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.
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