Into the beyond: Salar de Uyuni and goodbye to Bolivia

Driving into the Salar is not quite like anything else. A South African woman we'd chatted to in Potosi a few days earlier described it as like driving into heaven. And even for secularists, this turned out to be no hyperbole. Half-flooded bone white salt flats stretching out as far as the eye can see, met by a vast pale blue sky, occasional reflections casting the clouds beneath your feet just as they suspend overhead. And even with land rovers dotting the horizons, lumbering out daily - ceaselessly - into the distance with their eager tourist cargo, the landscape is so vast, so epic and so silencing, it seemed to render our strange, ant-like little odysseys merely irrelevant, rather than intrusive.

Leaving Oruro had been a little messy, our having given little thought to just how mobbed things would be on Monday as virtually all of Bolivia barrelled out from the heart of Carneval madness and back towards work, sobriety and life outside the dance. There were no available seats down to Uyuni until at least Wednesday or Thursday, it transpired. After a quick re-appraisal of our options in the midst of the evacuation camp that was the small city bus station - there being little left for us in Oruro but debris, the stench of beer and urine, and extremely expensive accommodation - we scored the last seats on an afternoon bus back down the road to Potosi. A de-tour that would at least get us halfway there and hopefully towards more transport options. So once again we entered the chilly, dark streets surrounding the Cerra Rico and, after a night back in a Koala Den dorm, were Uyuni-bound the following morning.

You would not find yourself in Uyuni for any likely reason under the sun if not for the Salar. I say this of few places but poor dishevelled and wind-battered Uyuni presents as a godforsaken land bereft of most charms; if it was not for the fact it lies on the edge of some of the most remarkable scenery in Bolivia, it is hard to imagine travellers pausing even for the night. Low-rise with a feeling of abandonment, the Western town with tumble-weed coursing its arteries, Uyuni figures on the itineraries of virtually all foreign tourists to Bolivia for one reason only and that is the Salar loop. Jeep tours of the startling salt flats, geyser field and lagoons which litter its hinterland, just over the border from the epic landscapes we'd explored on the Chilean side during our Atacama stay a month or two before.

Arriving into town on Tuesday, then, booking a tour for as soon as possible was our priority, with our days left in South America now numbered. The problem being that, as with many such activities in Bolivia, the quality of tours is a tricky thing to assess and the trade almost entirely unregulated. And unfortunately, in the case of Salar loops, the dodgy end of experiences tends to veer far beyond the typical complaints of the pampered 'my pasta was overcooked and the bed springs were broken' brigade towards 'the driver was drunk/the jeep in front of us overturned' variety. Rare perhaps - not as rare as they should be, with long driving days typical and tiredness and drinking not uncommon. We had a couple of recommended agencies to aim for, but with Carneval still ongoing and tipsy revellers intermittently parading Uyuni's dusty streets with brass bands in tow (the kids, as ever, ready with the foam spray), both were shut on the afternoon we arrived. And then turned out, unsurprisingly, to be booked up until later in the week. So in the end we just took a punt. Wandering into the pleasant enough signed up for the next morning. A day and a half feeling more than enough in Uyuni itself, we then booked a night bus for the day of our return, planning an exhausting Uyuni-La Paz-Arequipa exit strategy to ensure we got our final week in Peru.

Our two evenings in the pleasant little Hotel Avenida thus passed with some bad wine and good cable. Buying the former on our first night, we paused for a good five minutes at the counter of the corner shop for the eleven year old proprietress to finish tracing her picture before selling us the bottle of red; clearly and unsurprisingly disgruntled at being left on duty while everyone else was out getting battered with Pachamama.

And Thursday morning we loaded up the jeep with our driver, a cook, a Catalan rock climber and three young Austrian women and set out in convoy with a jeep-load of party-loving French bohemians already merrily cracking into the beers at 10am. With Uyuni, there is no gradual movement out of town - you simply turn the street corner and that is it: town to no town, you fly straight out into the wilderness, as the road disappears into gravel track and the forlorn wide streets vanish in the rear view mirrors.

