Back in the mid 1500’s the Spanish discovered an absolute wealth of silver in the mountains that would eventually become Potosi. For a long time Potosi was the richest city in the entire world, the silver mines funding an expansive city filled with huge lavish houses for the colonial invaders, all the while the local indigenous were enslaved and forced to work mines in appalling conditions.

As the silver dried up the city too weathered away. Much like any city that springs up next to mineral mines, it can be only sustained as long as there is money to be made. The silver and other minerals are still found in the mines, but the pure silver is long gone and some 20,000 miners still toil away in the mines in cooperative groups in conditions reminiscent of those some 500 years ago.

Visiting the silver mines is an amazing experience. I booked the tour through the hostal I was staying at and there was only myself and a French Canadian couple in the group. Their English wasn’t the best and they had requested a Spanish guide, which left me with the English guide all to myself. The first stop was the miners markets, a small street lined with half a dozen shops selling all things the miners needed. Here you can purchase some of the most important items used by the miners – helmets, gloves, coca leaves, alcohol and dynamite.

The helmets and gloves are pretty self explanatory. The coca leaves are the soul of Bolivia, and it was interesting to learn that the Spanish had originally banned coca back in the day until they discovered the energy boosting and hunger suppressing properties of the leaf and allowed the indigenous slave workers to continue to use it in order to mine more efficiently and without food. The alcohol, a fairly disgusting 96% proof booze distilled from sugar cane, and the dynamite (along with the fuse and nitro-glycerine) are only sold in the miners market and are illegal outside this street and in the mines. As the guide told me, if I was found with dynamite on this street it would be okay, but outside this street the policia will think I’m Osama bin Laden and throw me in jail.

Inside the mines there are no rules other than wear a helmet (I can’t count the times I slammed my head into rock), wear boots and stuff your mouth with coca leaves. The mines were once owned by the government but now cooperative groups compete with each other to find the minerals. Dozens of these coops drill, explode and hack their way through the rock in search of minerals to put food on their tables, and there is little regard for the other groups. Lighting a stick of dynamite? Make sure your group is aware of it, but who gives a shit if another
group is nearby. Possibly the most disturbing fact of life here is the amount of alcohol consumed, empty bottles litter the passageways or sit solemnly at shrines dedicated to Jesus or the devil of the mines – the infamous Tio, who is said to stalk the mines when hungry to take the lives of miners. To appease Tio’s hunger the miners have an idol near the entrance of each mine where they offer him coca, cigarettes and alcohol. It’s a fascinating mix of indigenous superstition and Christianity.

The only part of the mine I couldn’t bring myself to enter was over a gaping hole in the ground. Below it dropped some 30m and there was a small plank of wood suspended over it no more than 10cm wide. My guide walked across it several times to show me it was safe, but looking down at the drop my brain refused to move my feet. It’s all in your head, the guide told me! Yeah no shit, but I can’t do it. I think he was disappointed as on the other side was the drilling area, and he himself was a driller and he wanted to show me what he did in the mines. I can bring myself to walk over a death pit if my life were in danger, but as a tourist there’s no way I’ll risk the 1% chance of falling off. Nope.

Another potentially dangerous (oh one of soooo many) aspect of the mine was the carts hauling the rocks out and returning. There’s very little room in many parts of the passages, the miners create new passageways in search of minerals and not for comfort. The only indication that was cart was flying towards you were the lights from the miners helmets (there are no overheard lights in the mines, it’s pitch black) and the guide had to think quick to find a place where you can stand to side and avoid the cart. This usually meant climbing the side of the rock and holding onto the wooden beams propping a cave in!

The coca leaves help a lot in the mines. The mine we entered was 4200m above sea level and I barely felt any effects of the altitude with a wad of leaves lodged in
the side of my cheek. And the flavour is actually quite nice, very much like tea and sweetened with a small nibble of ash that releases the alkaloids in the leaf. It was the first time I had tried coca and I was suitably impressed by its affects.

The city of Potosi itself sits at 4060m above sea level, making it the highest city on the planet. Thankfully it’s not too hilly, and walking around town wasn’t as a breathless experience as I was expecting. I think this had more to do with the fact I had been acclimatised to the altitude on so many occasions in this trip, although I’d hate to think what I would have been like if Potosi was the first city in South America I had visited!

Aside from food and drink there’s one other thing that Bolivians love, and that’s parades (or protests). On three separate days the plaza principle was blocked off as hundreds of locals made their way through, each time with a status of the
Virgin Mary carried along with the procession. On one day it would seem it was a sports day, with the streets closed off as people played volley ball and a group of men and women displayed their physical prowess by a show of push ups, sit ups and karate moves.

If there’s one thing that foreigners bring to the Bolivia it’s the most absurd dress
sense. I noticed this in previous cities, but Potosi appears to bring out the worse. Bolivians typically dress in jeans and a shirt, it’s a smart dress that you’d find in any city. Foreigners, Europeans in particular, look so out of place they might was well be aliens visiting a newly discovered world. In the shivering cold heights of Potosi they walked around wearing lycra heat insulated tights, usually with ridiculous shorts over the top. I’m sure they were warm, but I weep over the idea that fashion trends originate from the area of the world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people look so utterly stupid in my life.

After visiting the silver mines, watching parades, trying coca and shaking my head at bizarrely dressed foreigners, I made my way to the bus terminal. I needed to decide where my next stop would be – travel further south to the wine region of Tariji, or head to the last leg of my Bolivian journey to Uyuni and the Salt Flats. My visa had expired at this point and I needed to find an immigration office to extend it, so I decided where better to extend your visa than in a city that is the epicentre of wine in the country.

And really, who doesn’t want to try the highest altitude wine produced in the world? Tarija it was.