers in the mines fluctuates with the world market prices for silver, zinc and tin. When China needs more resources, more 13-year olds will work in the mines again. When the world economy is ailing, they will return to school. The salary fluctuates too, but it isn’t all too bad. The mining boys can achieve 800 to 1,200 bolivianos (= 100 to 160 Euros) per week. Contrast that with a statutory minimum wage of 1,800 bolivianos (= 240 Euros) for a whole month, and the motivation is obvious. Working in the mountain means coming home dirty and tired, but you’ll be relatively rich.
At the top of the front page, the local newspaper El Potosí lists the daily prices for gold, silver, copper, lead, tin and zinc, just like newspapers in the rest of the world will list the maximum and minimum temperatures expected for the day. Currently, most of these prices are half as much as they were five years ago. For example, you can get an ounce for silver for 20 dollars today, when you still had to pay 43 dollars in 2011. Granted, that was a short bubble, but like all people, miners have a selective memory and prefer to remember the boom times. Also, many of them are simply too young to remember commodity prices prior to 2011.
Crawling, sliding and climbing along paths that I could never retrace myself, we get into a larger drift. There is a pair of railway tracks and I can stand upright again. Some boys are standing below a hatch, from which, as soon as they pull away a thick wooden board, stones are crashing down from a higher-lying drift. Under the hatch the miners have pushed a trolley, into which one of the boys mounts, wearing at least a helmet, but apart from that little protection in his T-shirt and with bare hands.
Then they let between one and two tons of rock rumble down. In clouds of dust and stone chippings that fly about, the boy is dancing from one side of the trolley to the other, trying to spread the rocks evenly. He holds up a spade with all the power he can muster to stop the avalanche of rocks. Now his two colleagues have to re-insert the wooden board in a way that the mass of stones pressing from above will be held back and that the three miners won’t be buried. High-tech like in the time of the conquistadors. But at least there is no more forced labor or slavery.
Because Cerro Rico has experienced that, too. The first silver at the mountain was discovered in 1545, which delighted the Spanish occupiers even more than previous discoveries of tobacco, potatoes, cacao, attractive latina women and malaria.The top of Cerro Rico (the name, which it obviously only received after the precious find, means “rich mountain”) was made out of extremely rich silver ore, which could be laid bare and extracted relatively easily. What you see today are still an imposing 4,800 meters, but the original height was 5,183 meters. The upper 400 meters were completely removed. Even today, the mountain shrinks by a few centimeters every year. Worried, I ask Jonny if the mountain won’t one day collapse due to the many adits, drifts, levels and shafts drilled into it. “Don’t worry,” he says, knocking on rock, “this is granite. Super-solid. Nothing can happen here.” Oh, well.
The silver deposits at Cerro Rico were so rich that they financed the Spanish empire over the coming centuries, including the wars led in Europe which Spain couldn’t have fought otherwise. This small town in Bolivia changed the course of world history. But it wasn’t always small! At the foot of Cerro Rico, the population exploded like never before in Europe or in the Americas. When the silver was discovered, 3,000 natives and only 170 Spaniards lived in Potosí. Two years later, 2,500 houses had been built to accommodate 14,000 people. In 1560 the population was around 60,000, twenty years later the 100,000-threshold was crossed, and at the heyday of Potosí, at the beginning of the 17th century, around 160,000 people lived on this inhospitable patch of land. The city was larger than Paris, New York or Berlin at the time. Potosí was once – at the same time- the highest, the largest and the richest city in all of North and South America. But except for the mines, there was nothing. Cities in more fertile areas of Bolivia, like Cochabamba, only grew because they were producing food for the miners. Even if the silver was meant for Spain, trickle-down economics worked for Potosí. Mansions as large and as beautiful as in Madrid were built, as were 25 churches. And there was a lot of booze every night.
The ones who suffered for all of this were the Indians, who were forced to work in the mines, and the slaves shipped over from Africa. Many of them already died on the way across the Atlantic. Now imagine malnourished, weakened, abused slaves from West Africa being brought to an ice-cold climate above 4,000 meters altitude and being sent to work in mines, and you understand the name “the mountain that eats men”.
