Another two days without much worth adding to what’s already been said. Luis Arturo Pineda: a Guatemalan, 21 years old, member of the PGT. He’s a serious guy, proud of his militancy and a firm believer in the infallibility of the party, so that his highest aspirations are to be secretary of the party in Guatemala, or in Latin America maybe, and to shake hands with Malenkov. Because of his militant orthodoxy he looks with disdain upon anything not subject to party discipline. He regards himself as very intelligent, but he isn’t, although he’s by no means a fool. His militancy means he would make any kind of sacrifice for the party.
Two more days in which the only distraction has been waiting for Hilda; she’s come to the door twice, but has not been able to get in. I’m not doing well with my asthma, so I’ll take a purgative and then fast tomorrow. Felicito Alegría: a quiet, humble man, and I can’t figure out just how smart he is because he’s so reserved. He seems somewhat of a wild card, with strong combative qualities and a sound character. Marco Tulio de la Roca: a 20-year-old Guatemalan who apparently writes poetry, although he hasn’t produced any here. He’s serious and also quiet, and his half-sad smile reflects a fatalistic, thoughtful mind. I don’t think he’s a politically active militant. […]
Hercilia wrote from New York answering a letter of mine and telling me about the matter with María Luisa, which looks serious. Today’s portrait is of Gillete: I think he’s a dare-devil. He’s a young guy around 18 or 20, with no great intellect. Good, and simple. His tendency is towards kilometers of verse, I don’t know what it’s about but I imagine it’s bad. He comes out with some fairly pointed remarks, like “this thing of dying every day is quite a common sight,” criticizing another of the young poets in our refuge. I haven’t talked with him enough to clearly judge his poetic talents or his level of knowledge.
Another day bites the dust. Marco Antonio Sandoval: an 18-year-old Guatemalan student and poet. As a poet, he is plagued by pretensions to Neruda, and the need to meditate on death, but occasionally he comes up with a fine image. He’s a romantic, and has developed into an energetic admirer of himself. He’s remarkably earnest about everything concerning himself and makes grand statements about a good number of things. He is quite caustic, but lacks the nerve for sustained debate. He has no political formation and assumes everything is a political experience.
Nothing worth mentioning from the last two days. I had a go at cooking—it tired me out, even my muscles were tired by the end, showing how unfit I am. Núñez Aguilar leaves for Argentina today; I gave him the old man’s address, perhaps they will speak. Valdez—I don’t remember his first name—is another of the young poets in the group. I’ve only read one of his free verse compositions, which has a strong element of social struggle, but not that spark that distinguishes an authentic poet. He’s 18, a bit of a brat like most guys his age, despite the beginnings of something more serious. He is frank and forthright, without much political ambition but capable of acquiring it over time.
Another day wasted with nothing new. Marco Antonio Derdon, alias “Earthquake”: a kid with few intellectual gifts and a physique indicating a degree of hypophyseal or hypogenital infantilism, as confirmed by the fact that, while we were in the refuge, one of his testicles moved up at the same time that he suffered an indirect inguinal hernia. There’s nothing attractive about him besides his pathological make-up, as it’s impossible to speak of any political formation in his case.
Another null and void day. Something of an international event to break the monotony has been the suicide of President Vargas.77 It’s a little disturbing as it is unclear along what path the vice-president, or those behind him, will take Brazil. In any event, I suspect tumultuous days lie ahead for the Brazilian people. On the local scale, a refugee has escaped by jumping over the wire on the wall.
Hugo Blanco, alias “Old Lady,” a young poet and a bad one. I don’t even think he’s particularly smart. Kindness is his most distinguishing feature. The smile of a good kid always accompanies the poet.
Another day with nothing new. Alfonso Riva Arroyo: the leader of the health workers’ union and interesting because of his intellectual scruples. He has the mind of a Marxist and is in open conflict with the communists. He also has insomnia, which I imagine has a psychological origin. He’s a carpenter—a good one, he says. I gave him a letter for the old man. This completes my account of people in the main hall of the embassy.