The 3 day tours typically begin with the Salar itself, the world's largest salt flat that extends across over 4000 square miles of Bolivia's south-west and remains at a serious elevation of over 3.5 thousand metres. Flamingos and other exotic flora and fauna are a huge draw and the lakes (black, blue, pink and green), mountains and thermal fields that cover the lithium-rich terrain constitute a peculiarly stunning alien land, as well as an under-utilised economic resource for Bolivia.

However we were setting out to go in reverse, covering the long, long drive south to begin with the lakes and thermal springs before working our way back up to the Salar itself on day three. This ended up working well for us, as while the salt flats themselves are always full of tourist vehicles, at most other stops we had the place to ourselves. Nonetheless, the tours in general make for a drive-heavy trip and day one in particular was pretty cooped up as we tore through the dry desert-scapes for hours on end, pausing at lengthy intervals to pour out of our jeep - the legs of whoever was doing their time in the cramped back seat row creaking painfully as we disembarked to examine some other-wordly rock formations, pink laguna or to pursue ethereal and displeased flamingos across a barren shoreline. 

But these silent, eerie landscapes were always worth the aching joints and hair-raising speeds across uneven dirt roads, without fail. Jagged rocks rising out of the earth in random communities, like primordial Stonehenges, and salmon-hued Martian lakes dotted with thousands of flamingos trotting in the distance - alone and sovereign in their strange land. We spent our first night at a huge, desolate stone refugio near the Laguna Colorada, where the six of us commandeered a tiny little orphanage-style dormitory with ill-fitting window panes. After a tasty lasagne dinner (Maria the cook having overcome her initial grumpiness at the news of my vegetarian affliction to produce a very pleasant line in quinoa and veg substitutes) and a few free bottles of wine produced by our driving team, we headed off to sleep, wearing all our clothes to guard against the bone-chilling temperatures, ready for the 4.30am start in store. 

The geyser fields on this side of the border were a fascinating juxtaposition to the beautiful, deadly pistons we'd encountered in Chile in January. While the latter had been gorgeous beauty queens lit up in the freezing blue dawn skies, guided by a knowledgeable and safety-conscious Canadian-Chilean, the Bolivian fields were a ghoulish, simmering cauldron of fire and brimstone, barely visible in the overcast pre-dawn haze. And this being Bolivia, of course, we wandered around the boiling, spluttering fissures in the earth's core freely, like the dappy little sheep we are, only being cautioned once or twice by drivers through the dark billows of steam, when they spotted someone staggering cavalierly amidst the lethal caverns while snapping through their camera lens (mentioning no names, oh love of mine...)

As dawn broke we approached the thermal baths, where we paused only briefly to admire the views, still all too frozen through to even contemplate the removal of layers, even if the springs were not crammed full of other tourists bathing in a veritable soup of of traveller-grime.... After a tour up to the astonishing Laguna Verde, where the reflections of Volcano Licancabur are as lovely as any sight we've seen and where we all wandered mutely, pausing to sit and stare from various rocky outcrops, we returned to a deserted baths. Clever clever Oasis, we thought as we tucked into a good breakfast spread of pancakes, corn puffed granola and yoghurt and gazed out at the 8am sun. With only ourselves, the happy French troop and maybe one other group, we then had the spring to ourselves as 9am hit in and the sub-zero night finally entered into a blazing sunshine morning lighting up the frosty, steaming altiplano. Now, by this point in the trip we'd hit baths in the Chilean El Tatio geyser fields, as well as in the appropriately named Agua Caliente in the shadow of the Macchu Piccu hills. And both were more than a little grim when you really paid any attention to the through-traffic they were seeing. 

But not the Termes de Polques. Filtering in and out naturally through the rocks, the water was clear, hot and backed by stupendous views. Your basic altiplano paradise. The Austrian girls and I clumsily peeled off our fifteen layers of clothing, socks, hats and scarves behind a shed to change into bikinis and by the time we were all gazing out into the distance, we could happily have splashed around all day.

