Dispatches:  Potosí

By Laurence East

It is rare that seasoned travelers find their curiosity and fascination whetted, as once they were when adventuring began. There is an element of discovery that is somehow made that much more meaningful by the scorn of those who come before. A fallen angel, a gift that has lost its luster, what remains of any merit? Under the sullen gaze of Cerro Rico, the indefatigable human spirit has toiled against the elements longer than the cobbles on the street choose to recall. The silver lifeblood in the veins of the guardian of Potosí run dry and her skin is trampled and withered beneath the tread of a million mules and human feet.

Yet what survives is a history of human spirit; in the midst of nothing a seemingly bustling something. Potosí lives on.

 “I am rich Potosí

The treasure of the world

And the envy of kings.”

It's the road from the colonial prom Queen, Sucre, that truly encompasses the nature of Potosí’s location. If one doesn’t feel the altitude in Sucre, you will by the time the micro or the taxi ‘rapido’ climbs the 5000 feet onto the plateau of silver. It defies reason as to why one would build an airport there, as if La Paz was not notorious enough. Nevertheless, work continues, and one day--as in centuries gone by--rich foreigners will arrive in Potosí, unhappy and uncomfortable, struggling to inhale what little air God provides to those foolish enough to believe the highest city in the world deserves little respect.

The heritage of human struggle in this place tells of the Spanish-who, in an effort to extend the wealth of the empire dragged slaves and animals up through the passes, across the altiplano into the bowels of the mountain, removing enough silver to fund the coffers of King Carlos V et al. for almost two centuries. As legend has it, if one took all the silver mined from Potosí, it would form a bridge all the way to Madrid! Exaggerated perhaps, illustrative nevertheless.

If only the stones and the chambers of the mines could tell their stories. Official figures are inaccurate, but the amount of human life lost in the pursuit of colonial exploitation cannot be justified vis-à-vis, economic returns. In 1544, the post-inebriated adventures of an irresponsible Peruvian shepherd, Diego Huallpa led to the discovery of the precious metal and as all real fairy tales must, it ended in tears as he chose to turn to the Spanish after his efforts to split the profits with a friend went sour. And thus, the grand scale exploitation began.

From 1545 till the mid 1800’s, Potosí was the largest city in South America--the most famous and celebrated city in the altiplano--and the jewel in the crown of Alto Perú. The colonial masters upon realization of the wealth in store wasted little time in taking not just the silver, but in their haste, the lifeblood of the country. In just three centuries of colonial rule, eight million Indian and black slaves died in the mines of Cerro Rico or from silicosis pneumonia, a double cost indeed.

Today, a different city has risen from the historical legacy. The silver is all but gone, and from the turn of the 19^th century and the crash of the silver markets worldwide, the glory of Potosí has diminished into a forgotten history.

What remains today is the human spirit, determined to make a life worth living. Its constant challenge is to swim the ebb and flow of unforgiving economics and to answer the onslaught of the harsh environment.

The coldest cold and the hottest hot--they are always dry. What Potosí lacks is moisture. There is nowhere to hide. The sharpest wind can whistle through the narrow streets and the sun seems so close you might touch it on a summer’s day.

For the average tourist, Potosi offers little. Sure, there is the Casa Real de la Moneda (Royal Mint), lovingly restored and intelligently maintained. And there are the remains of the 80 or so churches built during the boom. But how can Potosí compare to the beauty of Sucre? Where are the trees, the shade and the architecture? To the unprepared or easily deterred, the simplicity of the obvious is all they deserve.

I’ll let you in on a secret; the treasure is still in Potosí.  Its down the side streets, up the main hill off the recommended tourist trail.  Venture into the smaller plazas and the narrower, cobble-lined streets, among the people who remember what spirit of survival is. The Quechuas here have a sad but proud heritage, an oppressed history, and pillaged treasure trove, but a hardness that stands more than a match for the elements around them. 

As I sat on the roof of the house I was staying in, out on the outskirts of the city, the early morning view took my breath away. The dry air so crisp, I could feel my skin tighten on my face with every moment.  Across the plateau, another ridge and beyond that, another emerged as the sky lit up to meet the morning sun.  Suddenly Potosí flashed with silver again, exploding with light as the sun swept through the valley. Below the gaze of the mountain, people go about their daily lives as they have for generations, facedown to protect themselves from the already quickening whirlwinds that dance with impudence from street to street. In their blood runs sterner stuff than silver, it is a treasure worth any king’s bounty. It is a spirit of life and determination. 

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you yearn for the quickening of the spirit and a lust for life in its most raw incarnation, I challenge you to discover Potosí. Look beyond today and imagine the day on which the campfire of Diego Huallpa unearthed a rich vein of history. Cerro Rico may be empty, but her spirit is intact.

 “I am rich Potosí

The treasure of the world

And the envy of kings.”