The young Winston Churchill on War

In his autobiography My Early Life: A Roving Commission, the young Winston Churchill writes about his feelings towards war and conflict. He seems to regard it all as one great adventure.

About his time at the Military College in Sandhurst:

Here the study was of divisions, army corps and even whole armies; of bases, of supplies, and lines of communication and railway strategy. This was thrilling. It did seem such a pity that it all had to be make-believe, and that the age of wars between civilized nations had come to an end for ever.

On the latter point, Churchill was wrong. He would live to see World Wars I and II, and make a considerable contribution on behalf of civilization in the second.

If it had only been 100 years earlier what splendid times we should have had! Fancy being nineteen in 1793 with more than twenty years of war against Napoleon in front of one! However all that was finished. The British Army had never fired on white troops since the Crimea, and now that the world was growing so sensible and pacific – and so democratic too – the great days were over. Luckily, however, there were still savages and barbarous peoples. There were Zulus and Afghans, also the Dervishes of the Soudan. […]

These thoughts were only partially consoling, for after all fighting the poor Indians, compared with taking part in a real European war, was only like riding in a paper-chase instead of in the Grand National.

In 1930, it was apparently absolutely OK to publish an autobiography riddled with racism.

The young Churchill was so eager for war that in 1895, he took leave from the British Army to sail to Cuba at his own expense and join the Spanish in the Cuban War of Independence. Always on the side of European colonialism.

Each officer received a solid block of two and a half months’ uninterrupted repose. […] as I could not afford to hunt, I searched the world for some scene of adventure or excitement. The general peace in which mankind had for so many years languished was broken only in one quarter of the globe. The long-drawn guerrilla between the Spaniards and the Cuban rebels was said to be entering upon its most serious phase. […] It seemed to my youthful mind that it must be a thrilling and immense experience to hear the whistle of bullets all around and to play at hazard from moment to moment with death and wounds.

What would get you on a terrorism watch-list today, in 1895 was considered to be a completely decent plan to spend one’s holidays.

The Colonel and the Mess generally looked with favour upon a plan to seek professional experience at a seat of war. It was considered as good or almost as good as a season’s serious hunting, without which no subaltern or captain was considered to be living a respectable life.

Churchill did indeed come under fire and received his first medal. Equally important, it was in Cuba that he discovered cigars.

A few years later, he still hadn’t lost his taste for war. About a battle in the Second Anglo-Afghan war, Churchill writes:

So a lot of people were killed, […] and others were badly wounded and hopped around for the rest of their lives, and it was all very exciting and, for those who did not get killed or hurt, very jolly.

Very jolly indeed, all this war stuff. It makes me regret that I never fought in one.


“Well, we didn’t have cinema yet. What else was a young man supposed to do?”

(Thanks to long-time reader Ana Alves who mailed me Churchill’s autobiography as part of her annual book package. If you want to support this blog too, here is my wishlist of books. It’s hard to get the books I want in English or in German in South America, so I appreciate any help. Thank you!) 

Posted in Books, History, Military, UK | Tagged , , | 8 Comments

Scary Reptile

Before I went into the jungle in Bolivia, my biggest fear was of snakes.

But then, after a couple of days of wading through the green hell, completely lost, I heard something move in the tree above my head. I took a few steps back and saw this scary reptile lowering itself slowly. It moved like a snake, but it’s head was much bigger. I saw no eyes, no nose, it seemed like the whole head consisted only of claws ready to devour me.


It was the scariest thing I have ever seen.

I definitely ain’t going back to the jungle.

Posted in Bolivia, Photography, Travel | Tagged , | 13 Comments

When Voting, remember this Caveat

From Donald Trump’s book – or to be precise: Tony Schwartz‘s book with a photo of Donald Trump on the cover – The Art of the Deal:

Art of the Deal

“There are no guarantees,” warns the man who keeps shouting “Believe me!”