But all things must end: 'Vamo!!' came the familiar shout as the sternly efficient Maria loaded the last of the breakfast dishes into the Mary Poppins-like supply stashes of the jeep boots and we reluctantly dried off and stepped back into sun-baked jeans and trainers. The rest of day two passed in another procession of exquisitely lonely lakes, mountains and rock formations. We had lunch in the epic constellation that contains the Arbol de Piedra and mercilessly papped more flamingos at the Laguna Hedionda. You take one step forward, they take two steps back and so it goes. 

Minding the off-sales

The night was spent at the tiny hamlet of San Juan. Arriving too late for our first guesthouse option, Maria was most disgruntled to end up at a far busier place where every space in the kitchen and dining room was to be fought for tooth and nail and the hostel shop largely manned by five year old children. But arriving in the first onslaught of some 8 or 9 jeep-loads that evening, we lucked out by lobbying our drivers for better rooms than the tiny broken bed spaces we were initially allocated. The French leading the revolution, of course, and sweeping us more docilely obedient Europeans along in their fabulous wake. Dinner was the Bolivian smorgasbord of Pique Macho and everyone was in good spirits, putting away a good few beers and merrily toasting our driving team.

Train cemetery outside Uyuni

Day three brought the Salar. We stopped first at the odd little 'Train Cemetery' which hordes dozens of decrepit old steam locomotives - a strange graveyard to the Industrial age full of late 19th and early 20th century vehicles which used to transport minerals to the now lost-Pacific coastline (those damn Chileans, still unforgiven in this land). Tourists clamber over them now like monkeys and with most tours including little guiding per se, it is hard to know what to make of them until you research the sights later. And then they are all the sadder, left rusting to dust on the Uyuni plains, the lost coast hundreds of miles away and the industries they served eroded.

The Salar. Half-flooded in rainy season, the routes through the plains are limited in February and you barely make it out to the edge of the expanse. But it is no less awe-inspiring and the chatter dies away as you approach. We clambered up onto the roof for the slow careful drive through the thinly flooded approaches towards one of the salt hotels (an environmental controversy in themselves). There are little words I guess, as you gaze out, and we wondered how indigenous Bolivians perceived this ethereal white sphere. 

Because despite the tourists, dashing around manically with cameras and engineering ever more elaborate perspective illusions across the flat lunar plains, it feels silent. And silencing. You are enveloped here, just as you are in some mountain ranges, and the sublimely indifferent and bizarre beauty of the world is  palpable and heavy. 

We left Bolivia two days later after a madcap chase back up the altiplano and back-to-back night buses, pausing only to catch our breath and stock up on gifts in rambunctuous La Paz. But the Salar and its environs linger. And there is something comforting in the thought of it sitting there still, silent and vast, as we dive back into the frenetic mazes of our little lives. Something powerful and old, something inaccessibly Bolivian.

Carnaval de Oruro

They say a picture tells a thousand words. In our 2-day weekend at Carnaval de Oruro, Mhairi and I took over 600 pictures. 

Cars at the festival had been magnetised to attract as much tableware as possible...

It did not start well. Oruro may be trying to starve any vegetarian that comes within the city limits. Carnival comes from the Medieval Latin meaning 'farewell to the flesh' - placed typically before a Lenten period where feasting of all animals would take place and also with connotations of abandoning oneself to one's passions. Oruro is clearly very aware of this. It was definitely party time and meat was everywhere - even greasy chips came as salchipapas - smothered with sliced hot dog meat. So our late breakfast search became a tortured hunt for non-meat based snacks. The sound of carnival drums haunted our efforts, its pulsating rhythm backed up by the crash of cymbals. And then came in the brass with majestic pomp; the crowds cheered, and we soldiered on. We finally hit upon a lady selling grapes and peaches, before a lone seller of humitas cropped up. The doughy cornmeal and cheese snack nestled on a barbecue next to some lamb kebabs, but picking a specimen furthest from the flesh, we had some kind of a breakfast.

One skull staff. We needed some seats for these views...

Shouldering our way to a place in the crowd it became apparent - we needed seating tickets. The street was lined with tiered spectator galleries and while the cheap seats further from the main square were free you needed considerable Bolivian moxy to force a space, and even more drunken Spanish to survive the constant boisterous action. This was at 1pm on the first day of carnival.

