Read Latin America Diaries Online
Authors: Ernesto Che Guevara
Latin America Diaries (5 page)
In these days of waiting we have exhausted Cuzco's supply of churches and interesting monuments. Again my head is full of a motet of altars, large paintings and pulpits. The simple serenity of the pulpit in the Church of San Francisco was impressive, its sobriety contrasting with the grandiosity of nearly all the colonial buildings here.
Belén certainly has nice towers, but the brilliant white of the two bell towers here is stunning, set off by the dark colors of the old nave.
My little Inca statueâher new name is Marthaâis authentic, and made of
tunyana
, the Incan alloy. One of the museum staff
confirmed this. It's a pity the vessel fragments seem bizarre to us, considering they represent that former civilization. We have been eating better since the payment.
Machu-Picchu does not disappoint; I don't know how many times I can go on admiring it. Those gray clouds and purple-colored peaks, against which the gray ruins stand out, are one of the most marvelous sights I can imagine.
Don Soto received us very well and then only charged us half the cost of our accommodation. But despite Calica's enthusiasm for this place, I'm forever missing Alberto's company. Especially here in Machu-Picchu, I'm always remembering how well our characters complemented each other.
We're back in Cuzco to take a look at a church and wait for a truck to leave. One by one our hopes are dismantled, as the days pass and the pesos and sols dwindle. We had already found a truck, just what we needed, when, with all the bags loaded, there was a huge row over two pounds in weight we honestly did not have. If we had been willing to compromise, we might have come to a deal, but as it was we were stranded until the next day, Saturday. Our first calculation suggests it would have cost us 40 sols more than the bus.
Here in Cuzco we met a spirit medium. It happened like this: In a conversation with the Argentine woman and Pacheco, the Peruvian engineer, the talk turned to spiritualism. We had to suppress our laughter, putting on serious faces, and the next day they took us to meet him. The guy pronounced he could see some strange lights within usâthe green light of sympathy and that of egoism in Calica, and the dark green of adaptability within me. He then asked me if something was wrong with my stomach, as my radiations were fading, which left me thinking as my stomach was definitely churning from the Peruvian peas and all the tinned food. A pity I wasn't able to have a proper session with him.
Now we have left Cuzco behind us and after an endless
three-day bus journey we reached Lima. For the entire trip from Abancoy, the road followed the ever-narrowing ravine of the Apurimac river. We washed in a small pool barely deep enough to cover us, and the cold was so intense that for me it was no fun.
The journey became interminable. The chickens shat all over the place beneath our seats, and the smell of duck was so unbearably thick you could cut it with a knife. A few punctures dragged the journey out even further, and when we finally reached Lima we slept like logs in a small dive of a hotel.
On the bus we met a French explorer who had been sailing on the Apurimac River when his boat sunk and the current took his companion. At first he said she was a teacher, but it turned out she was a student, running away from her parents' home, and that she didn't know how to swim. The guy is going to face a few troubles ahead.
I went to visit Dr. Pesce and the people from the leprosy colony.
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Everyone greeted me most cordially.
Nine days have passed in Lima, although due to various engage ments with friends we still haven't seen anything extra special. We found a university diner that charges 1.30 a meal, which suits us perfectly.
Zoraida Boluarte invited us to her place, and from there we went to the famous 3-D cinema. It doesn't seem all that revolutionary to me and the films are just the same. The real fun came later, when we found ourselves with two cops who turned the place upside down and carted us down to the police station. After a few hours there, we were released and told to come back the next dayâ today. We'll see.
The police stuff came to nothing: After a mild interrogation and a few apologies, they let us go. The next day they called us back
in with some questions about a couple who had kidnapped a boy. They bore some resemblance to the Roy couple in La Paz.
The days succeed each other with nothing new and no opportunities. The only event of any import has been our change of residence, which enables us to live totally gratis.
The new house has worked out magnificently. We were invited to a party, and although I couldn't drink because of my asthma, Calica used the opportunity to get smashed once again.
Dr. Pesce honored us with one of his rambling, genial chats in which he touches with such assurance on so many diverse topics.
Our tickets for Tumbes are almost a sure thingâthey're being arranged by a brother of Sra. de Peirano. So here we are, waiting, with practically nothing more to see in Lima.
Empty days continue to go by, and our own inertia ensures we remain in this city longer than we had hoped. Perhaps the ticket question will be resolved tomorrow, Monday, so we can set a definite departure date. The Pasos have made an appearance, saying they have good work prospects here.
We're almost on our way, with only a few minutes left to look over dreamy Lima again. Its churches are filled with an interior magnificence that doesn't extend to their exteriorsâmy opinionâ they don't have the dignified sobriety of Cuzco's temples. The cathedral has several scenes of the Passion of great artistic worth, which seem like they have been done by a painter from the Dutch school. But I don't like its nave, or its stylistically amorphous exterior, which looks as if it was built in the transition period when Spain's martial fury was on the wane and a decadent love of ease and luxury was rising. San Pedro has a number of valuable paintings, but I don't like its interior either.
We ran into Rojo, who had had the same trouble as us, only more so owing to the particular books he was carrying. He is traveling to Guayaquil, where we will meet up.
To farewell Lima we saw “The Big Concert,”
a Russian film dangerously like US cinema, although better, considering its color and musical quality. Saying good-bye to the patients was really quite emotional, I think I will write about it.
Lima, September 3 [1953]
Dear Tita,
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Sadly, I have to write to you in my beautiful handwriting, as I haven't been able to get hold of a typewriter to remedy the situation. At any rate, I hope you have a day free to dedicate to reading this letter.
