IN STEREO

Well, we were from a rural, provincial area. I came here to the city because I studied basic education in my area, but there were no grades apart from the basic, like secondary. So for that reason, and as my dad did not have money – in the countryside there is poverty – I migrated here at [the age of] 14 to study at night. Unfortunately, there was no money to continue – I had to work from 1975 onwards. So I was compelled to go into the mine because there was no money to study. I have six children: two men and four little women. I had to sacrifice myself in the mine so they could study. We deliver the mineral to the mills, to the cooperatives, [and] we earn some money. Before, it was the state's mineral bank [COMIBOL]. There are some [miners] who earn well – they have houses, buildings. I was a partner in my cooperative since I was young.

But there are others – the majority, 70% – who do not earn well and who do not have good things in life. There’s always poverty. My colleagues’ children couldn’t study because of money and [now] they are in the mine. But not mine. I have sacrificed myself a little. I realised that it is better to be professional, because I regretted it. “Look, I’m here when I always wanted to be more,” I told my children. None of them have gone into mining. I’ve always said, “No more.” I told them that being a miner is not easy for one to suffer, and that it is a fucked-up mine I would want neither my friend nor my enemy to enter. God knows, sometimes we get out, sometimes not. We work under risk. Ah, so many dead in there. That's why it's quiet. The mountain has changed too – there are young people in the place. So we leave. It’s no longer the time to be a miner. – Don Lazario