So we shoved our way to some high-class seating, complete with padded seats and rain cover. The first benefit of a carnival free from over-commercialisation was immediately delivered: a couple needed to sell their seats. In front of an authorised ticket dealer the young Bolivian girl resold her seats to us: second row, better than any others on offer. And no problem. The ticket girl shrugged as we swapped wrist bands.

Finally, we took our places and let the carnival envelope us. The roar of the bands, background noise while we were sorting out tickets, became an ear-popping, brain-filling rhythm pushing on the procession. On the street, big white banners announced the province next in line, and would hide everything until costumed dancers exploded forth. Riots of colour, shrouded in the fog of fireworks, young dancers led the charge; ladies with short skirts twirling, big smiles and bright eyes; caballeros behind them, all fiery shoulderpads and flinging their sombreros, they leaped and spun down the street. Everywhere, they urged on the crowd for more energy and the crowd responded by singing the songs as loud as they could, and chanting 'Beso! Beso! Beso!' - everyone wanted a kiss from the whirling young Bolivians on the street: and a blown kiss would send up a mad, crazed cheer and the crowd was on its feet and standing on seats and dancing along. It was about 3pm on the first day of the carnival.



The second benefit of a carnival without heavy corporate intervention became very clear as soon as Mhairi and I got thirsty. Every minute or so, a cholita or young kid would come by offering soft drinks and beer for a quid. At one point, we had three beer sellers swamping us to be the first to sell us a can. Given the massive queuing in UK festivals, taking hours out of your enjoyment, the beer delivery service operated at Oruro was a revelation.




Meanwhile, the crazed whirligig ride of carnival was endlessly fascinating. Every province a different set of colours: some sporting more traditional wear, with complex textiles, others in brash pinks, blues, greens, purples and on and on. As the afternoon wore on we picked out more of the details: some carried trucks with octopuses on them; others had twirly armadillos; still more carried staffs with skulls heads, snake motifs. Silk frogs clambered over the back of some dancers while giant spiders haunted the costumes of others. And youth gave way to age: older dancers in heavier costumes like a cross between brightly coloured tanks and the Oz tin man spun down the street, their metallic bearded faces in frozen smiles; and older ladies too with long flowing skirts that spun around their gyrating figures as they waved silken kerchiefs in the air. No-one was excluded - the biggest cheer of the day reserved for the caballero dancing, smiling and clapping his way down the road in his wheelchair.

So far, so normal (well, almost - still don't understand those octopus laden miniature trucks...): and then the chant from further down the street, repetitive, insistent, almost manic: Orso! Orso! Orso! Orso!... Again, and again, it didn't stop, in fact it crescendoed as more people along the way saw what was coming: the carnival bears. Giant fur-clad dancers with a lumbering gait, the bear-people leapt in a jerky rhythmic bounce with waving arms that infected the crowd: soon we were all mirroring their claw-pumping movements. But it was their heads that kept you mesmerised: giant gaping maws with sharp fangs, with huge orbs for eyes, a myriad of clashing coloured spirals drawing you to their dark silvered pupils. To receive their gaze was to draw you in a find yourself jumping in the air and yelling along. 

The weird and wonderful started to appear in droves: Death stalked the streets, giant ravens circled the procession, while a lone Archangel Michael fronted hordes of ferocious demons with their chifa supay consorts. As one Bolivian next to me explained - it's how the world is, the bad way outnumber the good, you know?






And it didn't stop. The skies darkened as the sun set and rain threatened. But all that happened was that lights appeared flashing happily on the costumes of the dancers. A downpour of the type only monsoon climates can deliver ran rivers through the street, but the carnival continued unimpeded, unhindered - its incessant drum beat could not be stopped. By 9pm, after 8hours dancing, chanting and failing to learn the Spanish songs, Mhairi and I left the Bolivians to it. The assault on our senses had left us dazed; punch-drunk happy with the riot of colour and sound that we had been sunk into for the entire afternoon. For Bolivians the party was getting started; more beer, more rum and coke; more dancing; and participating in that collective that lets you lose yourself and feel like part of something deep, rich and important.

