Potosi & Cochabamba

Amongst a number of things, Bolivian buses have the annoying habit of arriving at awful hours of the morning, usually 2 or 3am. In Argentina and Chile they have a better system, with buses departing at such a time that you arrived around 8 or 9am the next day. In this way the bus doubled as accommodation, which is perfect for traveling cheaply. In Bolivia you end up checking into a hostel for a few hours until sunrise. I suspect there's an underhand agreement in place here to spread the tourist dollars around further.

Of course it's all put in perspective when you get up later the same morning and find a cafe serving breakfast of coffee, juice, cereal, fruit and yoghurt, toast and eggs and the bill comes to a bit under $3. And so we find ourselves in this position in Potosi, 5 hours north of Uyuni (where we finished our 4WD tour).  

Cerro Rico looming over the city of Potosi

Potosi has a number of claims to fame. At 4100m it's the highest city in the world. But it's more notable for the part it played in bankrolling the Spanish Empire during the 1600s. Looming over the city, Cerro Rico (meaning Rich Hill) was once the largest silver mine in the world. At its peak the mine was producing 15 tonnes of pure silver every day. Supposedly its total output was enough to build a solid silver bridge all the way to Spain. In its heyday, Potosi was the biggest city in the Americas and of similar size to London or Paris. The Spanish pressed the indigenous people into the mines, drawing on Africa for slaves when local numbers dwindled, and forced workers to spend 12 hours below ground at a stretch in appalling conditions. It's estimated that nearly 8 million workers died over a 300 year period. Predictably the silver dried up and now the population has dwindled to a fraction of its peak.

Nic with a stick of dynamite bought over the counter for $2 at the corner store

The city still retains the grandness of its boom times, but now the mine only yields less profitable tin and zinc. As an alternative economy a number of companies run tours through the mines for anyone with enough curiosity. We opted for a two hour tour - two hours more than I needed to spend underground. Nearly always doubled over at the waist, at times crawling on our stomachs, climbing up rickety ladders and passing beneath dubious wooden framing, we make our way 2km into the bowels of Cerro Rico. All the while we feel and hear explosions rattling around us and have to press ourselves against the shaft walls as trolleys rattle back and forth. Our tour guide, recently retired from the mine himself (his father and brother had both died underground), is something of a hero with the miners. Offering them gifts of dynamite and alcohol that the group purchased before entering, he gets their account of working life in the mines, which are universally depressing.

At 4600m the air is thin enough without entering a badly ventilated mine. I'm panting the entire tour and the relief is overwhelming at the light appearing from the other side of the mountain. To round out the tour, our guide gives us a lesson from the Al Qaida playbook: Bomb-making 101. It's all a bit ridiculous but we stand around blithely trusting him completely as he blows away part of the hillside. Will post the video of the madness when we find speedy internet.

Palpable relief

Dirty, tired and blinking at the daylight

More weary and forlorn looking miners

Afterwards we pay a visit to the Mint Museum. It's really interesting, but worth a mention mostly because at the end of our tour the guide asks for a native English speaker to proof read the new museum brochure. From an informal survey of terribly translated hoardings and brochures across Asia and South America, I've often thought there was a huge market for this kind of service. I spend an hour editing and I'm surprised when she offers to pay me at the end, though I write it off as pro-bono; my new consultancy needs her more than the Mint Museum needed the third person passive. Finally an all important foot in the door and a burgeoning portfolio of one. 

On the roof of San Francisco church, Potosi

Panorama of Potosi - click on the image to enlarge

Leaving Potosi we head to Cochabamba, against the recommendation of a friend of mine who described it as 'dangerous and a shithole'. Our own experiences were mixed; with only a day to explore we wander through sprawling markets, discover a well-stocked book exchange and spend the afternoon in a quiet plaza reading and snacking on empanadas. It's only when we come to leave the next day that we see Cochabamba's other face.

The Cochabamba market has everything you never really needed and more

When finished competing in the local race derby at night, Jorginho returns to its humble bus day duties  

In the bus station bound for La Paz, seemingly from nowhere, a crew of agents bearing Interpol ID converge on us. Of course we've been warned of these tactics; they show flimsy ID, demand to see your passport and then confiscating it, drag you to their offices where they search your bags and help themselves to anything of value. It's all so implausible that with the benefit of hindsight it's hard to imagine even the naivest traveller being fooled. Why Interpol would bother staffing a bus station in a Bolivian backwater or adorn its agents in knock-off jeans and polos is hard to rationalise, amongst any number of credibility issues. If only my spanish extended far enough to ask as much. But there's something about the audacity of the confrontation and an upbringing based on respect for the police that stops you short of saying f*** off.

Cristo - 33cm taller than Rio's. Ha!

When we try to shrug them off, they drag over their cronies staffing the security office and circle us. Neither of the 'security guards' look older than 17,  they're both wearing uniforms several sizes too big for them and one is wearing a pair of white sneakers. Our bus is leaving in 15 minutes and we reluctantly give them a glimpse of our passports to speed things up - in firmly clenched hands. The situation some how sorts itself out as we resolutely refuse all their requests - their initial pretense was always pretty vague - and they disappear as quickly as they came. We board the bus shaking our heads in disbelief, having survived tourist scam Bolivia.

La Paz and Death Road to come...

xN&G