The Tio

I watched a PBS special last night about the workers in a Bolivian mine. They live on the bleak foothills of a mountain, and men and children make the trek up the mountain to pry minerals from the mines. Many of the mines have been active since the 17th century, and they are very nearly dried up. One thing struck me about their culture, though.

"Out here," one of the miners said, "Jesus is our Lord. We cross ourselves before we go to work." And indeed they did. They went to mass; they received the eucharist. But then they went into the mine, and they passed a stone crucifix. That marked the end of Christ's power.

"In here," he said, "Tio is our god." The Tio is a stone statue that resides somewhere in every mine. Tios look like devils, with horns and inset green crystal eyes. The Tios were erected by the Spanish conquistadores to frighten the Indian miners into working, and the Tios' effect remains strong. When the miners first work in a new mine, the foreman will take them to the Tio, and the miner will decorate it with necklaces and offer it alcohol, coca leaves, and cigarettes. They bribe the Tio, and then they pray to it for protection.

The documentarians interviewed the town priest. Among the dirty miners, the priest stuck out as a model of cleanliness and order. Throughout the entire documentary, he was never shown without his priestly vestments. Only his missing teeth betrayed his peasant status. He stood in front of them reciting a vigorous homily: "Jesus will never stop loving you. No matter what." He pleaded, and the miners stood still, unconvinced. It wasn't Jesus's love they doubted, it was his strength. They simply didn't believe that Jesus's power could stretch into the black, dust-choked mine. The priest spoke of this in his interview: "They have to know that there is a God stronger than the Tio."

And after mass, every Sunday, the villagers would head out to the entrance of the mine. There they stood, dancing and celebrating. A shaman trotted in, pulling a white llama. He sat sharpening a knife on a rock, and then presented it into the air. He took the knife and cut the llama's throat, end to end, as women scattered to collect the blood in basins. The men smeared the blood on their faces, and the women threw the basins full of blood onto the entrance to the mine. "When we give it blood," a boy said, "the Tio drinks the blood, and then he won't want our blood, and we'll be safe."

And this is me. Standing incredulously before God and church, I return to my mine, a forgiven man with blood on my face, communion wine on my lips, still demanding justification.