Latin America Diaries

by Ernesto Che Guevara

  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,11 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 Bolívar, 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.12

  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.

  Ecuador

  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,13 who introduced me to some medical people, including Dr. Safadi,14 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.15

  Plans made and unmade, financial worries and Guayaquilian phobias, all the result of a passing joke García made saying, “Hey, guys, why don’t you come with us to Guatemala?”16 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.

  The interview with Velasco Ibarra was a miserable failure. The master of ceremonies, a Sr. Anderson, answered our pathetic pleas for help by commenting on the ups and downs of life, suggesting that we are currently experiencing a low, but that a high will come, etc.

  On Sunday I discovered some coastal areas similar to river floodplains, but it was the company of Dr. Fortunato Safadi and his friend, an insurance salesman, who made the trip really interesting. Later in the day, he said that hard times await us in Panama, but the question is whether Panama itself awaits us…

  After collecting the Guatemalan visa without any trouble, we went—still without the Panamanian visa—to buy boat tickets. An argument ensued because the company representative flatly refused to sell us tickets without first wiring the Colón Panamá Company. The answer came back the following evening and was a firm negative. That was Saturday. The Guayos, a small boat due to leave on Sunday, has postponed its departure until Wednesday.

  Calica got a lift to Quito in a private truck.

  We tried again on Monday, this time with a $35 money transfer in my and García’s names, because we were determined to leave first. It didn’t work, and with that behind us and only one miserable bullet left to fire we sent Calica a telegram telling him to wait for us. That evening I met Enrique Arbuiza, the insurance salesman, who told us he might be able to organize things, and the following morning, today, we met the head of a tourism business. He also refused, but gave us new hope, saying that the company taking us to Panama could issue us with a ticket. The insurance salesman, also a friend of the Guayos captain, took me along to see him and present him with our problem. The captain nearly exploded, but calmed down after we had a chance to explain things a little; we agreed to wait for the final answer this afternoon.

  At any rate, we sent another telegram to Quito, revising the first, so that Calica could continue alone, at least to Bogotá. Our plan is to wait for the final answer, and then either for two of us to go to Panama, or for the three of us to clear out as soon as possible.

  We will see…

  We’ve seen nothing: over an hour of futile waiting for the captain of the Guayos to show up. We’ll decide once and for all what to do tomorrow, but either way Andro Herrero is staying. He thinks one of us should stay behind as a contact point in Guayaquil, and that at any rate it’s easier for two to slip through than three. Although that’s true, we sense a hidden motive in all this and think that some love affair must be keeping him here; he’s so mysterious, no one knows what he’s up to.

  I spent a terrible day prostrate with asthma, and with nausea and diarrhea from a saline purgative. García did nothing all day, so the uncertainty continues.

  We’re fixated on the visa for Panama. But with everything ready, they hit us for an extra 90 sucres, which none of us had, so it was put off until the afternoon. Nevertheless, I met the consul, who invited me to visit an Argentine ship. They treated us well enough and gave us mate, but the consul made me count out the 10 sucres for the boat religiously. It’s a barge like the Ana G., which holds so many memories for me.17 I want to point out the following fact: the soldiers guarding the enrolment offices have the initials “US” on their backs.

  We now have the visa, with its wonderful words: “Fare paid Panama to Guatemala.” There’s going to be a tremendous row. Today I ate with García on board the Argentine ship, and we were treated like kings. They gave us American cigarettes and we drank wine, not to mention the stew. The rest of the day, zero.

  Two more days. A sad Saturday of upsetting farewells, a sad Sunday of further postponement. On Saturday I had the typewriter all but sold, until the residue of my bourgeois desire for property stopped me at the last moment. Now it’s apparently too late, although I’ll find out today. On Sunday evening, the ring was also pretty much a sure sale.

  In the morning, when all our plans seemed to be in ruins, without a cent or any way of finding one, news of the postponement seemed like a gift from heaven. But when the engineer was asked for a date and replied, dubiously, “Who knows, it could be Thursday,” our enthusiasm hit the floor. Five more days mean another 120 sucres, more difficulty paying for things, etc.

  And now more and more days, and the machine couldn’t be sold, and there’s virtually nothing left to burn. Our situation is precarious, to say the least—not a single peso left, debts of 500 and potentially 1,000—but when? That is the question. We’ll be leaving now on Sunday, if there’s not another delay for some unforeseen reason.

  Guayaquil [October 21, 1953]

  [To his mother]

  I am writing you this letter (who knows when you’ll read it) about my new position as a 100 percent adventurer. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since the news in my last epistle.

