Latin America Diaries

by Ernesto Che Guevara

  We had to take a jeep to Guatemala, which cost $5 for eight people. Today, the next day, I’ve spent writing, eating at the de Holsts’, playing canasta and checking out the gringo’s books, all in English but very interesting. My progress in that language is not enough to immerse myself in those hefty tomes, but I do have a number of journals, among them Pavlov’s physiology of the nervous system.

  Several days have passed with nothing to alter this useless life […]. The gringo invited me to see a Russian film about Rimsky Korsakov. Lovely music and a woman whose singing was moving but, as always, the plot was ponderous and slow, and the actors didn’t bring much authenticity to their roles, except for the main character who was very convincing.

  My residency permit is still up in the air. Núñez Aguilar is moving and shaking, but I don’t know if anyone will listen. We’ll see.

  Núñez Aguilar is still moving and shaking, but not that much, and I’m not doing much about it either. The rest is the same, except that Hilda told me she’s thinking of going to China, adding casually that it would be for one or two years. I advised her to think it through clearly. It’s clear she wants to leave APRA. I’m keeping to my diet. Mamá writes that Sara left her 250,000 pesos in her will, which will be a great help to her.

  These are days without movement. I have no idea what will happen; all that’s certain is that I am alive and not wasting time. I received another kilo of mate from Buenos Aires. Of course it’s different now that the vieja [old lady] has some bread. I don’t know where my residency is at—the same, I suppose. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Núñez Aguilar and see what has come of it all.

  More days that add nothing new to Guatemala. At times things seem bad with the residency permit, at others it seems I’ll get it. Morgan turned out to be useless. I went with the gringo to Chimaltenango on the Ministry of Education bus, where a school was being named after Pedro Molina, Guatemala’s famous man. Don Edelberto spoke well, but the guy from STEG54 did no more than repeat a few political platitudes.

  I’ve made my decision: steadfast and heroic. Within a fortnight, if nothing has come of the residency, I’ll get the hell out of here. I’m thinking of making a game of it: I’ve already told the boarding house, and I’ll put everything in a safe place, in boxes that I’ll get from Ernesto Weinataner. Otherwise, little to report. We saw a performance of Sophocles’ Electra—very bad […]. A kilo of adrenalin arrived, sent by Alberto from Venezuela, as well as a letter asking me to come, or rather, suggesting that I should. I don’t really want to go.

  The medicine Alberto sent from Venezuela is of sufficient quantity and quality alone to improve my spirits. But they’ve also summoned me to the police station—a step prior to residence— after a siege at the ministry that was worse than Dien Bien Phu,55 whose fall strengthens my conviction that Asia will free itself from the colonialists.

  My life is so monotonous it’s almost not worth writing anything. On Monday I’m thinking of starting at Cardiolopina and la Halner, so that everything is ready to leave on Friday. I’m paid up to Saturday. I don’t think my affairs will be resolved before then, so I’ll go to Quetzaltenango […], spend whatever time I can there and come back for one day to speed things up, before heading off again across country. We’ll see (a formula I abandoned some time ago).

  The day is coming when I’ll take off in some new direction. I’ve now burned my bridges, announcing with a great fanfare that I’m leaving. If Lily’s invitation holds, I’ll go to Quetzaltenango… if not, I’ll head for the lake and try to climb some volcano or other. If none of that works out, I’ll head for the Quiriguá region, if possible, with the gringo’s equipment. The residency is still at a standstill. I don’t know when it will come through, and I don’t care […]. Julia Mejías has just given me a suitcase to fill with books and put into storage. I’ll probably leave my clothes at the gringo’s place, as Helena said nothing more on the phone so that river has run dry.

  News has come through suggesting that the executive will now issue permits within a fortnight. It would be amazing if it’s true and they give me residency. I’ve got news from Buenos Aires that four kilos of mate are coming to me via ship, which will take a couple of months, but it doesn’t matter. They’re also sending me El Gráfico. Nothing else is new.