Posted in Books, Elections, Politics, US election 2016, USA | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem

Hidden in the labyrinth of the Old City of Jerusalem, it looks rather unimpressive from the outside. You could almost walk past the church that was built over the spot of Jesus’ crucifixion and his grave without noticing that there is any church at all. But in the dozens of churches, chapels and shrines inside the Church of the Holy, you can easily spend a few interesting hours. Even as an atheist.

Hof Eingang

Here, services are still shrouded in secretiveness. Hymns are sung in Latin, Ancient Greek or Aramaic to prevent the common worshipers from understanding anything. But the monks and deacons also speak English when they try to divert streams of visitors: “Move!” “It’s closed!” “This way!” Like bouncers in front of a popular club. Only the pigeons flying around inside the large cupola are free to roam around.

Listening closer to the flurry of languages among the visitors, one could assume that most Christians are Russian. Russian women, to be precise, because the men look rather bored walking behind their headscarf-covered wives. The women on the other hand look as ecstatic as if they had just fallen in love. Only Nigerian women are even more in a state of trance than their Russian sisters. Many of them light twenty candles at once. As soon as the believers leave however, a nun comes by and removes the candles that have just been donated. They can be sold to the next hapless person who thinks this helps.

Nonne entfernt Kerzen

German tour groups work their way through the church rather methodologically.”This is the Chapel of Saint Helena.” “Ok, then we still need to go to the altar of Mary Magdalene.”


Walking around the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, you can feel like Indiana Jones exploring. Up on a gallery, you find the altar of crucifixion.

Kreuzigungsaltar 2

In the basement and second basement underneath, I venture into chapels, vaults and crypts.



Behind the shrine for the actual grave of Jesus, to which there is a long queue of people who haven’t yet heard that their hero went to heaven, there is a small opening in the wall that you could easily overlook. Through a corridor that gets narrower and darker with every step, it leads to the grave of Joseph of Arimathea.


Electricity hasn’t yet been introduced to this dark corner. Candles light the way. A painting on the wall has been sooted beyond recognition.


When visiting a Protestant service in Central Europe, one could almost believe that Christianity exists in an enlightened form. But here I witness scores of Christians kneeling in front of a stone, kissing it for minutes and moving candles, icons and tablecloth above it, and I know that superstition is alive and paying hefty contributions to priests and churches.


Steinplatte 2

Some pilgrims swipe across an icon three times, bowing their head with each move. In the Catholicon, the largest church within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a woman has been resting her head on a stone pedestal for so long that I believe she must have fallen asleep.


The air is heavy with frankincense, as if to enhance the spiritual obfuscation by medicinal means.


Despite all my incomprehension, I do have to mention one positive aspect: Here, Europeans, Asians (all of the men wearing suits, by the way), Africans, Arabs and Indians are sitting, praying and singing together.

A nun is trying to attract my attention, but for all the wrong reasons: She admonishes me that I must not cross my legs while sitting in one of the pews. With evil and strict eyes, she looks out of her chador. Who makes up such rules?  In 13 years of attending school, I was admonished less than during this one visit to a church: don’t stand there, don’t take photos here, don’t sit down, and – that really crossed a line for me – why I don’t kneel down. I am only a guest, but I won’t allow the keepers of the Grail to bully me around.

schlafender ÄthiopierNot many visitors find the way to the small, unmarked side entrance to the right of the courtyard in front of the church. The door is open. The guard is sleeping, which is not a surprise given how dark the room is. Or maybe he is already dead. Who knows how often this place is cleaned. It could be easily cleaned out however, with such a keeper. There would be a few dollar bills on a silver plate, literally.

The paintings in this church are more colorful and with writing that I can’t decipher. A very narrow staircase hewn into the rock leads me to an upper floor. The same foreign style, just more light. Only from looking at the other visitors can I tell that I am in an Ethiopian church. Ethiopian Christianity is one of the oldest in the world and due to its isolation from the rest of Christianity, it maintained its very own character.