  The gist is: As Calica García (one of our acquisitions) and I were traveling along for a while, we felt homesick for our beloved homeland. We talked about how good it was for the two members of the group who had managed to leave for Panama, and commented on the fantastic interview with X.X., that guardian angel you gave me, which I’ll tell you about later. The thing is, García—almost in passing— invited us to go to Guatemala, and I was disposed to accept. Calica promised to give his answer the next day, and it was affirmative, so there were four new candidates for Yankee opprobrium.

  But then our trials and tribulations in the consulates began, with our daily pleas for the Panamanian visas we required and, after several psychological ups and downs, he seemed to decide not to go. Your suit—your masterpiece, the pearl of your dreams—died heroically in a pawnshop, as did all the other unnecessary things in my luggage, which ha
s been greatly reduced for the good of the trio’s18 economic stability—now achieved (whew!).

  What this means is that if a captain, who is a sort of friend, agrees to use an old trick, García and I can travel to Panama, and then the combined efforts of those who want to reach Guatemala, plus those from there, will drag along the straggler left behind as security for the remaining debts. If the captain I mentioned messes it up, the same two partners in crime will go on to Colombia, again leaving the security here, and will head for Guatemala in whatever Almighty God unwarily places within their reach. […]

  Guayaquil, [October]24

  After a lot of coming and going and many calls, plus a discreet bribe, we have the visa for Panama. We’ll leave tomorrow, Sunday, and will get there by the 29th or 30th. I have written this quick note at the consulate.

  Ernesto

  At sea, now, reviewing these last few days. The desperate search for someone to offer us something for the gear we wanted to sell; the evasive buyer of the ring, who finally caved in; our friend Monasterio’s ultimate gesture in giving us 500 sucres and speaking with the landlady of the boarding house. The always cold, never satisfactory moments of farewell, when you find yourself unable to express your deep feelings.

  We’re in a first-class cabin, which for those travelers who have to pay would be terrible, but for us, it’s perfect. For roommates we have a talkative Paraguayan, who is doing a lightning trip around the Americas by air, and a nice guy from Ecuador—both pretty hopeless. García is seasick, but after throwing up and taking some Benadril is dead to the world. For the evening there’s a mate session with the engineer.

  I’ve learned of the death of an aunt of mine in Buenos Aires, through a diplomat I met in Chile and whom I bumped into unexpectedly on the Argentine ship. He gave me the news almost as a passing comment.

  Marta is not worth seeing, or so it’s said, so we didn’t disembark at the port. But the following day at Esmeraldas we let loose and spent a dollar visiting the whole town, in celebration of leaving Ecuador.

  One of our compañeros, the Ecuadorean, came across a cousin he had never met before—they became firm friends, and took us on a stroll through a tropical forest on the outskirts of town.

  After this, we’ve had a whole day at sea, which I’ve found to be quite beautiful, although Gualo García hasn’t enjoyed it at all. On leaving Esmeraldas, a tramp was discovered—a stowaway— who was returned to port. It brought back fond memories of other times.

  Panama

  Now we are settled in Panama without a clear direction,19 in fact with nothing clear at all except the certainty of leaving. Incredible things have happened. In order: we arrived, and without any trouble, the customs inspector calmly checked through our things, another employee stamped and returned our passports, and from Balboa, the port where we disembarked, we set off for Panama City.

  Fatty Rojo had left the address of a boarding house, so we went there and were put up in a corridor for a dollar a day each.

  Nothing out of the ordinary that day, but on the next we received a big surprise. Opening our letters at the Argentine consulate, we found one from Rojo and Valdovinos, announcing the marriage of the latter. We were most intrigued, until the girl, Luzmila Oller,20 arrived and told us all about the wedding and other things. The event had sparked a revolution in her family. The father has done a bunk and the mother refuses to see him, so the guy just gets up and continues on his trip to Guatemala, without a good screw or even, it seems, a serious attempt at passion.

  The girl is very nice and seems quite intelligent, but she’s too Catholic for my taste.

  Perhaps the Argentine consul will arrange something for us or perhaps we’ll write for a magazine called Siete. Maybe I’ll give a lecture. So maybe we’ll be able to eat tomorrow.

  Nothing new, except that tomorrow I am to give a lecture on allergies, saying something about the organization of the medical faculty in Buenos Aires. The students gave me a warm welcome at the college. I met Don Santiago Pi Suñer, the physiologist, and in another context we met Dr. Carlos Guevara Moreno, who struck me as an intelligent demagogue, knowledgeable in mass psychology but not in the dialectics of history. He is very nice and friendly and treated us with deference. He gives the impression that he knows what he’s doing and where he’s going, but that he wouldn’t take a revolution beyond what is strictly indispensable to keep the masses content. He admires Perón. We might be able to publish two articles, one in Siete, the other in the Sunday supplement of Panamá-América.

  Luzmila has received a letter from Óscar Valdovinos, 16 pages long. She exudes happiness.

