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Traveling around South America is never quite typical…so I should have been prepared for some twists to spice things up. Signing up for the silver mine tour with a ‘local’ guide in Bolivia, I envisioned something from a movie- standing out on a platform above a pit where miners were working, hearing some historical facts, and heading into a museum or gift-shop-like room where we’d see samples of what came from the mining process. My first hint that I’d been delusional was when our lovely guide, Myra, took us to the local market to prepare for our excursion. She prefaced the tour by saying she was an old miner's daughter, noting that we'd get a very authentic experience. In the market, we were charged with finding some headlamps, coca leaves (to offer the miners) and some dynamite. That's right. In the streets of Bolivia, they sell sticks of dynamite and fuse strings you can DIY to create an exploding piece of TNT. (Hoping that some crazy terrorists never find out about this business). Apparently, the miners use the dynamite to break through areas of the mine to unearth more silver. After the initial shock of seeing these, we headed off in all our gear. Surprise #2: no viewing platform. A small hole in the mountain you had to crawl through to delve into the depths of the cave. The little headlamps on our helmets navigated us through tunnels and up narrow staircases of rock as we attempted to survive the pungent smell of must and not breathe ‘too much’ underground. Much to my dismay, we finally hit a steep part I couldn’t climb (I had bruised my coccyx/tailbone sandboarding a few days earlier). Myra left me some coca leaves in case I needed anything. A few minutes passed…and a few more (I was starting to get nauseous)…and my headlamp went out. Thought “Great. I’m standing in a mine, in the dark, breathing in some toxic fumes, and hearing blasts of dynamite going off in the distance.” My glow-in-the-dark watch told me 30 minutes had passed since my crew had left. Just as I heard a miner’s cart squeaking below and began debating if I could yell or throw some coca leaves down to get his attention, little glimmers of light bounced hope into the darkness to signal my group returning. Myra slowly escorted us back to the fresh air again. But not until we prayed to the smoking shrine at the exit for safekeeping on our way out. Later that night, we watched a documentary about how 8 million people had died in that mine. Still thankful I was not one of them.