Unheard voices
Brutal work deep in Bolivian tin mines
By Geoff Bederson
Last week I met Walter Rodriguez. I was tramping down a rough-hewn tunnel in near total darkness when I heard the distant clinking of metal on stone. The sound seemed to be coming from a hole in the ground. I peered down, feeling for the edges, but all I could make out was a deeper hue of blackness.
I was already several miles into the mine of Cerro Rico, the famed mountain which produced most of the Spanish Empire’s immense silver wealth. Originally most of the workers were enslaved, and slavery had continued in these mines until 1952. But the 8,000 miners continue to work under nearly the same conditions they had several hundred years before.
There were no lights, no electricity, no mechanized tools of any kind. The only innovation was dynamite, used to blow open the veins once the miners manually chip away holes to insert the explosive charges.
Not much of the famed wealth remains to be unearthed. For hundreds of years the silver has been siphoned off, sent back to Europe to finance colonial empires. Now the miners chip away at depleted ores, hoping to find enough tin to buy food for their families.
Tunnels crisscross the interior of the mountain like Swiss cheese. Many of the tunnels are reinforced with ancient stonework. Black pipes overhead bring in air from outside, but the air is toxic. Many of the 8,000 miners develop lung problems, and some die within 15 years of silicosis (or of more sudden catastrophes). I myself was wearing a respirator.
My job was to push the carts filled with ore. Along the ground were narrow metal tracks. Two of us behind, and two in front pushed the tons of rock, running on the straight-aways in order to build up the momentum to get up the hills. I was breathing hard. Potosi is at 15,000 feet above sea level, and I was not acclimated.
Occasionally the height of the tunnel would decrease, and I would be forced to bend over nearly double. Every minute or two I would hit my head hard on a rock. If I weren’t wearing a hardhat I would have been knocked out repeatedly.
It was entirely dark, except for the light provided by our headlamps. Looking up occasionally, the brilliant colors of the rich minerals sparkled: turquoise, lavender, and silver.
At one point I wandered off, following the course of a tunnel as it descended lower and into hotter regions. That is when I heard the repeated, clinking of metal on stone. Down below, just off the main path of the tunnel, was a an unreinforced hole, not more than two feet in circumference.
I climbed down the ten foot cavity, feeling for footholds among the rocks. At the bottom was another low, narrow tunnel. At the end of this a miner was hammering on rock. As with all of the miners, a huge wad of coca leaves was stuck in his cheek.
How long have you been working in the mines?
Twelve years. I began as a peon, the most humble job in the mines, shoveling the ore into the carts. Then I graduated to pulling and pushing the carts. Now I work for myself, selling minerals to our cooperative. On a good day I can earn 25 Bolivianos (about three dollars).
What is it like to work in these mines?
We enter the mines at 7am. We do a small preamble in the caverns, chewing coca leaves. We don’t eat during the day. It’s too dusty to eat. Coca leaves suppress the appetite. At noon we take a short break. I usually go home at 6pm.
There is a great deal of heat. There are levels, many levels below. We don’t have money to buy boots, we don’t have the equipment for our safety. Maybe you’ve seen the movie about the world after a word war. That’s what it’s like here. You have nothing to drink, eat.
The most lamentable thing is that it is so much worse here than it was previously, before privatization. The state does not help at all. The mines are really just ruins now. We can’t exploit anything. There are no machines.
We get paid depending on how much ore we find. It is a cooperative mine, and most rudimentary. We have abandoned our luck.
There is no water or heat in our homes. The miners share everything, but especially the drinks. All the days terminate with drinking alcohol.
In the lower tunnels there are several caverns with large obscene statues of the devil. What are these used for?
This is where we meet for the morning preamble. The miners have a tremendous amount of respect for Tio (Uncle). This is a replica of the devil. It has the appearance of the devil.
We sprinkle cigarettes and coca leaves there, and recite prayers. It is a tradition. Supposedly, the devil protects the silver. We believe the devil will help us earn money, get married, help our children with their studies, protect our health.
The thing I don’t understand is that normally religious people worship God, not the Devil. Why do you worship the Devil?
We have nowhere to turn except to God, I mean to the Devil. It’s a kind of deity. It’s a dark God.
God is outside the mine, and the devil is inside. When you enter the mine you can’t pray to God or to the Virgin. The mine is the habitat of the Devil, and its necessary to respect this.
The religion is mixed with paganism. In this way the indigenous people have learned to cope.
How do miners feel about their difficult life? Do they have hope?
It is the miners who suffer the most.
My father worked in the mines before they were privatized. In those days there was labor security. They were provided with boots, batteries for lamps, hardhats - everything that was necessary. In the government housing there were films and traditional dance. There was even a market in the mines, where they bought food, and were able to get something to drink.
Among miners there has always been a great deal of political activity, on the Left. Previously the unions were very strong. Now there is practically no activity of that kind. But miners are still some of the most politically active people in the country. They are very revolutionary.
Prices are very high now, and the prices of minerals are very low. We live with these thoughts. What kind of government would help the workers, the poor people, the miners? What would be a government of these people?
Why do you work at this job? What do you hope for the future?
We don’t have any culture, any education. We don’t know or have other means of life. So we don’t have other aspirations.
It’s simply inhuman. But it is the best we can do.
I have three children. I am able to pay for their uniforms and books. I hope that they will have a better life than I have.
