So much more is traveling than merely sightseeing. There would indeed be little to draw you outside your front door if a picture of Rome or a postcard of Patagonia would serve as a journey there. No, traveling is about the living out of what life any one place has to offer: the touch, the smells, the sights, the sounds, the feelings, the ambiance, the people, the culture, the pleasures, the challenges. It is about looking about for whatever is willing to reveal itself to you, taking it in and letting it impress itself upon you. It is about standing inside the mighty arches of the Coliseum where the worst of human nature was once realized, caught up in a vision of the chaos and pandemonium of a raucous mob calling for the brutal and gory death of the unfortunate souls in the arena below. It is about the sense of wonder and humility one feels standing beneath towering peaks of solid rock glowing pink in the morning rays of sunrise, and despite battling the biting wind and deep chill penetrating your four layers of clothing, you can think of no place you would rather be.
It is true that while traveling, some places are merely a postcard snapshot in your memory, a fleeting glimpse through a dirty bus window as you roll on by. Yet others etch themselves so deeply into your being that upon their recollection you can still feel it, taste it, and smell it; you can still live it long after it has passed from reality to memory. You still feel where your body ached as you recall resting wearily in the cool shade along a rushing mountain river after a 6 day trek, reminiscing upon the spectacular scenery you were witness to. Or that that feeling of peace falling over you as the sky turns colors above a lighted soccer pitch, cold beer in hand, taking friendly jabs for being an American from your Paraguayan friends, knowing there is nothing left to do with the night but play a couple more games of ball and share a few more beers. These memories are almost as real now as when they were made, evoking so much feeling and emotion when recalled. It may be too soon to say, but I believe my experience in Potosi will be another one of these experiences.
Just getting there was an experience. (For that matter, so is most travel in Bolivia. Hot busses full of people, aisle included, families of four sharing two seats. Washed out bridges cutting off direct transportation, although you can leave your first means of transportation, hop off and walk across the gully on a makeshift foot bridge, then catch some other form of transportation on the other side. The journey from Uyuni to Potosi though takes the cake (or the biscuit for my British friends).) The six hour journey took eight, and it was overnight. I was lucky enough to get a chair whose recline lever was broken off. Just recovering from altitude sickness, we were traveling from a high 3100m to a higher 4100m. I was also midway through my two week diarrhea session as well. The winding dirt road was in such a state of disrepair that the bus rattled violently on down it for nearly the entire 8 hours. How happy I was when we finally hit the short stretch of paved road before Potosi. The rattling was so bad that you couldn’t sleep (straight backed chairs didn’t help either) as it would randomly change from constant to strong, with the occasional JAR as you hit a big pot hole. Please excuse me if this sentence offends any you, but the rattling was so strong my “package” was hurting from all the back and forth, so I had to stuff my sweatshirt between my legs to give more support and create a makeshift pillow. It was seriously that bad. We got one bathroom break to pee on the side of the road, and luckily my intestines had mercy on me for the journey. I might have been on a straight 36 hour bus ride in Argentina, but this was without a doubt the longest bus ride of my life.
The city of Potosi itself is really quite unremarkable, other than its altitude. You walk a block and you are short of breath, your heart is pounding, and, if you exert yourself too much, then your brain is racking against the side of your skull (the fact that the city is built on a hillside doesn’t help the situation). The chaotic street scenes weigh a bit on your sanity. Not enough space on the sidewalks, the pedestrians overflow into the streets, then have to press together when a car comes to avoid being hit, creating this surging mob going about their day to day activities. It is Potosi’s mining heritage and lifestyle though that will leave its mark on you.
It is true that while traveling, some places are merely a postcard snapshot in your memory, a fleeting glimpse through a dirty bus window as you roll on by. Yet others etch themselves so deeply into your being that upon their recollection you can still feel it, taste it, and smell it; you can still live it long after it has passed from reality to memory. You still feel where your body ached as you recall resting wearily in the cool shade along a rushing mountain river after a 6 day trek, reminiscing upon the spectacular scenery you were witness to. Or that that feeling of peace falling over you as the sky turns colors above a lighted soccer pitch, cold beer in hand, taking friendly jabs for being an American from your Paraguayan friends, knowing there is nothing left to do with the night but play a couple more games of ball and share a few more beers. These memories are almost as real now as when they were made, evoking so much feeling and emotion when recalled. It may be too soon to say, but I believe my experience in Potosi will be another one of these experiences.