Two or three days in which a lot of time has passed and one important general measure has been introduced: Perón has agreed to accept families as well, which changes the perspective for many of the refugees. One man, for example, decided to give himself up to the police because he didn’t want to be separated from his family, and after announcing this and waiting for a day, he went to do so. But the police wanted to play games and would neither lock him up nor let him go; he spent a good few hours outside with his wife and children who had come to say good-bye. In the end the minister got tired of it all and let him back inside to sleep. At 2 a.m. news arrived that he had been granted permission to leave with his whole family. The following night, something less spectacular but no less important occurred. Víctor Manuel Gutiérrez78 entered over one of the garden walls and was granted asylum, but at 2 a.m. the main wing was reinforced so no one else could get in.
Raúl Salazar: a typographer around 30 years old, a simple way of thinking, possibly subnormal, who devotes himself to his work and nothing else, but all the same has some sway in the PGT. He was on the People’s Court and a union leader, quite a tame one, I imagine.
In the last two days some great things have happened. Gutiérrez’s entry provoked uproar in the embassy, and one of the Pinedas said something tactless about Perón’s demagogy—that the granting of asylum to families was only to shit all over the communists and over Pellecer when he had tried to clarify things. Afterwards, they confined 13 of us to the garage and prohibited us from speaking with the others; they also isolated Pellecer and Gutiérrez in a room by themselves. As if in response to this, the two younger Pinedas escaped the same night.
It was gratifying to see the fury on Banabés’ face, reflecting the fury of officialdom as well. I’ll continue with that group at the same time as the 13. Now there’s Lencho Méndez, Luis Arturo Pineda, Roberto Castañeda, Cheché Vega and myself, leaving eight: Humberto Pineda, older brother of the aforementioned, has a similar psychological make-up, but seems better and generally in good humor, although just as restless as his brother. They certainly have their heads screwed on. José Antonio Ochoa, a typographer, a union leader with a good line, although not a member of any party. He belongs to the group of 13. He has a gentle nature, the same consistency as his chubby body, with a clear intelligence and a very consistent political line. He is cheerful, expressive and playful, a little childlike and at times melancholy. He’s not capable of any heroic action, but is incapable of treachery.
As if responding to my thoughts, Ochoa has managed to get transferred to the other side, where he is content. Now there are 10 of us are left in the lock-up.
Ricardo Ramírez is perhaps one of the most capable youth leaders. Evidently the party for him is a substitute for a home, which he appears not to have had in his youth or, to be more precise, his childhood, because he’s just turned 23. He’s going to Buenos Aires where his experience in the party will naturally come in handy. He’s highly cultured and his way of confronting problems is much less dogmatic than that of other comrades.
Of those from the embassy, the one missing from the picture I’ve painted is Arana, an old typographer (about 50 years old), weak and lacking any ideological foundation but loyal to the party. A man of average intelligence, he nevertheless understands sufficiently that the only real road for the working class is communism.
Several days have passed with nothing new, except that Cheché caused a row with a little whore, who is a servant here, and we are locked up more securely. Now another of “the 13” is Faustino Fermán Tino, a shoemaker. A simple
mind but as loyal and sincere as anyone could be; a cheerful and steady character and a skilled shoemaker—these are his best features. Tomás Yancos, one of the older compañeros at the embassy, is an enigmatic personality. Like Rivas Arroyo, who later turned traitor, it seems he’s one of those who had “certain differences” with the party, even if they were compatible with the general line.
This is wrong, and Yancos has turned out to be a son of a bitch. He’s a strange character, with a brusqueness that repels people, although often he seems to be in jest. Generally, he’s quite unpleasant.
Several days have passed and more or less important things have happened, most of which I’ve forgotten now, but most significant was the flight of Lencho Méndez and Roberto Murailles.79 Roberto was a bit of a moron, completely impulsive and with no intellectual foundation. His loyalty is certain but nothing else I fear.