Bild Äthiopien

Now I have reached the roof of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, from where I can see five spires at once. Walking across the roof, I get to the Orthodox Copts. Until now, I hadn’t even known that there are different Copts. With every new room of this property, Christianity becomes more complicated.


Just as I want to put my foot across the threshold, I spot the poster on the door. Terrified, I tumble backwards, holding my breath. What is this? And why is it in a church? Photos of men kneeling in the sand, wearing orange overalls, their murderers standing behind them. Any second, their skin, veins and flesh will be cut.


Obviously these are the Egyptian Copts murdered in Libya in February 2015, but does this barbarity have to be depicted on a church door? Is this an attempt to revive the idea of martyrdom? Isn’t this propaganda exactly what ISIS wants?

As I step out of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I hear the call of the muezzin from the Omar Mosque, only 30 meters away. This is what I like about the Old City of Jerusalem, the three Abrahamic religions sometimes co-existing, sometimes competing in a relatively small area. Mosques, churches and synagogues are interlaced next to, above and with each other so closely that it would be impossible to divide the city along religious lines.

Jerusalem roofs

Speaking about different religions, there is no love lost between all the Christian churches represented in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They can’t even agree on opening and closing times. For 800 years already, it is therefore the Muslim families Joudeh and Nusseibeh who hold the only keys to this holy place of Christianity and who open the heavy gates every morning and close them at night.


(Zur deutschen Fassung dieses Artikels.)

Posted in Israel, Photography, Religion, Travel | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments


It seems that there is a new definition of humility, which sounds like this

and looks like this.

Donald Trump golden stage.jpg

But then, for a candidate who makes up his own “facts”, pulls out random numbers, changes them the next day and again the day after, who rarely manages or wants to answer a question, who gave a speech of more than one hour without a single specific policy proposal, who needs to tell everyone and all the time how smart he thinks he is, but who can’t form whole sentences or hold a thought for more than three seconds, well, for a candidate like this, making up new meanings of words shouldn’t come as a surprise. Just don’t be surprised if by next year, Mr Trump will also have completely different definitions of democracy, freedom and separation of powers.

Posted in Elections, Language, Politics, US election 2016, USA | Tagged | 2 Comments


This blog has a lot of sunsets, some sunrises and a few photos of the moon. What has been lacking so far are photos of a moonrise.

My father, who is the real photographer in the family, has captured one:

Hirschberg vom MA KOrr1_DSC2632.jpgkorr1_DSC2162.jpg

Posted in Germany, Photography | Tagged , | 9 Comments

Cerro Rico: The Mountain that eats Men

Andreas Moser miner.JPG

My breathing is heavy. Never before have I been to a place as high in altitude – at about 4,300 meters – and as low in oxygen. But neither can I rest, nor can I enjoy the view. Instead, I descend into a stifling and dusty mine.


The beginning is not too bad. We follow the tracks for the trolleys. The ground is wet. At times I am wading in 20 cm of water.


But then we turn right into a narrower, lower, darker drift that resembles a cave. A shaft goes down 45 meters at a right angle. We use the shaft next to it. Not quite as deep, not quite as vertical, so I am not in complete free-fall as I am sliding down. These pants will have to get sewn.


I had some scary notions before I decided to go into one of the active mines of Cerro Rico in Potosí in Bolivia with Jonny, a former miner himself, and a few other visitors from Europe: The darkness. Narrow corridors, maybe claustrophobia. My biggest fear was getting stuck in a narrow passage. Embarrassment would top the peril. And of course a cave-in, followed by dying of hunger and thirst, by suffocating or freezing to death. Now, while brachiating down slippery boulders in darkness and in wellingtons, I realize that the gravest danger lies in slipping and breaking a leg or smashing my skull. After all, I am in the mountains. Inside a mountain, even. But without any rope or harness, only a headlamp attached to the loose helmet, slick rocks everywhere and dynamite in my backpack.