  I gave the famous lecture to an audience of 12, including Dr. Santiago Pi Suñer, for $25. I wrote an account of the Amazon, $20, and one about Machu-Picchu, probably $25.

  We’re going to move to a place that’s rent free. We met a young painter, not a bad guy. The guys are about to be expelled from the FUA for having visited consulates and traveled in a foundation airplane from Guayaquil to Quito. They’ve got Valdovinos by the balls in Guatemala because he sent a declaration in the name of “some anti-Peronist young Argentines.” I don’t know how it will all be sorted out. We went for a very pleasant walk along the beach at Riomar with Mariano Oteiza, president of the Panamanian Students Federation.21

  My article about the Amazon has appeared in Panamá-América; the other is still fighting for a place.22 Our situation is bad. We don’t know whether we’ll be able to leave, or how. The Costa Rican consul is an idiot and won’t give us a visa. We met a sculptor, Manuel Teijeiro, an interesting man.

  The struggle is getting heavy. Met the painter Sinclair, who studied in Argentina. A good guy.

  The best so far is the trio of Adolfo Benedetti, Rómulo Escobar and Isaías García. All great guys.23

  We still haven’t checked out the canal properly. We went there the other day but were too late and it was closed.

  I have to add another two names: Everaldo Tómlinson and Rubén Darío Moncada Luna.

  The last days in Panama were a waste of time. The Costa Rican consul wouldn’t give us the visas until we showed him not just tickets out of the country but also tickets in. We had to ask Luzmila to lend us the money. We couldn’t get the camera out, or get the PAA [Panamanian Airlines] to refund the fares to Costa Rica. We missed a farewell party they gave for Luzmila, or rather, I missed it, because Gualo had a complex about the way they regarded us and didn’t want to go. Luzmila was a little cold in the end.

  For the second piece they gave me $15, thanks to the effort another decent guy put in, José María Sánchez.

  We left Panama with $5 in our pockets, meeting at the last moment an interesting character from Córdoba. Ricardo Luti is a botanist and asthmatic who has been in the Amazon region and Antarctica and is thinking about doing a trip through the center of Latin America via Paraguay, the Amazon and the Orinoco—my old idea.

  We’re now in the center of Panama. The suspension on the truck has gone completely, with no sign of the truck driver, who went to David for spare parts and hasn’t returned. We ate a little rice and an egg for breakfast. At night the mosquitoes won’t let you sleep, by day the mosquitoes won’t let you live (poetic). The region is relatively elevated, not at all hot, with abundant forests and heavy downpours of rain.

  I made a lightning visit to Palo Seco, where an American Jewish couple has been living for 20 years. They don’t seem particularly informed, but they devote themselves exclusively to the sick.

  Rubén Darío Moncada only got it half right. The driver turned out to be worse than a motherfucker and on a bend when the brakes failed, we went flying. I was on top of the truck, and when I saw the disaster coming, I threw myself as far away as possible, then rolled a little further, until I came to rest with my head in my hands. When the hubbub had passed, I got up to help the others, realizing that no one but me had a scratch on them—I escaped with a grazed elbow, torn pants and a very painful right heel.

  I slept the night in
the truck driver Rogelio’s house. Gualo stayed on the road looking after our things.

  The next day we missed the 2 p.m. train and resigned ourselves to one leaving at 7 the next morning. Arriving at Progreso, we then had to hoof it to the Costa Rican coast,24 where we were received very well. I played football despite my bad foot.

  We left early the next morning, and after losing our way we found the right road and walked for two hours through mud. We made it to the railway terminal, where we got talking with an inspector who, incidentally, had wanted to go to Argentina but hadn’t been given leave. We reached the port and pressured the captain for the fare. He conceded, but not on the question of accommodation. Two employees took pity on us, so here we are installed in their rooms, sleeping on the floor and feeling very content.

  The famous “Pachuca,” which transports pachucos (bums), is leaving port tomorrow, Sunday. We now have beds. The hospital is comfortable and you can get proper medical attention, but its comforts vary depending on your position in the Company.25 As always, the class spirit of the gringos is clearly evident.

  Golfito is a real gulf, deep enough for ships of 26 feet to enter easily. It has a little wharf and enough housing to accommodate the 10,000 company employees. The heat is intense, but the place is very pretty. Hills rise to 100 meters almost out of the sea, their slopes covered with tropical vegetation that surrenders only to the constant presence of human activity. The town is divided into clearly defined zones, with guards to prevent unwanted movement. Of course, the gringos live in the nicest area, a little like Miami. The poor are kept separate, shut away behind the four walls of their own homes and restrictive class lines.

  Food is the responsibility of a decent guy who is now also a good friend: Alfredo Fallas.

  Medina is my roommate, also a decent guy. There’s a Costa Rican medical student, the son of a doctor, as well as a Nicaraguan teacher and journalist in voluntary exile from Somoza.