I had another fantastic spontaneous trip this weekend. This time it was Potosí, an old colonial mining town up at some 4,200m in the Bolivian altiplano.
At about 6pm on Friday, Jack and I (we couldn't persuade anyone else at such short notice) decided we didn't want to stay in Cochabamba, so managed to pack our bags and catch another overnight bus an hour or so later. This one was twelve hours, and it was even colder than previously. Thanks to the chilly temperatures, wailing babies, and an hour long stop with the doors open and lights on at about 3am in the morning, we arrived into the bus terminal on no more than 3 hours of sleep just after sunrise. A glorious sunrise, so Jack told me, but I was enjoying a rare 20 minutes of sleep at the time.
At about 6pm on Friday, Jack and I (we couldn't persuade anyone else at such short notice) decided we didn't want to stay in Cochabamba, so managed to pack our bags and catch another overnight bus an hour or so later. This one was twelve hours, and it was even colder than previously. Thanks to the chilly temperatures, wailing babies, and an hour long stop with the doors open and lights on at about 3am in the morning, we arrived into the bus terminal on no more than 3 hours of sleep just after sunrise. A glorious sunrise, so Jack told me, but I was enjoying a rare 20 minutes of sleep at the time.
Located in an otherwise unattractive area of Bolivia, barren highlands where little vegetation is able to flourish, the main attraction of Potosí are the mines, dug deep into a dusty red cerro (hill) that overlooks the town. Potosi was very sleepy so early in the morning, but we managed to check into a hostel and (after being misdirected several times) locate the tour agency with the best reputation for taking people down the mines, Koala Tours (surely set up by an Aussie expat but we never met him). After hearing some horrific descriptions of what was in store, we decided we'd rather pay that little bit more and be safe. Still a little dazed and sleepy from the journey, after grabbing a quick breakfast we signed the rather perturbing disclaimer that we accept fully the risks involved (including deaths from collapsing tunnels, gas poisoning, these sorts of things) and jumped on the tour minibus. First stop was the storehouse of Koala Tours to get kitted out in our mining gear. We did look very sexy in huge overpants and shiny overcoats, topped off by bright yellow hard hats and headlamps powered by giant orange batterys attached to the belts around our waists. Oh, and wellies. We decided to invest in handkerchiefs to put over our mouths and noses to avoid breathing in too much of the arsenic, cyanide and God knows what other toxic gases fill the mine tunnels.
Next stop was the miners' market. The markets were much like those in other Bolivian cities, full of campesinos selling their lotions and potions and wierd good luck charms, but with locally specific extras such as gas masks, dynamite, 95% proof alcohol, and a few decorated llamas awaiting sacrifice. It turned out that we'd chosen to visit Potosí during the annual festival celebrating Pachamama, or Mother Earth, which involved, as well as the inevitable copious drinking, lots of llama sacrificing. Jack and I bought some of the alcohol and dynamite to make the visit a little more exciting, and wandered round trying to avoid thinking about what was going to happen to the poor llamas. Before starting the long windy ascent up the Cerro Rico to the mines, we had a tour round the unbelievably primitive factories where the silver and other minerals are seperated from the crap that comes with them. Much like what was to come, everything was dirty and ancient, and looked like a death trap; it felt like stepping back into the early years of the industrial revolution. I found it almost impossible to believe that one of the world's most important mining towns (at one point, albeit at least a hundred years ago or so, it produced some 50% of the worlds precious minerals) had such antique processing plants.
After a brief discussion about what was going to happen, we finally pulled up our handkerchiefs over our mouths, turned on our headlamps, and entered the mines. It was one of the grimmest hours of my life, and it felt more like 10. The mine shafts are crudely dug out of the hill as if by hand, and it takes enormous concentration to ensure you don't trip over the uneven floor or bash your head on the still more uneven ceilings or the bits of wood or cable protruding from them. Poor Jack, at over 6ft, struggled rather, to say the least. Breathing was the greatest challenge down there. I can't imagine how an asthmatic claustrophobic would cope. Well, they wouldn't. The principle tunnels were bad enough, but the tunnels linking one "level" to another were appalling. We had to get on our hands and knees and crawl in many sections, at very steep gradients. At one point we had to slide on our bums some 20m down a near vertical shaft, trying to avoid the nails in the wood floor. Outside the mines, due to the altitude, it was freezing, but deeper inside the hill it began to get very hot. Temperatues reach 35 degrees centigrade in parts. To say we were uncomfortable in our well-layered thermals and fleeces would be a gross understatement. Consider also the near total darkness, the clouds of toxic dust that clogged up every tunnel, plus the double-foldedhandkerchief that we had to clutch to our mouths to breathe through, and all this at an altitude of well over 4000m, to which we were definitely unacclimatised, and you still can't imagine how miserable it was. Had I had enough breath to talk I might have asked to be taken back out. The poor miners. They still work in there. Incredible.