Yes, dynamite.


To convince the miners to allow us to visit them at work, we went to the market before in order to buy gifts. Jonny recommended that each of us should purchase a stick of dynamite, with detonator and fuse of course, a few cans of beer and a bag with coca leaves. I don’t know how much the dynamite cost, but I paid 25 bolivianos (about 3.30 Euros) for the whole combination – in which as an anti-alcoholic I replaced the beer with juice, which would later earn me very evil eyes from the miners. Thus, the dynamite can’t be too expensive. The market in Potosí is probably the only market in the world where you can get explosives with detonator, alcohol and drugs for the price of a kebab. (I wouldn’t be surprised if out of all sentences in all my articles about Bolivia, this is the one to increase tourism to Bolivia the most.)

Our small platoon has only been inside the mine for five minutes, and I am already beginning to regret the decision. As so often, curiosity had prevailed over fear. And the price of 12 Euros for touring an active mine for several hours was too enticing for a cheapskate like me.

One level lower. We are walking bent over until we have to crawl on the floor. On wobbly wooden panels, we cross deep holes. In a side corridor we meet Grover. Usually, the miners only go into the mountain in teams of three or four, but today he works alone at this badly accessible spot.Grover is 21 years old. He began working in the mine when he was 16. Jonny, who only guides tourists now, began at age 13. Child labor is legal in Bolivia. The schools run an evening shift for children who work during the day.

I ask Grover why he is working alone today. “The prices are not good right now. So, many don’t want to work at all.” I don’t understand what he means, have to ask him again. Then, a 21-year old crouched in a narrow shaft in almost complete darkness, interrupted by the sound of distant explosions, explains that the number of workers in the mines fluctuates with the world market prices for silver, zinc and tin. When China needs more resources, more 13-year olds will work in the mines again. When the world economy is ailing, they will return to school. The salary fluctuates too, but it isn’t all too bad. The mining boys can achieve 800 to 1,200 bolivianos (= 100 to 160 Euros) per week. Contrast that with a statutory minimum wage of 1,800 bolivianos (= 240 Euros) for a whole month, and the motivation is obvious. Working in the mountain means coming home dirty and tired, but you’ll be relatively rich.

At the top of the front page, the local newspaper El Potosí lists the daily prices for gold, silver, copper, lead, tin and zinc, just like newspapers in the rest of the world will list the maximum and minimum temperatures expected for the day. Currently, most of these prices are half as much as they were five years ago. For example, you can get an ounce for silver for 20 dollars today, when you still had to pay 43 dollars in 2011. Granted, that was a short bubble, but like all people, miners have a selective memory and prefer to remember the boom times. Also, many of them are simply too young to remember commodity prices prior to 2011.

Crawling, sliding and climbing along paths that I could never retrace myself, we get into a larger drift. There is a pair of railway tracks and I can stand upright again. Some boys are standing below a hatch, from which, as soon as they pull away a thick wooden board, stones are crashing down from a higher-lying drift. Under the hatch the miners have pushed a trolley, into which one of the boys mounts, wearing at least a helmet, but apart from that little protection in his T-shirt and with bare hands.

Jungs beladen Lore.JPG

Then they let between one and two tons of rock rumble down. In clouds of dust and stone chippings that fly about, the boy is dancing from one side of the trolley to the other, trying to spread the rocks evenly. He holds up a spade with all the power he can muster to stop the avalanche of rocks. Now his two colleagues have to re-insert the wooden board in a way that the mass of stones pressing from above will be held back and that the three miners won’t be buried. High-tech like in the time of the conquistadors. But at least there is no more forced labor or slavery.