Sunday, 10am in our hotel room and the banging in our heads was not a hangover. The procession had started again. Last night's efforts had gone on till the small hours, but Bolivia's biggest party was not to be stopped. We had at least found a good dinner the night before - Nayjama put together a quinoa quiche for Mhairi and served me half a lamb. I'll repeat that: half a lamb. Complete with tail, the entire back of a lamb was succulently cooked for my plate - 'the entire back, you see, so you know the lamb wasn't more than 6months old'. Mhairi grimaced.

Sunday, 1pm: 'Why are you not drinking?!' - fired by the biggest carnival weekend in Bolivia, a local next to us had already cracked open his beers while his eyes showed the glassy need of recovery from yesterday's exertions. With mumbled excuses we promised to drink with him soon and let our heads plunge into the atmosphere again. It didn't take long for us to supply a passing Pacena-beer lady with some trade as the carnival feeling took hold of us too. The Sunday party seemed to start even earlier, the tempo was greater from the off - helped by the dancers themselves. In contrast to Saturday's lustrous parade, the procession took more time for itself on the Sunday. Bursts of energy were mixed with dancers coming to the crowd to take sips of beer and exchange greetings. The monstrous heads of the costumes were pulled back so you could see the smiling, sweating face beneath - taking the applause from the crowd for their efforts. More cheers, more beers - we got to know our neighbours more and more. All Bolivians, we had half-conversations in Spanglish, but always raised our beer cans to toast each other at the end. And we never forgot to thank Pachamama - the Earth mother goddess - by spilling the first sip from our cans onto the ground to quench her thirst.

The hours passed by as before in a whirl of colour, and the happiness on the faces of every Bolivian remained undiminshed: they gained superhuman stamina from the passing of the procession, screaming for their friends, taking kisses when they could get them and finally, in small numbers they clambered the barriers and danced alongside the carnival for a while. No big-shouldered bouncer threw them anywhere: instead after a few minutes a security guy would ask the reveller to go back to their seat. Because what we really understood about this carnival is that it is made by Bolivians for Bolivians. Indeed, we felt like the only 'spectators' around: it is the best of carnival when it ceases to be a show and is a partnership between the people, crowd and dancers, so that each enjoys their role. Mhairi and I were privileged to be swept along.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Mhairi and I had again found ourselves exhausted by the activity of Sunday's efforts and we slept late. In the city, the after-party continued. While seating galleries were dismantled around them crowds still gathered to see irrepressible groups of dancers and small clusters of musicians back out on the street and giving everyone their final taste of the carnival.

For us, the carnival was over. We packed our bags and headed for the bus station, with the beat of the drums still throbbing through the air...

From sunny Sucre to mine tours in Potosi

Leaving La Paz required an injection of energy. We were starting to flag and had a hectic month ahead before leaving South America. After much deliberation regarding how much ground we could cover and whether it was realistic to try and include a bit of jungle terrain up at Rurrenebaque (not, we decided, ruefully), we opted to obey the fierce insistence of a dude in an internet cafe that we had, had, had to go to Carneval at Oruro. For this was the month the continent goes loco and the small city of Oruro, we were informed by any Bolivian with whom the issue came up, was second only to Rio. In fact, they would confide, it was really even better than Rio, which only really had the one dance whereas Oruro was the real thing. Ok, we thought, the accommodation mark-ups may be 5-6 times their usual rate and it may be less than a week away but we're here and it's on, so go we must. The strictures of Bolivian geography prevented us from heading to the Salar in the South-West first - our remaining 'must-see' - so we opted to head to Potosi via Sucre and then duck back up to Oruro before turning back down. Which would be tight. One of those slightly breathless travel segments where you worry you're covering too much ground to appreciate anything properly but there's not quite the space to manage it differently.

