Potosi, Bolivia

Into the mouth of hell I stepped...

¨Watch your rucksack!¨
¨Sorry?¨

The lady from the bus company with which I was travelling sounded her verbal warning and departed.

¨Be careful with your rucksack!¨
¨Excuse me?¨

The French girl offered her advice and disappeared into the melee.

After checking that I was not displaying an obvious disregard for my belongings or that I wasn’t receiving unwanted attention from someone of obvious ill repute I boarded my bus. Following the warnings and the unavoidable need to put my large rucksack (mainly dirty clothes following life on the slat flats) on the roof I held my little rucksack (everything of value) with a pincer like grip.

Taking my assigned seat next to a man of indeterminate age (¨Its so hard to tell with these indigenous types¨ - Charles) I eyed him wearily as a potential bag thief but it became clear that apart from desiring to sit in both his own and my seat and undertaking vigorous preparations for the World Coca leaf chewing championships he would pose no threat. Thus I sat and hoped quietly to myself that the next six hours (my first on a Bolivian bus) would pass incident free.

Alas such a hope was futile at best and despite repeatedly telling myself that - this is travelling (!) - the next 14 hours (14 being 8 more than 6 for the mathematically challenged) of my life would not prove to be the most pleasant I have ever spent.

Although a ´direct´service to Potosi the driver seemed more than happy to pick up and drop off passengers and their baggage (invariably brought onboard and occasionally including livestock) here, there and everywhere. As the bus filled to record breaking proportions - 57 people, 6 chickens, 5 children and 2 llamas - the grip upon my rucksack became ever tighter and the space which I occupied ever smaller.

Devoid of music - I feared the iPod as such an obvious example of the accoutrements of Western wealth seemed entirely inappropriate - and unable to read due to the pervasive, oppressive and truth be told slightly ominous darkness I sat surrounded on all sides but with only my thoughts for company.

And thus we proceeded and, given the age of the bus, the first couple of hours passed without great event, disturbing noise or pilfered rucksack. Bolivia is nothing if not interesting though and as our five minute convenience break stretched to half an hour and then to an hour including a tyre change and some miscellaneous banging emanating from the engine it became apparent the first hours were but false dawn and that our forecast 6 hour journey time was passing from fact through fiction and on into fantasy.

Trying as best she could the bus in which I started my journey soldiered on for another couple of hours - the periods spent travelling becoming ever shorter as the periods spent idle increased until at 4am (we were due to arrive in Potosi at 1am) the driver and bus gave up.

Therefore the next three, seemingly interminable, hours of my life would be spent in single digit degree temperature, 4500m on top of a mountain pass in remote (1 bus a day) Bolivia. Fortunately another bus had been arranged to pick us up - unfortunately the bus driver neglected to mention this fact as we waited quite unsure what was going on.

With no feeling in hands or feet (physically rather than emotionally) I stumbled to the new bus and refrained from gazing out of the window for the remainder of the journey as the driver - rather pointlessly to my mind - tried to claw back some lost time. An admirable intention perhaps but not when the corners being taken at some significant spend are precariously precipitous to say the least.

Into the mouth of hell I stepped...

Descending from the bus relieved if a little tired I was given a rather harsh welcome as a violent wind accompanied by an assortment of dust, grit and urban detritus struck me straight across the face. First impressions of Potosi led me to think the bus journey was a pleasant experience.

With grit in my eyes I extracted the ever present guidebook from the closely watched rucksack and determined to walk to my lodgings (something to do with economising). Relying only on a notion of the right direction (the map being too small to show where I then stood) I set off rebuffing a barrage of taxi offers. Having walked for 10 minutes and having had no luck in matching a street name to my map I asked for directions in a shop - with perfect timing and not a smirk in sight the man pointed me straight back from whence I came. Thus a further 10 minutes later I stood back in the whirling dust of the bus station. After two further abortive attempts at finding the town centre I relented - sod the expense - hailed a taxi and 5 minutes and roughly 20p later found myself where I should have been an hour earlier.

Into the mouth of hell I stepped...

This time quite literally for if hell on Earth truly exists the mines of Potosi could surely stake their claim to that title.

Dispensing with the health and safety briefing in typically brisk Bolivian style and dressed in full mining get up myself and 23 others (Is anyone here travelling alone? That would be only me with my hand up then...) felt ready for the adventure to begin.

To set nerves jangling and before even setting foot within the mine we had witnessed our guide smoking a stick of dynamite, had each sipped 98% proof Alcohol Potable (a likely claim) and had an oxide of unidentified origin smeared on our faces. Bolivian tourism.

Bearing gifts of dynamite and fizzy drinks and chewing vociferously on coca leaves (they are supposed to help with the altitude) it was time for the real adventure to begin.

Into the mouth of hell I stepped...

The entrance to Satan’s salon, Beelzebub’s boudoir is marked by no special fanfare; St Peters evil twin does not greet or note your passing. Rather one passes through a seemingly innocuous hole where the darkness from within seems to fight with the sunshine for territory advancing further than it should. Through this portal man and metal have passed for many years creating riches and trouble in equal measure. For there is only one way in and if you are lucky, if it is not yet your time, one way out.

One step followed another, left after right. As the tunnel grew darker and ever smaller forward progress relied on senses other than sight. The heat slowly growing from unpleasant to unbearable as hands groped along wall and ceiling and the heart and head in unison told that turning back really was the thing to do. Claustrophobia, nausea and asthma stalked my every step. 20 metres in.

Mined for over 500 years the once rich silver lodes that attracted first the Incas, then the Spanish and even at times the English have long been excavated and thus now co-operatives of miners (only men for women in the mine are seen as bad luck) toil in medieval conditions for ever decreasing returns but spurred on - against the toxic fumes which leave not a lung untouched - lives in the mine can be long but retirement rarely is - by the hope for finding that rich seam, that last silver lode.

Generations of Potosi man has followed generations of Potosi man into the mines. Undeterred by the archaic conditions the mine remains resolutely and almost entirely manual and after one short burst of shovelling (more for the photo than to truly help - though I tried) I considered my mining career ended shortly after it had begun.

Beginning at a height of 4000m the mines are a physical, mental and emotional challenge. Lacking sufficient oxygen, enduring +35 degree heat and scrambling on hands and knees (and at times fully prone on stomach when the tunnels became quite disturbingly small) it is a tourist experience quite like any other.

Passing numerous other groups of foolhardy or just plain foolish souls there seemed to be people crawling throughout the bowels of the mine - left, right, up, down and save for the workers OUT OUT.

Part of an ever decreasing group as several of our member decided enough was enough we survived (for that is how it felt) and the tour complete our pace quickened with the promise of seeing the sky once more. Quite literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was worth the price of admission alone - to kill two clichés with one stone.

Into the mouth of hell I stepped...

Our day was not finished yet though and after regaining collective breaths it was time to take a crash course in assembling a fully functioning bang for your buck dynamite complete.

Once finished by my fair hand the complete was lit, held for the obligatory panic stricken photo (given no mention of safety records I was rather glad to hold it first with the fuse a healthy length) and then transported at high speed, deposited on the mountain side where it exploded (after a not excessively long time) with some vigour roughly above where we had been about half an hour ago - and yes where the miners still were...

Potosi - I have been to hell and back...