Because Cerro Rico has experienced that, too. The first silver at the mountain was discovered in 1545, which delighted the Spanish occupiers even more than previous discoveries of tobacco, potatoes, cacao, attractive latina women and malaria.The top of Cerro Rico (the name, which it obviously only received after the precious find, means “rich mountain”) was made out of extremely rich silver ore, which could be laid bare and extracted relatively easily. What you see today are still an imposing 4,800 meters, but the original height was 5,183 meters. The upper 400 meters were completely removed. Even today, the mountain shrinks by a few centimeters every year. Worried, I ask Jonny if the mountain won’t one day collapse due to the many adits, drifts, levels and shafts drilled into it. “Don’t worry,” he says, knocking on rock, “this is granite. Super-solid. Nothing can happen here.” Oh, well.

The silver deposits at Cerro Rico were so rich that they financed the Spanish empire over the coming centuries, including the wars led in Europe which Spain couldn’t have fought otherwise. This small town in Bolivia changed the course of world history. But it wasn’t always small! At the foot of Cerro Rico, the population exploded like never before in Europe or in the Americas. When the silver was discovered, 3,000 natives and only 170 Spaniards lived in Potosí. Two years later, 2,500 houses had been built to accommodate 14,000 people. In 1560 the population was around 60,000, twenty years later the 100,000-threshold was crossed, and at the heyday of Potosí, at the beginning of the 17th century, around 160,000 people lived on this inhospitable patch of land. The city was larger than Paris, New York or Berlin at the time. Potosí was once – at the same time- the highest, the largest and the richest city in all of North and South America. But except for the mines, there was nothing. Cities in more fertile areas of Bolivia, like Cochabamba, only grew because they were producing food for the miners. Even if the silver was meant for Spain, trickle-down economics worked for Potosí. Mansions as large and as beautiful as in Madrid were built, as were 25 churches. And there was a lot of booze every night.

The ones who suffered for all of this were the Indians, who were forced to work in the mines, and the slaves shipped over from Africa. Many of them already died on the way across the Atlantic. Now imagine malnourished, weakened, abused slaves from West Africa being brought to an ice-cold climate above 4,000 meters altitude and being sent to work in mines, and you understand the name “the mountain that eats men”.

From around 1650 it went downhill. The silver became less, the remaining ore harder to extract, and it had a lower silver content. In 1825, when Bolivia became independent, Potosí had a population of 9,000 left. It was a small town again, albeit one that was fought over several times during the Wars of Independence. At the end of the 19th century, there came another boom, this time for tin. Of course the tin had been there before, but next to the more shiny silver it had been ignored. Cerro Rico’s belly became alive again, and it filled with dead miners once more (admittedly far fewer than under the Spanish rule). This went well until the tin crash in 1985. As everyone knows from their own life, such a tin crash can really hit you hard. The Bolivian state overreacted and in its disappointment gave up all mining activity at Cerro Rico.

The miners whom I meet today are thus working in cooperatives which they founded and organize themselves. There are 36 of them. The concessions are still granted by the government to avoid everyone digging and exploding about crazily. Around 200 mines are currently active, thousands have been decommissioned, although I will discover a few “private mines” closer to the top of the mountain during my ascent the next day. By the way, women are barred from working in the mines of Potosí. Jonny explains that the miners would deem this to be a bad omen and also that Pachamama, the goddess of the Earth, could become jealous. And if there is one thing I can testify to, it is how easily Latin-American women can get jealous. Until a few years ago, women weren’t even allowed as visitors. I personally believe that this is more due to the macho culture, which is quite apparent. The men in the mine slap, jostle and insult each other. Overall, Potosí seemed rougher to me than the rest of Bolivia.

But one might as well cut these people slack when you know about the shortened life expectancy of the miners. And about the many widows and orphans supported by the cooperatives. Because the mountain only contains rests of ore, which must be laboriously extracted from different far-lying spots, the use of modern technology wouldn’t be worth the investment. Although I do wonder why none of the miners at least wears a mask over their mouth. During the about two hours in the mine, I had no chance to take out the notebook from my backpack, yet afterward it is fully covered in dust. What may the lungs of the workers look like after 8 or 12 hours of work? The miners tell me that chewing coca leaves works like a filter, but I readily relegate this to the realm of rumor.

