Cerro Rico: The Mountain That Eats Men
A story by Tim Hussin on assignment for National Geographic Magazine 2009/2010
They told me I was the bravest tourist. The only white man they had ever seen scramble down so deep. But I feigned confidence, following the miners’ lead with gusto while my insides were scrambled up.
Seven of us climbed down sixteen wooden ladders into the mines of Potosí, Bolivia. The first was a short descent, maybe five meters down, leading to a swaying steel cable ladder disappearing through a craggy hole into a dark abyss, maybe 20 more meters? 30? More? I couldn’t tell.
The ladder was frayed, and steps were missing, but we didn’t hesitate. While the miners casually descended, my hands started shaking and losing grip. I crawled down the second half using the inside of my elbows, eventually touching the sweet gravel floor of ground-up minerals waiting to be hauled back up toward the bright, bright sun.
Deeper still, the men, ranging from pre-teen to middle aged, hammered away making holes in a growing cavity, stuffed them with dynamite, and hid in a seemingly safe place nearby until the explosions revealed the tin, zinc and silver they had come for. Silver is scarce now, and very few find enough to strike it rich. But the hope is always there.
They call it the Mountain That Eats Men, with an estimated eight million men perishing there since the 16th century when the mountain was full of silver. The Spanish used indigenous labor and brought thousands of African slaves over the years to work the mines, bankrolling their empire and making Potosi one of the largest cities in the world. When silver ran scarce, the Spanish fled, leaving the people to mine the scant remains in poverty for centuries to come.
Despite the hard work, low pay and deep poverty, these people seemed happy, contented with their family, friends and endless traditions. They were proud, and were eager to show me their work. I was timid at first, but their confidence brought me to comfort. And as I sat underground waiting for the ceiling to rumble and send pebbles down like rain, I smiled, as I knew there was no place I’d rather be.
I was seeking out José David, fourteen year old miner I had been hanging around, only to find his dad and brother walking down the street looking toward the earth. When I asked where he was, they said he went to work at night to make some extra money in that place in the mines where nobody goes, full of carbon monoxide. He was gone, they said. No more.
A wake here can last for three days, fueled by coca leaves, alcohol and cigarettes. People mourn as they wish. Some would come and go, others would not leave the casket. Somehow, I quickly became part of the family, only leaving when my eyelids became too heavy to bear. My suburban American upbringing scarcely attracted tragedy. I was clearly out of place, but only a few batted an eye at my intrusion.
Nine days after José’s funeral, the family got together for a smaller celebration, with sheep being the course of choice. The ‘special guests’ got the best part, half of a sheep’s head. We were the wealthy few, the ones that could afford to put a little extra into the collection bowl for the family. I was staring at my plate, contemplating how to approach eating the eyeball, brains and tongue, a far cry from the boneless chicken and spaghetti I grew up with. As my stomach grew queasy, a curious kitten jumped onto my plate, snagged the head and dragged it across the floor. I thought I made a grave mistake, but as everyone chuckled a sense of relief washed over me. I sat there thinking of the interplay of death, life and the ability to move on when I looked up to a familiar piece of succulent meat, held out toward me with extended arms and a gentle smile.
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