The next day, 118 refugees left in the five planes that came for them, among them Carlos Manuel Pellecer and Víctor Manuel Gutiérrez. The embassy has remained empty and I’m the only one left of the group of 13 from the kennels.
I spoke to Sánchez Toranzo and I can leave today. Varisco, a friend of Gualo García’s, came on one of the planes, bringing me $150 from home, as well as two suits, four kilos of mate, and a mountain of useless stuff.
Of the 13, I have not yet mentioned “Figaro” Vázquez, the hairdresser, a man without much of an intellectual base but with great pretensions. He’s not a bad type, but he reacts impulsively, not with revolutionary reason; everything he does is very ostentatious and he’s fairly rabid. He was responsible for introducing a note of discord to the friendly atmosphere of the 13.
Humberto Pineda80 is the leader of our group as acknowledged by us all and by the embassy. He is a man who has given up his violent impulses, like those of his sons, in favor of calm and reason. His intellectual ability is not particularly great and nor is his intellectual training, but he can handle anything that is expected of him and is a good militant.
Eduardo Contreras is a teacher, small in stature and in age, a very good person, cheerful and mischievous, with a certain theoretical formation and strong practical experience. Brave and loyal. At times he’s a little pedantic, but it’s neither unpleasant nor offensive.
I walked to freedom with no problem and immediately paid my first visit—a romantic one. I went to sleep at old Sra. Leyva’s place and visited F.U., who never sent me the article, so there is nothing concrete against me. Today I’ll see if I can get my passport back, and if there’s no problem tomorrow morning I’ll go to check out Atitlán and Quetzaltenango. I’ll borrow a camera.
July 22, 1954
Dear Beatriz,
[…] It’s been a lot of fun here, with all the shooting, bombing, speeches and other touches that have broken the monotony of my life.
I leave in a few days for Mexico, I’m not sure exactly when, where I think I’ll make my fortune selling little whales to hang around the neck. […]
Anyway, I will be ready to go the next time something breaks out, and I’m sure it will (if there is a next time), because those Yankees can’t stop themselves trying to defend democracy somewhere or other. […]
Big hugs from your adventurous nephew.
August 7, 1954
Dear vieja,
[…] Of my life in Guatemala there’s nothing to say as its rhythm is that of any Yankee colonial dictatorship. I’ve settled my affairs here and am rushing off to Mexico.
August 1954
Dear viejos [Old Folks],
[…] I took refuge in the Argentine embassy, where they treated me very well, but my name didn’t appear on the official list of those given asylum. Now the whole torment is over and I’m thinking of going to Mexico in a few days—but until further notice write to me here. […]
I think you sent too much clothing and spent too much on me; I’ll look like a toff, which I don’t deserve (and there is no sign that I’ll be changing in the near future). I won’t be able to use all the clothes because my latest motto is to travel light, with the strong legs and stomach of a fakir. Give a friendly hug to the Guatemala gang and please treat the guys who end up there as well as possible.
When all this settles down and things assume a new rhythm, I’ll write to you more concisely. For all of you, a hug from your first-born. I ask you to forgive me for the scare and to forget about me. What comes always falls from the sky. No one dies of hunger in the United States or, I suspect, in Europe.
Chau,
Ernesto
Guatemala, August 1954
Dear Tita [Infante],
I don’t know when you will receive this letter, or even if you will—that’s now conditional on the final route of the courier. For this reason I won’t give you an account of how things have gone here, it’s only my aim to introduce the courier […], a medical student who has chosen Argentina as his homeland for the duration of his exile from Guatemala. The courier belonged to one of the bourgeois parties that cooperated loyally with Árbenz until his fall, and concerned himself with the fate of the semi-exiled Argentines around here. For all these reasons I’d like you to help by giving him advice when he needs it […]; he’ll experience the natural disorientation of running around on the pampas for the first time.
I’ll say nothing about myself because it’s easier to write again before this letter of introduction reaches your hands. Have no doubt, I’m continuing my voluntary exile and heading for Mexico from where I’ll make the great leap to Europe and, if possible, China.
