For centuries, the Cerro Rico de Potosí was exploited for its silver and revered as a living being. Its history is one of abundance and tragedy, conquest and resistance.
The Silver Mountain
In the 16th century, Spanish conquerors arrived on the Bolivian high plateau and discovered one of the world’s richest silver mines at Cerro Rico, almost 4,800 meters above sea level.
Exactly how they learned about the mine remains unclear. The legends vary, but all agree that the original inhabitants already knew of and revered their silver mountain.
The city of Potosí took its name from the mountain and boomed: at its height, it was the most populous city in America, with more residents than cities like London or Paris.
The wealth extracted fueled the Spanish empire and various other European economies (even China), but at the cost of the lives of thousands of indigenous and enslaved workers, who never shared in that wealth.
They often spent months without ever seeing the outside world. If they ever came out.
The mines stand as a testament to a colonialism that stripped the land of everything it could take.
A Globalized World From Potosí
From the Mint House of Potosí — today open to visitors — emerged the first global currency in history during the 16th century: the Reales de a Ocho. It was here that one of the forces shaping the modern world took root.
Over time, the galleries inside Cerro Rico multiplied, cutting ever deeper into the mountain. Silver poured out, but at an immense human cost. Although the exact number will never be known, it is estimated that millions perished in the mines, enduring extreme cold, darkness, lack of air, mistreatment, and pneumonia, without light, justice, or comfort for their families.
Legend has it that the wealth taken from the mine could build a bridge connecting the Americas to Spain. Another popular saying claims a second bridge could be built from the bones of those who died extracting the silver.
Potosí remains, even today, a stark reminder of the profound and lasting impact of the colonial era.
El Tío, The Devil Who Protects
Inside Cerro Rico, each gallery shelters its own altar to El Tío: a figure who walks the line between the sacred and the profane — a horned, fanged, sometimes human-shaped being who is both protector and threat. Though he can resemble a saint, he demands offerings: coca leaves, alcohol, cigarettes, firecrackers. For the miners, he is a living presence.
El Tío is not the Christian devil. He is an underground deity — the jealous owner of the minerals — a fusion of god and demon born from cultural mestizaje.
In Days and Nights of Love and War, Eduardo Galeano wrote: “In the mines, the Devil does not reign only in February. The miners call him Tío and have raised a throne for him in each tunnel. El Tío is the true owner of the mineral: he grants or denies veins of tin, misleads in the labyrinths those he wants to lose, or points out hidden veins to his favorite sons. He triggers collapses or causes them. Within the tunnel, it is deadly to mention the name of Jesus, although the Virgin can be invoked without risk.”
When open talk was impossible, workers would gather around El Tío to speak in secret about their lives and struggles. In the mines, disrespect brings punishment; respect brings protection. These rituals blend Catholicism, pre-Columbian beliefs, and the unspoken codes of mining life.
Even visitors are expected to follow tradition: gifts for the miners must first be shared with El Tío and with Pachamama, the earth.
A City Above a Hollow Mountain
Potosí still breathes with life. Colonial streets wind past narrow sidewalks, Baroque churches, leafy plazas, small buses, and houses built from the wealth once pulled from the mountain. Days are sun-bleached; nights cut to the bone.
Beneath it all, Cerro Rico is hollow with thousands of tunnels running through its heart, some at risk of collapse. Mining continues, though on a smaller scale. When mineral prices spike, independent workers — always men, as women are barred from obtaining temporary permits — obtain temporary permits from cooperatives before returning to their regular trades.
Entering the mine is a raw experience: heat, dust, the thud of distant explosions, workers who don’t expect to live long, and the constant echo of an unfinished story. Many visitors bring clothes, food, or toys to leave behind. Before any tour, groups often stop at the Mining Market to purchase gifts — part solidarity, part tradition.
Though open to tourism, the circuit still offers a glimpse into the harsh realities faced by those who work in the mines.
Mysticism and Reality
The mountain is sacred and cursed at once. It is prayed to and feared. In Quechua, it is Sumaq Urqu — the “beautiful mountain.” Others call it “the mountain that eats men.” These names reveal their contradictions: beauty shadowed by centuries of exploitation.
From time to time, authorities suggest closing the mines for safety, but the idea never takes hold. Cerro Rico still feeds families — fewer than before — and its complex ore, a mix of minerals, remains valuable even if the silver is gone.
El Tío has also stepped beyond the mountain. You find him in markets, murals, and souvenirs, a symbol of Bolivia’s deep contradictions, where faith, labor, and resistance intertwine.
A Journey to the Heart of the Deep
Visiting Cerro Rico is no ordinary excursion; it is a descent into the core of Latin American history. In Potosí, every stone holds a fragment of the past. At this altitude, breathing is hard, the markets are vast, and life spills into every street. As you descend into the mine, the air thickens, and the body feels things words cannot fully capture.
The city is beautiful; the mountain is unforgiving. Something between the two pulses, as if the mountain remembers its days at the center of an old world. And there, among dark tunnels and weary workers, El Tío still keeps watch over what remains hidden in the rock.