Still slightly shaking off the after-effects of our crazy post-rugby evening at 'Oliver's', fancy dress, table-dancing and all, we clambered aboard the night bus to Sucre. This white, Mediterranean-evocative city still regards itself as Bolivia's capital. The place where independence was declared, it is in some ways still the heart of the wild, rugged nation as well as it's judicial capital; originally named Charcas before being renamed for Marshal Sucre. And it is lovely. We'd heard before going that it was the loveliest city in Bolivia and it's bright, civilised streets, bathing in warm light, didn't disappoint. It is a magnet for young travellers pitching up for a while to learn Spanish at the equivalent of 6 pounds an hour in a good climate, just down and out of the altiplano, with good coffee, Dutch-run bars and a gorgeous central Plaza ringed with colonial buildings. We stayed at a friendly hostel, Gringo Rincon, run by a welcoming, enthusiastic German guy and full of long-term stayers engaged in language classes. 

We climbed the hill to get great panoramics of the surrounding hills but were rained off venturing out towards any of them the following day as planned. So our short time in Sucre was very pleasant (at least aside from the first onslaught of Bolivian youth hitting carneval season - waterbombs, guns and foam pelting anyone and everyone in sight). Some good wine, some good coffee (hitherto utterly lacking in most of South America) and in the chilled out European-style Cafe Florin, the fried breakfast T had been dreaming of for months. Yet as we came to move on after only 2 nights and a day, I was more than ready. I suspect while a month in Sucre would be wonderful, 3 days would somehow have been too much. 

And Potosi beckoned. The guide books are somewhat hyperbolic about the impact generated on the traveller of this small, tough mountain city, saturated with brutal, mercenary history and perched a heart-skipping, lung-challenging 4060 metres above sea level. But it is true that it's not quite like anywhere else, a feeling provoked even when arriving at 10pm into silent streets and breathlessly ascending the wide staircases at its vast, spanking new bus terminal - an odd bastion of modernism in a city otherwise under-invested in. In the 17th century, Potosi was the biggest and richest city in South America, the conquistadors having rapidly discovered the potential of it's heart and it's lifeblood - already known to the Incas and other regional powers - the Cerro Rico. This low-level mountain - which even on these wet overcast days of Bolivian rainy season shifts in red, umber and greys against the ominous Potosi skies - held unimaginable quantities of silver deposits. And for over four centuries Bolivians have toiled there, paying in their blood (some 8 million slaves are said to have died in Rico's bowels across those early years of servitude which, however over-estimated represents a horrific subterranean human sacrifice). The silver, unsurprisingly, is almost entirely depleted in any quantities but the Potosi mines still churn out large reserves of valuable minerals day after day. And the mines, now as then, are the main reason outsiders come. Except now it is to partake of a little hardship-tourism by way of the dozens of travel agencies running mine tours each day. 

I had been a bit doubtful. Not only for the voyeurism, the large potential for exploitation and the more general unease we felt about intruding into such a punishing work environment as 'tourism'. But also, more simply for the physical ordeal. Reviews are at pains to impress the dangerousness of the tours and the mystique that they are not for the 'faint-hearted'. It seemed fairly likely, as with all Tripadvisor-style shrillness, that this was overblown for tourists to revel in their own daring. Nonetheless, these are working mines in a country almost entirely free from meaningful regulation, mining accidents are not uncommon, the air of the mines remains thick with noxious gases and exposed piping and, more broadly, the idea of descending dozens of feet down into tiny enclosed passageways with unregulated tour guides is enough to bring out anyone's inner claustrophobe. But we had heard great things of the town's only miner-owned and run agency The Big Deal (formerly The Real Deal) and after getting the lowdown in Spanish from one of the young assistants in the office, we signed up for the following day.

The streets were full with Potosians gearing up for Carneval. Guerilla warfare was rife, foam and waterguns roaming the squares and brass bands pacing the chilly streets. And make no mistake, this is not playful for the most part - you tool up and move fast cos these kids don't mess about... The market is large, fascinating and business-like, the local Potosina lager one of our favourites in the region, and our hostel Koala Den a great-value, rambling building with the best hostel breakfast we had in Bolivia - simple breads, jams and eggs on the side served  fresh before the 8-9am mining tour starts.