Finally I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. With immense relief I felt the air get cooler and fresher as we stumbled towards daylight again. But leaving the stifling heat, dust and darkness of the mines and coming face to face with what was going on outside was like being saved from the frying pan only to be thrust into the fire. Still half awake after so little sleep, and probably slightly intoxicated and oxygen-deprived, it took a while to register what we were seeing. It certainly took a few seconds to realize that what looked like bright red paint, collected in hard hats, running in streams towards the mines, and daubed everywhere, was actually blood. Upside down right in the entrance to the mine shaft, with their necks slit and their legs sprawled apart to allow for the disection to take place, were three huge dead llamas, and all around them, if not getting ready to disembowel the poor beasts, Bolivians were chatting and drinking. I thought I'd be a lot more traumatised than I was to see the scene of a massacre. Perhaps I was still dazed from the previous 14 hours or so. Though I think we were fortunate not to witness the actual slaughter itself. The revellers (!) motioned for us to take a seat, less than a meter away from one of the corpses, and handed us a beer to share. And then the shots came round. So, this Saturday morning, we sat and drank whilst right in front of us the men of Potosí proceeded to cut open three beautiful dead llamas and slowly extract their innards and shovel them into a cardboard box. If I had ever wanted a biology lesson on the physical composition of cameloids, I was getting a real treat. I'd never before seen every single organ, in real life, of an animal so close without it being on television. But I'd never been that keen on biology. Instead I was simultaneously repulsed yet irresistably compelled to watch this grotesque spectacle unfold. And the beer was quite refreshing. We sat there for a while, in a semi-trance, taking lots of photos and saying "eeuggh" and other remarks of disgust, to somehow make us feel better about taking part in the festivities.
Eventually, with all three llamas completely disembowelled, our tour guide said it was time to leave. We wandered accross the hillside, past some more Potosí men digging graves for the llamas (for good luck in the mines in the next year), and past some others cooking potatoes in hand-built stone ovens. Before we left, our guide Roland took our stick of dynamite and we had our photos taken holding the crude bomb whilst the fuse burnt down the stem.
The events of the morning didn't stop Jack ordering roast llama for lunch. He quite enjoyed it too.
That afternoon we walked round the city, wandering through the colonial plazas and along steep, narrow cobbled streets in search of the churches whose spires we spotted over the red rooftops. We didn't have the energy for the Casa de Moneda (literally House of Coins, a museum located in a beautiful colonial mansion), which my family considers a crime. Instead, we discovered that for the price of a cup of tea in the cafe of a cathedral-like building on the main plaza, the proprieter would move aside the wrought iron gate from the entrace to a narrow stairway and let us climb up onto the roof. Coincidentally, we'd timed it perfectly; the sun was just setting. From atop of one of the highest buildings in Potosí, we got some awesome views of the city skyline against the pink and orange skies. I'm glad health and safety standards aren't so strict over here.
We both slept like logs that night. After, that is, I had to climb in through the bathroom window of our room to let us in. Our roommates had left with the only key. The next day, again with Koala Tours (we ate breakfast and lunch in their cafe, slept in their hostel, and went on their tours - they got a lot of our money this weekend), we hired mountain bikes and cycled some 25km to the aguas termales, or hot springs, of Tarapaya. The ride was great - mostly downhill, but then it didn't take much uphill to get us panting like dogs in the Sahara. The lake was beautiful, and a little surreal. It was surprisingly big, and higher up than most of the land around, so I wondered how come the water didn't somehow filter down and drain the lake. The water was warm without being too hot; very pleasant, if a little cloudy.
Unfortunately we couldn't get a bus to Cochabamba earlier than 7.30pm that evening, so we arrived back, after another sleepless night shivering under a sleeping bag on the bus, just in time for a shower and a quick breakfast before work on Monday. I arrived home to find the floor of my room covered in ants. Nice.
Next stop was the miners' market. The markets were much like those in other Bolivian cities, full of campesinos selling their lotions and potions and wierd good luck charms, but with locally specific extras such as gas masks, dynamite, 95% proof alcohol, and a few decorated llamas awaiting sacrifice. It turned out that we'd chosen to visit Potosí during the annual festival celebrating Pachamama, or Mother Earth, which involved, as well as the inevitable copious drinking, lots of llama sacrificing. Jack and I bought some of the alcohol and dynamite to make the visit a little more exciting, and wandered round trying to avoid thinking about what was going to happen to the poor llamas. Before starting the long windy ascent up the Cerro Rico to the mines, we had a tour round the unbelievably primitive factories where the silver and other minerals are seperated from the crap that comes with them. Much like what was to come, everything was dirty and ancient, and looked like a death trap; it felt like stepping back into the early years of the industrial revolution. I found it almost impossible to believe that one of the world's most important mining towns (at one point, albeit at least a hundred years ago or so, it produced some 50% of the worlds precious minerals) had such antique processing plants.