Until it materializes some place in the world, receive an ever affectionate and epistolary embrace from your friend,
Ernesto
Atitlán is not better than the lakes of southern Argentina—not even close. Apart from the fact that this is no time for delivering final judgments, I dare to do so anyway, as the difference is so immense. After checking out the lake, I went to Chichicastenango and learned some really fascinating things about the lives and particularly the customs of the Indians, but in doing so I drank some rum and ate who knows what, resulting in an asthma attack. I was also throwing money away, so I returned to Guatemala City. The next day I collected my passport and exit visa, and within a day I had the visa for Mexico. Today, Sunday, I’ve said my farewell to Guatemala with a little trip to San Juan Sacatepéquez, including a few passionate embraces and a little quickie. Tomorrow I’ll say good-bye to those I want to farewell, and on Tuesday morning I’ll begin the great Mexican adventure.
Mexico
The first stage of the great adventure has concluded happily, and here I am installed in Mexico,81 although I have no idea about the future. I left [Guatemala] accompanied by my slight misgivings; I reached the border where I got through ok, but the professional swindling really began on the Mexican side. I joined up with a good kid from Guatemala, an engineering student called Julio Roberto Cáceres Valle,82 who also seems to have the travel bug. I’m thinking of moving on to Veracruz to try to take the great leap from there.
We traveled to Mexico City together but now I’m on my own. Maybe he’ll come back.
The only really interesting thing during the trip was an excursion to the excavations at Mitla, near Oaxaca. They are old Mixtec mines, apparently not very important, consisting of several rectangular patios surrounded by rectangular structures with rectilinear decoration.
There are one or two underground constructions the exact purpose of which is unclear, but could have been the dressing rooms of important people. It seems the roofs were supported, at critical points anyway, by rounded, slightly conical pillars made from a kind of cement. All the constructions are made from stone, held together by wood and gravel, and have been re-touched with a kind of cement. Here, there is neither the magnificence of Machu-Picchu, nor the evocative beauty of Quiriguá, not even the emotional power of the Salvadoran excavations, but there are definitely interesting elements and a foretaste of the wonders to discover here in Mexico. Today, or maybe tomorrow, I’ll go and see U.P.,83 gi
ven that Harold White is not here and seems to have left for the United States.
Days of feverish ineffectiveness have gone by, in which I called on Petit; he took me out for a walk and we discussed politics. He has a nice daughter, but she is in the middle of a typical bourgeois-clerical education. Petit is obviously a deserter, who covers his tracks by quoting the pope and speaking of Catholic love as the only true kind, etc. We visited the ruins of Teotihuacán, or something like that. There are enormous pyramids without artistic merit, but there are others of value. I’ll go and see them again sometime and take note of more detail—this time I only took a picture of Marta Petit with my new camera, a 35-exposure Zois 1 Kon 1:35.
Several empty days have passed. Since the very friendly chat with Petit, I called to leave my telephone number, and we haven’t spoken again. I visited Helenita […]. October 5 is her birthday so I’ll visit her again and take her the book El poema pedagógico.
I also visited the museum of Mexican art, although, as usual, I didn’t see everything; I found the examples of ancient culture fascinating, the collection contains some authentic works of art. I liked two busts, a Mayan and an Aztec, and an obsidian vessel in the form of a stylized monkey. There is also a very interesting monumental head with African features. Besides these things of interest, of course, come the paintings of the famous quartet: Rivera, Tamayo, Siqueiros and Orozco. Siqueiros had a particularly strong impact on me, but they all seemed very good, although the murals are badly situated for viewing properly.
Life in Mexico is appallingly bureaucratic. Petit is now behaving like a donkey. The latest news is that Hilda is in Mexico, at Tapachula (although in what circumstances I’m not sure), and that I visited Dr. Icharti, a young Peruvian who made a good impression, although I don’t know what he’ll be able to do for me. I am working as a photographer in the park. We’ll see what comes of it—they’re promising me a thousand things.
Latin America Diaries Page 10
