A Mountain of Silver
November 19 & 20. The town of Potosí sits high, around 3,826m. A mining town that’s a jumble of steep streets and weathered colonial buildings sprawled in the shadow of Cerro Rico — the “Rich Mountain” that once funded the Spanish Empire and, at an unimaginable human cost and set the course of world history. The mountain itself is higher, at 4,000 metres, though it was estimated to have once stood 50ft higher. We can feel the altitude, just breathing is hard work.
We arrived mid afternoon and had to weave big Bruce through the chaotic sloping streets, not ideal for a big truck. Sharp turns, random one-way alleys, honking minibuses, and an occasional llama thrown into the mix. Eventually we squeezed our way to the stadium in the city centre, to a carpark where other Overlander’s have camped and recommended as safe.
Mine tour
Leaving the truck, hoping it was safe, we quickly hailed a taxi to take us up the hill to meet Manuel and for a tour of the silver mine. We were a little late arriving, but joined in, getting changed into dust protective clothing and looking the part with a hard hat and lamp. There were just two others on the tour, a Dutch couple — driving their trusty Land Rover.
Starting with the processing plant we got an up close view of the ore being loaded into the crusher which then travelled along conveyer belt to a chemical washing process that separates the silver from the rock in a rather toxic looking fashion. That foam is then taken and dried on the ground for a few weeks, resulting in a powder which is then sent to China for processing into silver. Sadly because of greed & corruption at the highest level, the country remains poor even though they have the silver. The miners are very angry at this and fight endlessly to have the ability to process themselves. Sadly it’s a fight that falls to the wind.
We then pile into the truck and climb the steeper streets to the mine itself. From the outside, the mountain looks exhausted: grey, dusty slopes pocked with ragged openings, each one the mouth of a privately-run shaft. Miners trudged past us pushing wheelbarrows overflowing with rock, their faces caked with dust, a wad of coca leaves bulging in one cheek. Eighteen-hour shifts are not uncommon. Many still work with primitive tools, unstable tunnels, and the ever-present risk of collapse — all for a wage that barely keeps their families afloat.
mine shafts like swiss cheese
Inside, the air is thick with dust, the metallic tang of minerals and the unmistakable scent of dynamite. We crawled through timber-framed passages, past offerings to mountain spirits: coca leaves, cigarettes, alcohol, small effigies stained by years of devotion. Rubbish lay everywhere: plastic bottles, wrappers, torn gloves. No oversight or organization exists.
It’s said the interior of Cerro Rico is like Swiss cheese — riddled with a labyrinth of unmapped shafts dug over centuries.
No one knows exactly what’s holding the mountain up anymore.
Accidents are frequent; life expectancy for miners is sadly low, with silicosis and lung disease cutting many down in their fifties.
No need to linger down there, I was happy to keep the tour moving along at a good pace and kept the kids close.
With active blasting and no warning system, a cave in could happen at any moment. Needless to say I was happy to see the light of day at the end of the tunnel, literally!
Potosi by night
That evening we wandered up toward the plaza along streets choked with diesel fumes. Every bus seemed determined to blow a cloud of black smoke directly into our faces as we climbed. The streets were a blur of movement — vendors selling everything imaginable: single toilet rolls, knock-off electronics, piles of mandarins, bags of coca leaves. Dinner ended up being at a forgettable restaurant with no atmosphere. We were tired and hungry and took the first decent option, not good and not bad, it was cheap, hot, and better than cooking in a parking lot.
After dinner we walked a little towards the music playing in the main square to watch the local ladies brass band perform what appeared to be their multi event winning performance, complete with baton twirlier and impeccable uniforms and several trophies on display.
The temperature plummeted, too cold for Manuel to be camping in his tent on the concrete. Tim insisted he sleep in the roof top tent with a Birds Eye over a hundred or more busses and trucks who also come here to park each night.
HistoRICAL TOUR OF THE OLD Mint
The next morning we had a slow start and didn’t climb out of the truck until around 9 a.m. Sleeping at 4,000ft isn’t easy. Before leaving town, I wanted to visit the old mint museum.
After buying tickets and walking to the gate, we discovered we couldn’t explore on our own — it was guided tours only. The English tour had already begun at 9 a.m., and the next wasn’t until 11. With our tickets non-refundable, we killed time wandering around town, burning both time and money.
In the end, we were the only ones on the English tour, which stretched to nearly two hours and left Tim and Manuel yawning with boredom. Oops. Still, the Casa de la Moneda — the old mint where silver from Cerro Rico was shipped off to finance Europe’s wars and palaces.
The museum isn’t the original mint but the second complex, built about 200 years ago. It’s beautifully maintained: wide courtyards, wooden gears the size of houses, thick stone walls, and the original mule-powered mechanisms used to flatten silver ingots. You can almost hear the creak of the timbers and feel the weight of centuries of forced labour on both men and animals.
Impressive, but also sad, knowing how much suffering went into producing all that gleaming coin for a wealthy few.
A Memorial on the Road to Uyuni
One day and night in Potosí was enough right after the museum tour ended we headed out of town toward Uyuni.
Stopping twenty kilometres outside town to visit the roadside memorial for Kevin Irvine — a Scotsman who had made Whistler home for over twenty years before his tragic death in 2012, when he was struck by a mining truck while riding his motorbike toward Uyuni. He was only 44. I knew Kevin through a friends of friends. Not well, but well enough to know he was a really good guy who everyone loved.
I have been in touch with his former girlfriend, who sent us the location. She had built the memorial — painted with a Scottish and Canadian flag, with photos enclosed inside. Time and weather had faded everything. We replaced one photo with a freshly printed version.
Someone still visits often; the spot was surrounded by dead cut flowers, coca leaves, candles, and empty beer and Coke bottles — tokens of remembrance, and very typical of Bolivian roadside shrines.
Toward the Salar
The road to Uyuni was stunning — a stretch of raw Andean beauty that Kevin, sadly, never got to see. It winds through wide valleys and dry riverbeds, the landscape shifting from rocky greys to soft ochres, rust-red cliffs, brilliant green trees, and the occasional dramatic rock formation rising out of nowhere.
We rolled into Uyuni around 6 p.m. and, not wanting to cook, headed straight for a small but busy Chinese restaurant — always a good sign. It was a true family operation: Mum behind the wok and the daughter running between tables, doing her best to keep up with a demanding crowd.
We waited thirty minutes to order and winced as an older man decided the rules didn’t apply to him, pushing ahead in the queue and later striding back into the kitchen to demand more food. That seemed to give others permission to do the same, and soon people were helping themselves to soup, tea, and whatever else they could reach.
I tried very hard to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business. Apparently not hard enough, because a moment later I heard myself telling the older man to sit down and mind his manners — that the young girl was doing the best she could. Oh dear. The blood of the Browns, haha. Right, Da?
By the time we had camped for the night it was 10pm.