Just getting there was an experience. (For that matter, so is most travel in Bolivia. Hot busses full of people, aisle included, families of four sharing two seats. Washed out bridges cutting off direct transportation, although you can leave your first means of transportation, hop off and walk across the gully on a makeshift foot bridge, then catch some other form of transportation on the other side. The journey from Uyuni to Potosi though takes the cake (or the biscuit for my British friends).) The six hour journey took eight, and it was overnight. I was lucky enough to get a chair whose recline lever was broken off. Just recovering from altitude sickness, we were traveling from a high 3100m to a higher 4100m. I was also midway through my two week diarrhea session as well. The winding dirt road was in such a state of disrepair that the bus rattled violently on down it for nearly the entire 8 hours. How happy I was when we finally hit the short stretch of paved road before Potosi. The rattling was so bad that you couldn’t sleep (straight backed chairs didn’t help either) as it would randomly change from constant to strong, with the occasional JAR as you hit a big pot hole. Please excuse me if this sentence offends any you, but the rattling was so strong my “package” was hurting from all the back and forth, so I had to stuff my sweatshirt between my legs to give more support and create a makeshift pillow. It was seriously that bad. We got one bathroom break to pee on the side of the road, and luckily my intestines had mercy on me for the journey. I might have been on a straight 36 hour bus ride in Argentina, but this was without a doubt the longest bus ride of my life.
The city of Potosi itself is really quite unremarkable, other than its altitude. You walk a block and you are short of breath, your heart is pounding, and, if you exert yourself too much, then your brain is racking against the side of your skull (the fact that the city is built on a hillside doesn’t help the situation). The chaotic street scenes weigh a bit on your sanity. Not enough space on the sidewalks, the pedestrians overflow into the streets, then have to press together when a car comes to avoid being hit, creating this surging mob going about their day to day activities. It is Potosi’s mining heritage and lifestyle though that will leave its mark on you.
The Spanish sought the silver veins coursing through the multicolored mountain standing above Potosi, perforating the mountainside with dark shafts baptized by the blood of black and indigenous slaves alike. Due to their acclimatization to the altitude, and the inability of the blacks to adjust under their immediate and heavy work burdens, the indigenous workers soon dominated the mine work force. Testament to this fact is the eerie absence of African heritage among Potosi habitants, despite the importation of a plethora of African slaves. The dark, damp 
shafts soon became known as a literal incarnation of hell on earth because of the harsh conditions and life of the workers, further reinforced by the Catholic tradition of the occupying Spanish that hell’s dominion lay underground. A fusion between the indigenous and Catholic traditions, a whole other religious tradition formed in the underground tunnels and is still very prevalent today. Tio oversees and watches all, causing accidents if offerings are insufficient, or leading a miner to a rich vein of ore if he is pleased. An altar to Tio exists in every mine, of which there are currently 300 employing 12,000-15,000 workers, depending on the economy. He has a striking resemblance to the Catholic imagery of Satan, as well as other pronounced features taken from the indigenous culture (see if you can find the most pronounced…). So strong is 
the belief in Tio’s reward or punishment, that even when taking little capful shots of liquor, some is poured onto the earth as tribute before each drink. Miners earn a decent living compared to their Bolivian counterparts, but it is also a good way to live a short life. The days in the mine take years off of your life, and also add them to your body. The miners we shared drinks with were not much older than me, 25 and 28, but looked easily 10 to 15 years older than that. They were engineers, not a bad job for miners. We witnessed a whole hierarchy of jobs, some harder with better pay, or vice versa. Every single one of them made any form of work I have ever done or ever will do seem like a Sunday stroll through the park. It was an eye-opening experience to walk those damp, dark shafts and witness an underground life so harsh and so different.
One last impression I will never forget is after we had climbed about 300 feet up a shaft via ladders to see some work that was being done. Some miners had placed some dynamite for a horizontal tunnel they were boring, and after talking about this, we sat down with those engineers to share some drinks and talk more about mine culture. At some point someone realized it was 5:00, and I overheard one of the miners tell our guide that we should get going and that we had about ten minutes. I figured we had 10 minutes to leave because the miners were going home for the day. 
We descended the narrow laddered shafts to the level we entered on, and when we were together again, we started to talk once again about the mines. 10 minutes apparently was meant on a Bolivian time scale, and I was content to let the guides worry about it anyway. In the middle of some talk about silver veins BOOM! Dirt shook itself from the roof and walls as we looked at each other with panicked looks BOOM! More dirt falling, the vibrations could be felt in our legs, the source come somewhere maybe above our BOOM! Yep, definitely above our 
heads. What are we supposed to do? BOOM! Does my face look as scared as that guy’s over there? Why is our guide smiling? BOOM! “Music of the mines,” our guide says. “That is dynamite exploding.” Seconds later the two engineers came down the ladders we had just descended. It then clicked. We didn’t have ten minutes to get out of the mine. We just had ten to get out of the area until they were going to blow it to smithereens. You haven’t lived unless you have been in a mine with dynamite going off in it. It was an experience I will never, ever forget.
We laughed off the tense nerves when it was all over, relieved to be heading back out to our world of open ground, fresh air, and daylight. I think we all saw it with different eyes though; a new appreciation for the freedom it offered compared to the cramped, enclosed world we had just journeyed through. When we had arrived in Potosi we had joked and complained about the shortness of breath and altitude, but after that tour, the open air of Potosi was never so easy to breathe. 
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