Let's get to the point. Thank your friend Ferreira for the letter of introduction to the Bolivian college. Dr. Molina was very kind to me and seemed enchanted with both me and my traveling companion, the one you met at home. He subsequently offered me a job as a doctor and Calica work as a nurse in a mine; we accepted, but wanted to reduce the three months he wanted us to stay to one. Everything was settled and amicable and we were to report the next day to finalize details. Imagine our surprise when the next day we found out Dr. Molina had left to inspect the mines and wouldn't be back for two or three days. So we presented ourselves then, and still no Molina, although they believed he would be back in another couple of days. It would take too long to recount the times we went looking for him; the fact is that 20 days passed before he returned, and by then we could no longer agree to a monthâthe lost time would have made it twoâso he gave us some introductory letters for the director of a tungsten mine, where we went for two or three days. Very interesting, especially because the mine is in a magnificent location. Overall the trip was worthwhile.
I should tell you that in La Paz I ignored my diet and all that nonsense, and nevertheless felt wonderful for the month and a half I spent there. We traveled quite a bit into the surrounding areaâ to Las Yungas, for example, very pretty tropical valleysâbut one of the most interesting things we did was to study the intriguing political scene. Bolivia has been a particularly important example for the American continent. We saw exactly where the struggles had taken place, the holes left by bullets and even the remains of a man killed in the revolution and recently discovered in the cornice of a buildingâthe lower part of his body had been blown away by one of those dynamite belts they wear around their waists. In the end, they fought without holding back. The revolutions here are not like those in Buenos Airesâtwo or three thousand (no one knows for sure how many) were left dead on the battlefield.
Even now the fighting continues, and almost every night people are wounded by gunfire on one side or the other. But the government is supported by an armed people, and there is no possibility of liquidating an armed movement from outside. It can, however, succumb to internal conflicts.
The MNR [Nationalist Revolutionary Movement] is a coalition with three more or less clear tendencies: the right, represented by Siles Suazo, vice-president and hero of the revolution; the center, represented by Paz Estenssoro, shiftier and probably as right-wing as the first; and the left, represented by LechÃn, the visible head of a serious protest movement, but who himself is an unknown given to partying and chasing women. Power is likely to remain in the hands of LechÃn's group, which counts on the powerful support of the armed miners, but resistance from their colleagues in government may prove serious, particularly as the army is going to be reorganized.
Well, I've told you something about the Bolivian situation. I'll tell you about Peru later, when I've lived here for a little longer, but in general I think that Yankee domination in Peru has not even created
the fiction of economic well-being that can be seen in Venezuela, for example.
Of my future life, I know little about where I am headed and even less when. We have been thinking of going to Quito and from there to Bogotá and Caracas, but of the intermediary steps we haven't got much of an idea. I've only recently arrived here in Lima from Cuzco.
I won't tire of urging you to visit there if possible, especially Machu-Picchu. I promise you won't regret it.
I guess that since I left you must have taken at least five subjects, and I imagine you still go fishing for worms in the muck heap. There's little or nothing to write you about vocations, but if one day you change your tune and want to see the world,
remember this friend
who would risk his skin
to help you however he can
when the occasion arises
A hug. Until it occurs to you, and we're in the same place when it does,
Ernesto
The first leg of the journey got us to Piura without a break, where we arrived at lunchtime. Sick with asthma, I locked myself in my room, and only went out for a while in the evening to see a bit of the town, which is like a typical Argentine provincial city, but with more new cars.
Convincing the driver that we should pay less, the next day we took the bus to Tumbes and got there as night was falling. Among other towns, the journey took us through Talara, a rather picturesque oil port.
I didn't get to see Tumbes either because of asthma, and we continued our journey to the border at Aguas Verdes, crossing
over to Huaquillas,
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but not without suffering at the hands of the gangs who organize transport from one side of the bridge to the other. A lost day in terms of travel, which Calica used to scrounge a few beers.
The next day we set out for Santa Marta, where a boat took us on the river as far as Puerto BolÃvar, and after an all-night crossing we arrived the next morning in Guayaquil, me, still with asthma.
There we met “Fatty” Rojo, no longer alone but with three friends from law school, who took us to their boarding house.
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We were six in total and with our last rounds of
mate
we formed a tight student circle. The consul was unreceptive when we tried to hit him for some
mate
leaves.
Guayaquil, like all these ports, is an excuse for a city that barely has its own life. It revolves around the daily succession of ships arriving and departing.
I wasn't able to see much, because the guys leaving for Guatemala told travelers' tales that were far too absorbing; one of them included Fatty Rojo. Later, I met a young guy, Maldonado,
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who introduced me to some medical people, including Dr. Safadi,
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a psychiatrist and a “bolshie” [Bolshevik] like his friend Maldonado. They put me in touch with another leprosy specialist.
They have a closed colony with 13 people in fairly bad condition, for whom there is little specific treatment.
At least the hospitals are clean and not all that bad.
My favorite way to pass the time is playing chess with people at the boarding house. My asthma is a bit better. We're thinking of staying for a couple more days, and trying to track down Velasco Ibarra.
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Plans made and unmade, financial worries and Guayaquilian phobias, all the result of a passing joke GarcÃa made saying, “Hey, guys, why don't you come with us to Guatemala?”
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The idea had already been in my head, waiting only for this prompt. Calica followed. These are now days of a feverish search. We've almost certainly been granted the visas, but for an estimated $200. The shortfall of $120.80 will be hard to find but we hope to do it with some luck and by trying to sell our stuff. The trip to Panama will be free, apart from $2 each a day, making it $32 for the four of us. This is all we have talked about, although, we can always cancel. Some hard times await us in Panama.