From around 1650 it went downhill. The silver became less, the remaining ore harder to extract, and it had a lower silver content. In 1825, when Bolivia became independent, Potosí had a population of 9,000 left. It was a small town again, albeit one that was fought over several times during the Wars of Independence. At the end of the 19th century, there came another boom, this time for tin. Of course the tin had been there before, but next to the more shiny silver it had been ignored. Cerro Rico’s belly became alive again, and it filled with dead miners once more (admittedly far fewer than under the Spanish rule). This went well until the tin crash in 1985. As everyone knows from their own life, such a tin crash can really hit you hard. The Bolivian state overreacted and in its disappointment gave up all mining activity at Cerro Rico.
The miners whom I meet today are thus working in cooperatives which they founded and organize themselves. There are 36 of them. The concessions are still granted by the government to avoid everyone digging and exploding about crazily. Around 200 mines are currently active, thousands have been decommissioned, although I will discover a few “private mines” closer to the top of the mountain during my ascent the next day. By the way, women are barred from working in the mines of Potosí. Jonny explains that the miners would deem this to be a bad omen and also that Pachamama, the goddess of the Earth, could become jealous. And if there is one thing I can testify to, it is how easily Latin-American women can get jealous. Until a few years ago, women weren’t even allowed as visitors. I personally believe that this is more due to the macho culture, which is quite apparent. The men in the mine slap, jostle and insult each other. Overall, Potosí seemed rougher to me than the rest of Bolivia.
But one might as well cut these people slack when you know about the shortened life expectancy of the miners. And about the many widows and orphans supported by the cooperatives. Because the mountain only contains rests of ore, which must be laboriously extracted from different far-lying spots, the use of modern technology wouldn’t be worth the investment. Although I do wonder why none of the miners at least wears a mask over their mouth. During the about two hours in the mine, I had no chance to take out the notebook from my backpack, yet afterward it is fully covered in dust. What may the lungs of the workers look like after 8 or 12 hours of work? The miners tell me that chewing coca leaves works like a filter, but I readily relegate this to the realm of rumor.
The belief in myths is strong with these tough guys who read the listings of the commodity exchange every day. On the way back we pass an alcove in which there sits a devil in life-size. El tío, the uncle, is his name, but it may also originate from the Spanish dios (God).
According to the sincere belief of the miners, he is the lord of the underworld, who must be appeased with alcohol and coca and by sacrificing a llama from time to time. (You see the blood on the wall?) Because carnival was just a few months ago, it is draped in tinsel. But I actually believe that we disturbed Tío at an intimate moment because he sits there without underpants and with a hard-on. So I am happy when we say hasta luego to the scantily-clad knave of the cave .
Now I would even find the way back myself. Because the trolleys are harder to push when they are fully laden, the tracks run towards the exit on a slightly downward slope. Following this direction, freedom and fresh air beckon. The only danger are the massive trolleys, weighing more than a ton, that are being pushed through the darkness. Whenever one of them approaches, we shout at each other and quickly have to find a cave or a side drift to make way. As a precaution, I ask Jonny how long the batteries in the headlamps will last. “Don’t worry, these are good batteries. From China”, he replies. “With lithium from Bolivia?” I ask, half in jest. “Exactly!” Now he gets angry, breaks out in a tirade against the government. “We have all the natural resources here, but no factories. We produce nothing! Instead, we ship everything to China.” Only the dirt and the dust, the disabled and the dead, they remain
The light glistens brightly when we step out of the monster’s mouth. I feel relief. For the first time, I have the chance to take a closer look at the barren slopes of the mountain. They are riddled with entries. Like the arm of a drug addict.
Men go into the mountain. Men come out of the mountain.
Children dig through mounds of stones, searching for something of value. Men load trucks. Every day, several thousand people work in Cerro Rico. From here come the metals that are turned into the computer, the tablet or the phone on which you have read this article.
Practical information:
Even on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, you are being watched.
It would actually be a good idea to combine book and shoe stores. Then we bookworms can join our friends who are obsessed with shoes and can read for a few hours.
But I don’t think that was the idea of this shop in Las Palmas on Gran Canaria.
It was not exactly as imagined,
but my office on board was actually quite cozy. Larger, lighter and quieter than some places I have lived.
Because the ocean offers fewer distractions than land, particularly if you don’t have internet, it’s quite a good place for writing. I did not get tired of the monotonous cruising at all, quite the contrary, I could have continued for months. Except that I couldn’t afford it. And if only there wasn’t so much food. All the time. For free.