But first for the other Potosi highlight: the excellent Casa de Moneda, formerly the Bolivian mint and now a fantastic, thoughtful museum exploring the history of the mint, the output of the mine and housing a broader collection of colonial art and artifacts. Foreign language tours are included in the price of the ticket and so we spent a few hours in the company of an eloquent and thoughtful guide. He showed us around the old forges where the ceilings remain black, flecked with white and silver from centuries of smelting, and the newer presses sent by the Spanish kings of the 17th century to distribute the most cutting edge technology to the outer-reaches of their bloody, lucrative empire. Galleries display rich colonial paintings, the fascinating evolution of South American currency and the thousands of minerals and precious stones mined from Rico's depths. 

The museum is overseen by a frightening, ambiguous guardian, whose half-smiling face stares down from the arches. This, our guide thought, summed up the building and its history. For if you look at the face, you see it smiles on one side but not on the other: as if for the paradox of Bolivia, who once forged the currencies of the Empire but now mints her own coins in Chile; who with all her resources and hidden riches is still now, as then, so poor. And he shrugged - a sadly philosophical smile with all the cynicism, grit and good humour of Potosi.

Mining tours all insist on the authentic credentials of their guides but it is clear that experiences - both their informativeness and their safety - vary wildly. The main selling point of Big Deal had thus been the fact that they are so far the only company in town actually owned and run by, rather than employing, former miners - and the reviews both online and scrawled all over the walls of their little office are unremittingly positive. So we felt in good hands as we were bundled aboard a bus, our yawns no match for the small-built, boisterous and high-energy guys waiting for our group of 10 or so tourists. Like sugar-loaded personal trainers but with the dark, weathered skin and quick-silver eyes of men aged before their time, they bounded around barking good-humoured energising instructions at us as we wheeled on out of town to the miners market on the fringes. Here we would buy gifts for the miners we would meet which our guide for the day - Efrain, one of the company's founders - advised should comprise a kit of 2 litre soda and a bag of coca leaves.

Standing outside the stall, he showed us how to de-stem and chew the leaves properly - in between flinging around sticks of dynamite used by miners to demonstrate how 'safe' they were - as it was also worth us cracking into the supplies to guard against breathlessness and claustrophobia. We'd taken coca leaves in tea before but this was our first crack at the real thing so we knuckled down to it, clumsily copying his lifelong tested technique. Coca chewing is no quirky custom for Bolivian miners, as if it is for any Andean peoples, but a daily necessity and way of life. While early colonials railed against the habit, it was in Potosi and after experiencing the mining industry that the Spanish laid off, realising there was no way to outlaw this practice if they were to continue mining the Rico. A true opium for the masses, perhaps, but a traditional one at least. It expands lung capacity and enables people to work longer, it fends off the vicissitudes of altitude and provides strength and sustenance. Miners tend to get through an entire bag of the leaves per day and it's the one thing - apart from the occasional swig of pure spirit taken in toast to their patron El Tio (the Devil, lord of the mines, known as 'Uncle') - they consume in the mines during a shift.

After stocking up we went to change into mucky overalls, heavy rubber boots and hard hats with flashlights after which, I must say, I looked every inch the Real Deal, no?! The tour itself began in the processing factory near the mouth to the Rosario mine, one of around 30 different sub-mines toiled in worker co-operatives in the now state-owned mine. Efrain and his colleagues pay their old co-workers a fee to bring 'their' tourists into the mine and run a tight ship as you scamper through the dank narrow tunnels to ensure no one gets in the way of the work going on around you. The factory itself was a crazy medieval shed of chemical processing, ramshackle stairways, deafening sound and exposed wiring. Stepping gingerly around the plant we wondered wryly if this was the Elf-and-Safety-free working idyll the Daily Mail mourns the death of... And as we met workers inside, Efrain would pause to chat, translating a bit about each person - their age, how long they had worked in the mines - and source a few handfuls of coca or a bottle of juice in thanks.

