A History of Mining in Latin America: From the Colonial Era to the Present

Prologue

xi Prologue . \ In June 1995 I traveled to Potosí, Bolivia, to do research in its archive. For a quarter century I had studied Potosí, Spanish America’s greatest silver producer and perhaps the world’s most famous mining district . I read with fascination about the flood of silver that flowed from its Cerro Rico (Rich Hill) and tried to visualize the toil and suffering of its miners, many of them indigenous conscripts dragged from their villages by the colonial state to serve in the mita, a system of rotating forced labor. Potosí symbolized fabulous wealth and unbelievable suffering. Its influence stretched around the globe as its silver traveled to Europe and then on to China to pay for silks and spices. As I arrived in La Paz, my trek to Potosí took on the character more of a historical pilgrimage than a mere research trip. I wanted to experience the awful grandeur of the (in)famous mines. At the La Paz train station, I learned that the Ferrobus, a forty-passenger coach powered by a diesel engine, was the most comfortable, quick, and luxurious train to Potosí. It stopped en route only at Oruro, another colonial mining center, and had the additional advantage of being far more direct than the milk trains. I checked my suitcase and discovered that the luggage rode on top of the coach, wrapped in a canvas tarp. When a train worker brought out the tarp, a mouse hopped out and scurried away. We left at 5:00 p.m., on schedule. My seat was in the second row, and an old woman from Potosí was my seatmate . Her son had brought her to the station and provided her with two blankets . She folded one and sat on it (it made her three or four inches taller) and wrapped herself in the other. Her blankets made me worry about how cold the trip would be and how I would survive it. I had only a wool sweater and a light jacket, having relied on the assurance in the South American Handbook that the Ferrobus provided blankets. For the first couple of hours of our journey, daylight held. The Ferrobus chugged its way up out of the La Paz basin along a narrow track strewn with Prologue xii garbage. We wound our way through urban sprawl, the houses made of mud bricks. The predominantly unpainted houses blended into the hillside when viewed from the valley floor. Arriving at the top of the ascent, we passed El Alto, a city near the airport that has grown due to an overflow of immigrants to La Paz. We were now on the altiplano, a bleak tableland about twelve thousand feet above sea level. Lack of moisture and cold temperatures make it unsuitable for most farming, but wild grasses offer fodder for livestock. I saw cattle, mules, and sheep but, to my disappointment, no llamas. My pilgrimage alternated between boredom and surprise. Darkness descended on the altiplano, and a cook rustled up food for those who wanted to buy it. I chose fried chicken, fried potatoes, and rice, plus a Sprite, for two dollars. Not long afterward (around 9:30 p.m.), we reached Oruro, where another fifteen people boarded the coach. A little later, as we approached a small village, we saw what looked like a bundle of paper on the tracks. The driver slowed down, and one of the conductors got out to investigate. It turned out to be a drunk who had passed out on the tracks. The conductor dragged him to the side, with a few kicks for good measure, and we proceeded on our way, wrapped in the woolen blankets promised by the travelguide writer. The night was already cold, and I was glad to bundle up. After about 450 kilometers, we turned east off the main route (which continues on to Argentina) and headed toward Potosí. We also left the altiplano and began to move through broken, mountainous terrain. At Paso del Condor we reached the highest and coldest point of the journey, nearly five thousand meters, or sixteen thousand feet. The moisture from our breath froze on the windows, and the driver had a hard time keeping the windshield clear so he could see the track. My back ached and my legs were cold. I finally fell asleep, only to wake up about an hour before we reached Potosí. Knowing we would soon be there, I was too excited to sleep more. I hoped...