After a brief discussion about what was going to happen, we finally pulled up our handkerchiefs over our mouths, turned on our headlamps, and entered the mines. It was one of the grimmest hours of my life, and it felt more like 10. The mine shafts are crudely dug out of the hill as if by hand, and it takes enormous concentration to ensure you don't trip over the uneven floor or bash your head on the still more uneven ceilings or the bits of wood or cable protruding from them. Poor Jack, at over 6ft, struggled rather, to say the least. Breathing was the greatest challenge down there. I can't imagine how an asthmatic claustrophobic would cope. Well, they wouldn't. The principle tunnels were bad enough, but the tunnels linking one "level" to another were appalling. We had to get on our hands and knees and crawl in many sections, at very steep gradients. At one point we had to slide on our bums some 20m down a near vertical shaft, trying to avoid the nails in the wood floor. Outside the mines, due to the altitude, it was freezing, but deeper inside the hill it began to get very hot. Temperatues reach 35 degrees centigrade in parts. To say we were uncomfortable in our well-layered thermals and fleeces would be a gross understatement. Consider also the near total darkness, the clouds of toxic dust that clogged up every tunnel, plus the double-foldedhandkerchief that we had to clutch to our mouths to breathe through, and all this at an altitude of well over 4000m, to which we were definitely unacclimatised, and you still can't imagine how miserable it was. Had I had enough breath to talk I might have asked to be taken back out. The poor miners. They still work in there. Incredible.
Finally I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. With immense relief I felt the air get cooler and fresher as we stumbled towards daylight again. But leaving the stifling heat, dust and darkness of the mines and coming face to face with what was going on outside was like being saved from the frying pan only to be thrust into the fire. Still half awake after so little sleep, and probably slightly intoxicated and oxygen-deprived, it took a while to register what we were seeing. It certainly took a few seconds to realize that what looked like bright red paint, collected in hard hats, running in streams towards the mines, and daubed everywhere, was actually blood. Upside down right in the entrance to the mine shaft, with their necks slit and their legs sprawled apart to allow for the disection to take place, were three huge dead llamas, and all around them, if not getting ready to disembowel the poor beasts, Bolivians were chatting and drinking. I thought I'd be a lot more traumatised than I was to see the scene of a massacre. Perhaps I was still dazed from the previous 14 hours or so. Though I think we were fortunate not to witness the actual slaughter itself. The revellers (!) motioned for us to take a seat, less than a meter away from one of the corpses, and handed us a beer to share. And then the shots came round. So, this Saturday morning, we sat and drank whilst right in front of us the men of Potosí proceeded to cut open three beautiful dead llamas and slowly extract their innards and shovel them into a cardboard box. If I had ever wanted a biology lesson on the physical composition of cameloids, I was getting a real treat. I'd never before seen every single organ, in real life, of an animal so close without it being on television. But I'd never been that keen on biology. Instead I was simultaneously repulsed yet irresistably compelled to watch this grotesque spectacle unfold. And the beer was quite refreshing. We sat there for a while, in a semi-trance, taking lots of photos and saying "eeuggh" and other remarks of disgust, to somehow make us feel better about taking part in the festivities.
Eventually, with all three llamas completely disembowelled, our tour guide said it was time to leave. We wandered accross the hillside, past some more Potosí men digging graves for the llamas (for good luck in the mines in the next year), and past some others cooking potatoes in hand-built stone ovens. Before we left, our guide Roland took our stick of dynamite and we had our photos taken holding the crude bomb whilst the fuse burnt down the stem.
The events of the morning didn't stop Jack ordering roast llama for lunch. He quite enjoyed it too.
That afternoon we walked round the city, wandering through the colonial plazas and along steep, narrow cobbled streets in search of the churches whose spires we spotted over the red rooftops. We didn't have the energy for the Casa de Moneda (literally House of Coins, a museum located in a beautiful colonial mansion), which my family considers a crime. Instead, we discovered that for the price of a cup of tea in the cafe of a cathedral-like building on the main plaza, the proprieter would move aside the wrought iron gate from the entrace to a narrow stairway and let us climb up onto the roof. Coincidentally, we'd timed it perfectly; the sun was just setting. From atop of one of the highest buildings in Potosí, we got some awesome views of the city skyline against the pink and orange skies. I'm glad health and safety standards aren't so strict over here.
We both slept like logs that night. After, that is, I had to climb in through the bathroom window of our room to let us in. Our roommates had left with the only key. The next day, again with Koala Tours (we ate breakfast and lunch in their cafe, slept in their hostel, and went on their tours - they got a lot of our money this weekend), we hired mountain bikes and cycled some 25km to the aguas termales, or hot springs, of Tarapaya. The ride was great - mostly downhill, but then it didn't take much uphill to get us panting like dogs in the Sahara. The lake was beautiful, and a little surreal. It was surprisingly big, and higher up than most of the land around, so I wondered how come the water didn't somehow filter down and drain the lake. The water was warm without being too hot; very pleasant, if a little cloudy.
Unfortunately we couldn't get a bus to Cochabamba earlier than 7.30pm that evening, so we arrived back, after another sleepless night shivering under a sleeping bag on the bus, just in time for a shower and a quick breakfast before work on Monday. I arrived home to find the floor of my room covered in ants. Nice.
1 comment:
People should read this.
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