But I am happy I didn’t choose to go by submarine.
Always remember:
This reminder was photographed on the cruise ship Sovereign, with which I crossed the Atlantic. The reason for the temporary limitation of physical activity was that the jogging route went around deck 7 and was exactly above the suites on deck 6. As this was where I had taken up quarters, I can confirm that the trampling fitness freaks did indeed wake me up.
When Alexander von Humboldt traveled in Venezuela in 1800, he was told by locals about the rapidly falling water levels of Lake Valencia. He established a theory that connected deforestation, falling water levels and change of (micro-)climate. Expanding on this, he later predicted that man-made interventions would lead to irreversible climate change, limiting the chances of future generations. He was one of the first scientists not only interested in specific plants or animals or limited ecosystems, but who saw a worldwide, interconnected ecosystem with mankind as a (destructive) part of it.
From the very interesting book The Invention of Nature by Andrea Wulf:
In the midst of the valley and surrounded by mountains was Lake Valencia. About a dozen rocky islands dotted the lake, some large enough to pasture goats and to farm. At sunset thousands of herons, flamingos and wild ducks brought the sky alive as they flew across the lake to roost on the islands. It looked idyllic but, as the locals told Humboldt, the lake’s water levels were falling rapidly. […]
As Humboldt investigated, he concluded that the clearing of the surrounding forests […] had caused the falling water levels. [Planters] had felled trees to clear land, and with it the forest’s undergrowth – moss, brushwood and root systems – had disappeared, leaving the soils beneath exposed to the elements and incapable of water retention. […]
All this was ‘closely connected’, Humboldt concluded, because in the past the forests had shielded the soil from the sun and thereby diminished the evaporation of the moisture. It was here, at Lake Valencia, that Humboldt developed his idea of human-induced climate change. […]
At Lake Valencia, Humboldt began to understand deforestation in a wider context and projected his local analysis forward to warn that the agricultural techniques of his day could have devastating consequences. The action of humankind across the globe, he warned, could affect future generations. What he saw at Lake Valencia, he would see again and again – from Lombardy in Italy to southern Peru, and many decades later in Russia. As Humboldt described how humankind was changing the climate, he unwittingly became the father of the environmental movement.
Humboldt was the first to explain the fundamental functions of the forest for the ecosystem and climate: the trees’ ability to store water and to enrich the atmosphere with moisture, their protection of the soil, and their cooling effect. He also talked about the impact of trees on the climate through the release of oxygen. The effects of the human species’ intervention were already ‘incalculable’, Humboldt insisted, and could become catastrophic if they continued to disturb the world so ‘brutally’. […]
It was all an ecological chain reaction. ‘Everything,’ Humboldt later said, ‘is interaction and reciprocal’. […] Humankind, he warned, had the power to destroy the environment and the consequences could be catastrophic.
From today’s perspective, this is nothing extraordinary, of course. But at the very beginning of the 19th century, this broke with a man-centered view of the world and with the optimistic belief that any human intervention would always bring progress.
“Why did nobody listen to what I said?”
(Many thanks to my reader Rodrigo Perez Garcia for sending me this fascinating book! If you also want to show your appreciation for my blog, here is my wishlist of books. Thank you! – Hier geht es zur deutschen Fassung.)
Despite promises of everything to anyone without any basis in reality and without any concept for achieving it (much like the Brexit campaigners) the Official Monster Raving Loony Party has so far only had moderate electoral success even in an eccentric country assortment of four countries that are somehow one, but then again are not, like the United Kingdom. (Limited warranty applies to the term “United”.)
The years of floccinaucinihilipilification of this very British tradition by the ungrateful British voters has finally come to an end, albeit without any of these voters having a say in it: Today, Boris Johnson, the biggest monster raving loony still in freedom has been appointed Foreign Secretary.
Ironically for the Brexit voters who believed they voted for “democracy” and “sovereignty”, the appointment was made by someone who was appointed by someone who came to power 63 years ago by virtue of her father’s death and based on the claim that God once handed a magic sword to one of her ancestors.
Lencois in Brazil is a typical town that had a boom (diamonds, in this case) and then a bust. Recently, tourism has revived it a bit. But where diamond miners still cared about music, opera and theater, tourists don’t. And another institution dies.
Now, only two dogs are giving their interpretation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.
The Happy Hermit 