  A lot of water has gone under the bridge. I left the boarding house on the appointed day, to the consternation of the whole family. The same day I went with Hilda to San Juan Sacatepéquez […]. I slept all night there weathering the storms, with my backpack for company because I couldn’t leave it outside. On the way there I had asthma, but was pretty much fine on the way back. Meanwhile, my business at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs was settled, in the sense that I had to leave the country. But Carlos Zachrison found me $20 and after a few days of sleeping in different places I headed for El Salvador.56 At first I had some difficulties at the border, but found a way around them and in Santa Ana they gave me the correct visa for six months in Guatemala. It seems this has solved some problems.

  El Salvador

  At the Salvadoran border I met a Mexican, stranded for some problem with his exit papers, who had to return to San Salvador. We became quite friendly and he gave me his address if I’m ever in Mexico. I requested a visa for Honduras, which was supposed to come through by Saturday night, but then I went to the port and stayed there Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so I know nothing about the visa. In San Salvador I spoke to Hercilia’s doctor friend, who did not recognize her as Sra. Guevara, and who has just left with Hernández. Tomorrow, Monday, I’ll visit him for a while and then leave for Honduras or Guatemala, depending on whether or not they give me the visa. Life has been good at the port, but I got sunburned and on the last day I couldn’t swim because it would have been criminal to go back out in the sun.

  I chucked in the diet and the consequences can already be seen. My next course will be decided tomorrow.

  A day in San Salvador, a day not exactly boring but disappointing, with anxiety posing as hunger, or maybe vice versa. No news from Honduras, and I will only wait until tomorrow, as my reserve of dollars has disappeared. I met the Moreno couple, nice and very friendly, although they didn’t invite me to eat. Tomorrow I’ll give them a letter for Hercilia, as they’re heading to the United States next week. I spent the day reading an early history of El Salvador, which I should finish tomorrow, then perhaps I’ll visit the museum. I threw my diet out the window so we’ll see what happens.

  I delivered a letter for Hercilia to the Morenos and they invited me to eat with them, not a particularly large meal but enough to appease my hunger. Then I took a van to Santa Ana and from there to Chalchuapa, and the ruins of Tazumal, which I discovered were closed to the public. I had to make camp in a strategic position under a street lamp, where I could read. A short while later a lady noticed me and offered me some hot water and a hammock to sleep in. Discussing Guatemala, as usual I put my foot in it and said it was more democratic than El Salvador. It turned out the owner of the house was the town’s commander.

  The Tazumal ruins form part of a vast complex that extends over several kilometers, although only the temples are still standing. There are signs of the mingling of Mayan civilization with their Tlaxcaltecan conquerors, which gave rise to the pipil race. The principal building is a huge quadrangular pyramid, at one time probably crowned with a small temple. It is constructed of stone and mud staircases, covered with a clay mixture very similar to modern cement. As a whole, it does not have the solemnity of Incan constructions. For ornamentation there are only two or three carved friezes, but the weather has destroyed them and they give no clear sense of the people who lived there.

  The entire construction was buried beneath earth and a small stand of trees, and lay undiscovered for many years. In 1942 a North American archaeologist, Boxh,57 began excavations, and these have continued with huge success to the present, despite the reluctance of the Salvadoran government to finance the project. The method of construction was apparentl
y concentric, enclosing each new temple with its larger successor, for an unspecified period that may have been the 52 years of the Mayan century. There are 13 concentric layers, and the last of these—in addition to the pyramid—forms a kind of playing field and a semi-quadrangular area. Alongside the great pyramid, which is predominantly Mayan, there is a much smaller one that bears all the signs of being pipil and which, despite its size, rises above the first. It was probably crowned with a temple, although not even the slightest trace of this remains. The great pyramid had no protection from the weather, so the outer layers have suffered most, and some have been almost completely lost.

  I left my address with the caretaker and hitched back to San Salvador, as I’d forgotten to collect my exit permit. Almost immediately I got a van to Santa Tecla, and from there hitched to Santa Ana as it was getting dark. I slept at the highway exit close to the border.

