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I was about to enter Cerro Rico, the artery of Latin America drained by the Spanish since the 16th century. Cerro Rico, in Potosí, Bolivia, brought death to dozens of Incas every day for two centuries. I was about to enter a mine whose toxic dust and floating crystals destroy the lungs of miners when they’re 30 years old. In the worst cases of silicosis, a lung disease, bodies become so intoxicated that the miner will cough out his lungs. I was about to trespass the mouth of a mountain whose only religion or salvation is the devil who’s worshipped inside. I was about to enter a world where children and adults alike work for more than 12 hours a day, every day. After centuries of exploitation, the mine continues to operate today. I don’t want to go in. Will I ever come out? Antonio has a hunchback. His skin looks burnt by the hard work he did in the darkness of the mine. His eyes seem to have shrunken in size, as if purposefully. Despite his humor, his tone is melancholic. His dad died inside the mine, he confessed later on to me. Antonio is an exception in the mine because unlike other miners who are to die as miners, he managed to find another means of survival by offering tours instead. He sees my preoccupation and tells me I don’t have to walk in if I don’t want to. “You walk into the mine relaxed, or you don’t.” Then, to the rest of the group, “Everyone ready?” He leads us forward while singing “Heigh-ho heigh-ho, to home from work we go.” We enter the mine, one by one, going down a fragile, wooden ladder. My sister is with me. I’m out of breath after a minute: we’re 4,000+ meters above sea level, and the air feels like breathing in pepper. Chewing coca leaves offers some relief. The floor is filled with rests of coca leaves and empty bottles of 96% alcohol. Not very different from surgical alcohol, this is what the miners drink during their work hours. In the three hours that we’re there, we navigate seven levels of the mine. Today, the mine has 17 levels and has shrunken in height from 5,200 meters to 4,700. I can only imagine what’s beneath the layers of dust. After stooping for a few meters, I understand why Antonio and every other miner we see in the mine has a similar appearance. It’s hard to look forward when your body is forced to look down. As we walk towards the mine’s jail, which the Spanish used to imprison Incas who refused to work in the mine, the mountain begins to tremble and I hear dust crumbling above us. I jump towards my sister thinking it’s the end. In a few seconds, we’ll be covered in rocks. “Don’t worry it’s just the dynamite blowing up,” Antonio remains calm. The closer we get to prison, the warmer it is. Holding the largest concentration of silver, the temperature goes above 50 C. The prison was our last stop before making our journey back to life. I don’t know how long it took, but I remember feeling lighter upon seeing the ladder that brought us in. The moment I saw the light at the top of the ladder I felt reborn into a life in which I would never have to enter that mine again. I exhaled as soon as I was out and collapsed next to my sister, crying. I’ve never been as far away from home as I was inside that mine. I was born on the surface of the Earth, and I went beneath it. The miners are penguins in a desert, fish out of the sea, ice left out at room temperature. They’re slowly melting with their daily misplacement from their habitat. Descending and ascending levels of the mine every day, descending past their families, past their health, past their lives. And here I am writing about them after infiltrating into their world, while the night shift is coming to an end in Cerro Rico, and refreshed lungs are soon to return to the murder machine.