The belief in myths is strong with these tough guys who read the listings of the commodity exchange every day. On the way back we pass an alcove in which there sits a devil in life-size. El tío, the uncle, is his name, but it may also originate from the Spanish dios (God).

Tio and Jhonny.JPG

According to the sincere belief of the miners, he is the lord of the underworld, who must be appeased with alcohol and coca and by sacrificing a llama from time to time. (You see the blood on the wall?) Because carnival was just a few months ago, it is draped in tinsel. But I actually believe that we disturbed Tío at an intimate moment because he sits there without underpants and with a hard-on. So I am happy when we say hasta luego to the scantily-clad knave of the cave .

Now I would even find the way back myself. Because the trolleys are harder to push when they are fully laden, the tracks run towards the exit on a slightly downward slope. Following this direction, freedom and fresh air beckon. The only danger are the massive trolleys, weighing more than a ton, that are being pushed through the darkness. Whenever one of them approaches, we shout at each other and quickly have to find a cave or a side drift to make way. As a precaution, I ask Jonny how long the batteries in the headlamps will last. “Don’t worry, these are good batteries. From China”, he replies. “With lithium from Bolivia?” I ask, half in jest. “Exactly!” Now he gets angry, breaks out in a tirade against the government. “We have all the natural resources here, but no factories. We produce nothing! Instead, we ship everything to China.” Only the dirt and the dust, the disabled  and the dead, they remain

grave Cerro Rico.JPG


The light glistens brightly when we step out of the monster’s mouth. I feel relief. For the first time, I have the chance to take a closer look at the barren slopes of the mountain. They are riddled with entries. Like the arm of a drug addict.


Men go into the mountain. Men come out of the mountain.

Einfahrt mit Lore.JPG

Children dig through mounds of stones, searching for something of value. Men load trucks. Every day, several thousand people work in Cerro Rico. From here come the metals that are turned into the computer, the tablet or the phone on which you have read this article.

Einfahrt mit girl.JPG

Practical information:

  • Potosí lies above 4,000 meters (13,000 feet) of altitude. The mines are higher still.
  • I did have some problems with altitude sickness. But you can get pills against it at any pharmacy, and at least in my case they helped quickly and effectively. Simply ask for pills against “mal de altura” (Spanish) or against “sorojchi” (Quechua).
  • Even in summer, the nights can be damn cold. Not all houses are insulated, so bring a set of warm clothes.
  • Around the central Plaza 10 de Noviembre you find many agencies offering tours in the mines, usually in Spanish or English. I went with Intrepid. Jonny Salas is a bit of a macho (on his business card, it says “single and looking for a fiancée”), but the tour was professionally organized and he did not get tired of answering all my questions. Contact:, phone+591-2-6230523. Address: Chuquisaca 460.
  • Jonny also runs the Hostal La Casona which is centrally located. It is in one of the old Spanish houses with a beautiful courtyard and balconies. Very cozy.
  • It’s not too hard to walk up to the top of Cerro Rico (4,800 meters). I will publish a separate article on this if anyone asks for it.
  • The most important museum in Potosí is Casa de la Moneda, the former mint. And then there are dozens of churches and convents that you can visit.
  • The most romantic way to get to Potosí is by train from Sucre.
  • Of course there are also buses from/to Sucre, Oruru, Uyuni and La Paz, running almost every couple of minutes. The bus terminal in Potosí is outside of the city, but from the rear exit you can take local buses into the center.
  • Potosí also has an airport, from where you can fly to Cochabamba or Santa Cruz with BoA. Because there are flights from 40 EUR on that will save you a whole day on a blustering bus, this is particularly useful for travelers with little time.

(Hier gibt es diesen Artikel auf Deutsch.)

Posted in Bolivia, Death, Economics, Photography, Travel | Tagged , | 14 Comments