And Efrain loved to talk. As we entered Rosario,  which we would spend almost 2 hours walking through to a second mine and on the other side of the mountain, we learned more about his life and that of Potosi's mining community. During breaks in our march, as former colleagues approached, running heavy trolleys through, he would yell back for everyone to get out of the way, spreading ourselves flat against the tiny 4-6ft high passages. 'No time for gentle talk in the mines,' he boomed cheerfully in the dark, 'it's 'Hey, how you? Move, llama-fucker!!' and bounded on ahead, leaving us tittering breathlessly in the noxious closed air, scampering after him like pampered little sheep into the bowels of hell. He had followed his father and all the men of his family into the mines by the age of 12 or so and claims, quite matter-of-factly and without ingratiation, that tourists changed his life. As tours into the mines began, he would meet foreigners - many of who would ask his age and even express anger with his father for his being there. Like all miners, he found this quite bewildering and more than a little ridiculous, both their sentiment at his work there and the very fact of their presence at all; 'I think, what? Tourists want to be miners?!' But he was bright and began to learn different languages, picking up English vocab from the peculiar visitors and eventually being offered a guide job with an agent; his former boss, of whom there was much disparaging talk.

After several years of working for this agency (now their rival), he and other former miners set up shop on their own and Efrain's real passion, it seemed, was bringing in other young 'retirees' from Cerro Rico. Gradually learning English, they work in the office, shadow older colleagues and run the Spanish-speaking tours to cut their teeth. Efrain wants to get more young miners into evening classes and into the tourist industry as a way out. And here is the paradox. 

As we sat in Tio's cave for one of the pauses in our march through the airless warren, where miners drink 96% proof pure spirits each month and give offerings of booze and cigarettes to the party-loving patron, he veered passionately onto the topic of the 'Devil's Miner' movie which made Potosi mining famous. A shit movie according to all the miners, he insisted, for myriad reasons but most particularly for the image of the young boy in class ashamed to admit he is a miner. This would never happen, Efrain insisted violently, between rounds of pure spirits in which we were required to partake; 'You are proud to be miners; you go into town, into Potosi, into clinic or into bars - 'I am a miner, give me 2 beers' (always in twos: 'Miners are very superstitious - we have two lungs, two arms, two legs, two balls - always two beers, four beers, six beers!!'). He puffs up his chest to convey the pride of workers who can earn twice what those in his own industry or other office workers are bringing home. There is no shame - and in a town, in a country, where unemployment is rife, life tough, salaries low and options limited, the Potosi miner has a good lot, a strong community, a way of life.

And yet. Efrain himself got himself out and wants to get other young people out. He discusses the health risks openly and the large mining families which require ever-longer hours and sons to follow fathers into the hard trade, the truncated life expectancy. He himself has a much smaller family than his brothers and his time in the mine - straddling worlds - is now just a few hours a day rather than the 8-10 hour shifts his comrades still make. He insists upon the strength, pride, humour and fraternity of the community; yet it is simultaneously clear from his empassioned commentary on their lives that he saw its dangers clearly even at a young age and now looks to expand choices for other young men in the industry. This feels like a very Bolivian paradox to us. The air is close, the poisonous fumes tolerable for a few hours through the moreish barrier of the coca leaves masticating in our cheeks but unimaginable for the hours of the miner's shift. Even if these hours are now determined by himself and his cooperative cell - largely made up of family members and close friends and each working their own specified patch - where once their predecessors were worked to death in the bowels of the Rico by outsiders.

Of the many sights, tours and treks we have taken in the last seven months, if I could recommend any single company or experience unreservedly it would be this one. This is not to put The Big Deal on a pedestal: I assume they are subject to many of the same pressures as their competitors and there is plenty I don't know about how they work. But they are the genuine article. Having the privilege to spend a few hours within this workplace, with the eloquence and passion of a guide like Efrain - who literally cannot tell you enough about his people, his own life, his thoughts and recollections about his town, his industry and his community ('Tourist say five hours for a tour, what we are going to do for five hours - but it is not enough for everything I want to tell you') - is pretty unmatched.  Back in the half-light of the shrine, still breathless from the 3 floor-climb up rickety ladders in a space wide enough only for children, we pour a little spirit on the floor and shoot a tiny amount - two sips of course as required - to El Tio. And, as ever, to Pachamama. Tio remains impervious; Efrain rounds us up, his soft little band of 'llama fuckers', and we scuttle on through the remaining tunnels into the sunlight.