  Guatemala

  I started out early on foot but a jeep soon gave me a free ride and then a car took me across the border and on to Progreso. From there I walked some 20 kilometers until a truck picked me up and took me past Jalapa. This is a very beautiful region climbing progressively higher, filled with green pines and blanketed almost entirely in low cloud. There was something enchanting about the place, which I had not previously felt in Guatemala, although that might be because I had never been to this kind of place before. I was already very tired when I began the descent on foot. My backpack turned to lead and the suitcase was agony on my fingers, so that as soon as night came I staggered into the first house I found and asked for lodging. I negotiated the best deal of my whole trip there when they got me to swap my good torch for one that was complete rubbish, and like a fool I agreed to it.

  I continued at a sluggish pace, but my shoulders and my feet eventually brought me to a halt. A truck picked me up, but it charged me 40 cents to Jalapa station, from where I took the train back to Progreso. A woman took pity on me and gave me 25 cents. I set off on foot, but had done no more than 4 kilometers when a jeep stopped and took me to El Ranchito, where the Motagua River is 100 meters wide and quite torrential because of the altitude. I bathed, washed my clothes and treated my feet with paper so that they would hold out a little longer. I kept walking for about another 5 kilometers until reaching a fairly deep river without a bridge. A truck full of road workers picked me up and took me to Uzumatlán, where I slept the night. There my travelers’ tales became somewhat embellished and I had to watch out so that the various versions matched. The route to the Atlantic is fairly advanced and only a few bridges are needed to make transit possible. At that time of year the rivers are swollen and can’t always be crossed.

  I left early the next day and walked some 13 kilometers in the full sun before collapsing and getting a truck to take me to the [illegible] station. From there I caught a train to Quiriguá and went to see the ruins, which are exactly two miles from the station. The ruins are not significant and consist of no more than some stelae and zoomorphic stones, with some polygonal stone constructions reminiscent of the lesser Incan ruins. With these kinds of structures, the Mayas didn’t come even remotely near the sophistication of the Incas, although a certain affinity between the two is apparent. Where they surpassed the Incas is evident in the dimensions of the truly suggestive limestone figures that are reminiscent the Hindu ruins in Asia. There was one stele in particular, a figure with a rounded face, wearing oriental-like pants, its legs crossed in a similar manner to a Buddha. Another has a face with the same features, tapering to a triangle, in the shape of a pear, rather like Ho Chi Minh’s beard. One of the zoomorphic stones has a whole number of friezes or bas-reliefs which, according to the explanatory notes, are considered to be the apex of indigenous American sculpture. Morley,58 however, has published photographs of examples that seem better to me. In any event, the landscape is profoundly inspiring, with its silence, its grand trees, its moss that now grows over the stelae—which are so mysterious, with their graceful hieroglyphics, you almost want to caress them. If it weren’t for the notices and the metal strips around each monument, you might think you’d arrived on Brick Bradford’s time machine, that hero of storytelling. I slept on the floor at the station, protected from the mosquitoes by the sleeping bag that has been extremely useful.

  In the morning I introduced myself to Dr. Díaz, a reactionary Indian, who nevertheless showed me the necessary courtesy and found me some food at the hospital. A waiter, who was also the local photographer, accompanied me to the ruins and took six photos, charging me only for the film and giving me a few more pictures as a present. Even so, I was very low on funds, although I still had enough to get back. I decided to go straight to Puerto Barrios instead, but because the train was delayed by a rock fall, I only arrived after 12.30 and slept in the station.

  The next day, the tricky problem of finding work presented itself, but I found some doing roadwork on the Atlantic highway.59 The job involves working 12 hours at a stretch, from 6 at night to 6 in the morning, and it is quite a killer even for guys in better shape than me. By 5:30 a.m. we were automatons—or “ninepins,” as they describe drunks here.

