The Mountain That Eats Men

by Nick Levy (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Bolivia

“OK chicos, now we kill llama!” José announced with a grin. Our Bolivian guide had coca leaves stuck between his twisted teeth. Judging by the gasps of the half-dozen other travelers assembled with me on the mountain in ill-fitting hardhats, nobody had expected an animal sacrifice today. José dragged the llama to the top of the mine shaft. The poor creature shrieked as if it knew what was coming. I swallowed hard. Some in the group turned away. Others pulled out their phones. José took a knife from his belt, then in one move snapped the llama’s head back and slit its throat. It stopped screaming as blood shot out, covering the shaft. I heard someone behind me vomit. “If we lucky no-one die today,” José clapped. He pointed at me. “You first.” I stepped tentatively into the shaft, wondering about my own fate. A drop of blood fell on my arm. It was still warm. Good omen? Bad omen? Were omens even real? Finding my footing on the top rung of a rickety ladder, I sucked in a breath and took my first step into Cerro Rico—Rich Mountain. The notorious silver mine had operated continuously for almost 500 years. Reserves were so vast, Spanish colonizers had forced the indigenous population into slave labor, then when most died from overwork, foreign slaves were brought from Africa. It was estimated the mine had claimed a staggering eight million lives. The ladder ended up being more than thirty-feet long. There was no light at the bottom except for my headlamp, but I could make out a narrow tunnel. I held my claustrophobia at bay by helping the group descend. José was the last down. The miner-turned-guide reminded me of an ageing Oompa Loompa. Bolivians were the shortest nation in the world due to childhood malnutrition; it didn’t help that his spine was bent like a desk lamp. “OK chicos, vamos! Let’s go!” José shouted, bounding along the tunnel. I fell first in line, determined not to get lost. The ceiling was so low I had to stoop and breathing was difficult because silica dust filled my lungs. I scrambled to keep up as he led us deeper into the mountain, darting around corners, climbing down ladders, and jumping over an abyss with no end. I focused on my footsteps to avoid the feeling that the walls were closing in on me. Because they were. We crawled through a tight hole down to the next level, where three miners picked at the rock with primitive tools. My heart sank. Despite the muck on their faces, I could tell they were young. “This Emiliano, Luis and Arturo,” José said. “They work fourteen hours every day, six days every week. No work Sunday. Sunday for church.” “They’re just boys,” I coughed. “Emiliano thirteen, Luis twelve, Arturo seventeen. He very old. Muy viejo.” The miners laughed along with José, but I couldn’t join in. “We work from young because miner not live after forty. Too dangerous. Too much dust.” He waved his hand through the murky air. “All die. All die.” The mountain that eats men. José reached into a toolbox and pulled out a white stick. “OK chicos! You listen. This dynamite.” I took a step back with the rest of the group. “And this cable de detonación.” He measured out a cord the length of his arm. “We put cable in dynamite, look here. Then put dynamite in rock, look here.” He shoved the stick into a crack in the wall. “Then make fire, look here.” He lit the cord. “Now run.” José flashed a grin, then he and the miners sprinted down the tunnel. I chased after them, desperate not to be last. We all rounded a corner and crouched to the ground. Mimicking José, I stuck fingers in my ears and shut my eyes. Nothing happened. I snuck a peek at the others, huddled around me as if the world was about to end— BANG! An explosion shook the tunnel. Dirt fell from the ceiling. A storm of dust raced past. Everyone in the group screamed. José and the miners roared with laughter. “All OK, chicos! Todo bien. This is our life.”