  I worked a second day, the critical one, with much less enthusiasm, but still made it to the end—a sign of what was to come. But then one of the foremen offered to get me a railway pass, which is very good for them, considering they usually only pay for it several days after the work is completed. The work is already lighter and, if it weren’t for the mosquitoes, which screw up the beauty, and the lack of gloves, which shreds your hands, it would really be quite bearable. I spent the whole morning dozing in my “residence” next to the sea, after a summary wash of my socks and shirts. I have become a perfect pig, covered in dust and asphalt from the head down, but I’m also quite content. I’ve got the ticket; the old woman at whose place I ate meals told me to pay a dollar to her son in Guatemala, and I have proved to myself that I am capable of handling whatever comes my way— even more if it weren’t for the asthma.

  Now I am installed on the train, throwing myself a banquet on the dollar that a semi-educated foreman gave me.

  [Approximately the end of April 1954]

  Vieja, my own vieja60

  You won’t believe that I can begin to gladden dad’s heart, but there are signs that things are improving and the outlook with regard to my economic prospects is not so dire. I have no problem telling you when tragedy strikes only because it happens to be true and I assumed that the old man would regard me as being tough enough to take whatever comes along. But if you prefer fairytales, I can tell some very beautiful ones. Since I’ve been silent, my life has been as follows: I headed off with a backpack and a briefcase, half walking, half hitching, only half (shame!) paying my way, thanks to the $10 the government itself had given me. I reached El Salvador and the police confiscated some books I was bringing from Guatemala, but I got through and managed to obtain the visa to re-enter Guatemala (and this time the correct one). I set about visiting the ruins of the pipiles, a race of Tlaxcaltecas that set out to conquer the south (their center was in Mexico), and they remained here until the Spaniards came. The ruins are nothing like the Mayan constructions, and even less like those of the Incas.

  Then I went and spent a few days at the beach while waiting for my visa to come through. I had asked for it in order to visit some splendid Honduran ruins. I spent the nights by the sea, in a sleeping bag I have acquired, and, although my diet was not entirely strict, I was in fine shape from this healthy lifestyle, except for some sunburn. I befriended some guys who, like everyone in Central America, are good drinkers, and gave them a piece of Guatemalan propaganda and recited some little verses in deep red. The result: we all ended up in the slammer, but they let us out after a word of advice from a commander, a fine fellow, who suggested I sing to the evening roses and other things of beauty. I preferred to vanish like a sonnet into the smoke. The Hondurans denied me a visa for the simple fact of my living in Guatemala although, I should say, it was my healthy intenti
on to check out the strike that has taken off there that has the support of 25 percent of the entire working population, a high figure anywhere but extraordinary in a country where there is no right to strike and the unions must organize clandestinely. The fruit company is furious and, of course, Dulles and the CIA want to intervene in Guatemala because of its terrible crime of buying arms on whatever market it could, since the United States hasn’t sold them as much as a single cartridge for a long time […].

  Naturally, I didn’t consider the possibility of staying on there. On the way back, I headed off on semi-deserted roads with my wallet in a terrible state because here a dollar is worth about one mango,61 so even 20 don’t go very far. One day I walked about 50 kilometers (maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but a lot anyway) and, after many days, I arrived at the fruit company hospital where there is a complex of small but very beautiful ruins. There I became totally convinced of what my Latin American blood did not want to acknowledge: that our forebears are Asian (tell the old man that they will soon be demanding his paternal authority). There are figures in bas-relief that are Buddha himself, all the details show they are exactly the same as those of the ancient Hindu civilizations. The place is really beautiful, so much so that I committed Silvestre Bonard’s62 crime against my stomach and spent a dollar and a bit to buy film and hire myself a camera. Then I begged a bite to eat at the hospital but didn’t even manage to get the hump half full. I had no money to get to Guatemala by train so I headed off to Puerto Barrios where I found work as a laborer unloading barrels of tar, earning $2.63 an hour for 12 hours, working as hard as hell in a place where there are ravenous mosquitoes diving at you in astonishing numbers. My hands finished up in a terrible state and my back was worse, but I confess that I was quite happy. I worked from 6 in the afternoon until 6 in the morning and slept in an abandoned house by the sea. Then I left for Guatemala and here I am with better prospects […].