The Motorcycle Diaries

by Ernesto Che Guevara

  It really isn’t very difficult for mining companies to extract the mineral wealth of this part of the world. There’s nothing more to do besides scraping off the top layer containing the mineral and transporting it to huge baths where it’s submitted to a fairly uncomplicated separating process to extract the nitrates, saltpeter and mud. Apparently the Germans had the first concessions but their plants were expropriated and they are now largely British-owned. Workers at the two biggest mines in terms of both production and workforce were at the time on strike and the mines were south of where we were heading, so we decided not to visit them. We went instead to quite a big plant, La Victoria, which has at its entrance a plaque marking the place where Hector Supicci Sedes died, the brilliant Uruguayan rally driver who was hit by another driver as he came out of a refuelling pit stop.

  A succession of trucks took us all over the region until we finally reached Iquique warmly wrapped in blankets of alfalfa, the cargo of the truck that took us the last leg. Our arrival, with the sun rising behind us, casting our reflections against the purest blue of the morning sea, seemed like something out of A Thousand and One Nights. As if it were a magic carpet the truck appeared, fluttering on the cliff faces above the port, and as first gear slowed our winding and groaning flight downward we saw from our vantage point the whole city rising to meet us.

  In Iquique there wasn’t a single boat, Argentine or any other kind, so it was useless staying in the port and we decided to scrounge a lift on the first truck leaving for Arica.

  *Chilean folksongs.

  ACABA CHILE

  the end of chile

  The long kilometers stretching between Iquique and Arica climb and descend the whole way. We were carried from arid tablelands to valleys with only slight trickles of water running through them, barely sufficient for a few small, stunted trees to grow at their edges. These utterly desolate pampas emit a sultry heat during the day, though as with all desert climates it is considerably cooler by night. The thought that Valdivia came through this way with his handful of men, traveling 50 or 60 kilometers a day without discovering a drop of water or even some shrub to shelter from the hottest hours, leaves a strong impression. Knowledge of the terrain actually crossed by the conquistadors automatically elevates Valdivia’s feat to one of the most notable of Spanish colonization, without doubt superior to the those that endure in the history of America because more fortunate explorers found wealthy kingdoms at the end of their adventurous wars, turning the sweat of their conquest into gold.

  Valdivia’s actions symbolize man’s indefatigable thirst to take control of a place where he can exercise total authority. That phrase, attributed to Caesar, proclaiming he would rather be first-in-command in some humble Alpine village than second-in-command in Rome, is repeated less pompously, but no less effectively, in the epic campaign that is the conquest of Chile. If, in the moment the conquistador was facing death at the hands of that invincible Araucanian Caupolicán, he had not been overwhelmed with fury, like a hunted animal, I do not doubt that judging his life, Valdivia would have felt his death was fully justified. He belonged to that special class of men the species produces every so often, in whom a craving for limitless power is so extreme that any suffering to achieve it seems natural, and he had become the omnipotent ruler of a warrior nation.

  Arica is a sweet little port which hasn’t yet lost the memory of its previous owners, the Peruvians, and it forms a kind of meeting point between the two countries, so different in spite of their geographical proximity and common ancestry. The promontory, pride of the town, rises 100 meters in an imposing mass of sheer rock face. The palm trees, the heat, the subtropical fruit sold in the markets, all lend it the unique physiognomy of a Caribbean town, or something like that, completely different from its peers further south.

  A doctor, who showed us as much disrespect as an established, financially secure bourgeois can show to a couple of hobos (even hobos with titles), permitted us to sleep in the town’s hospital. Early the next day we fled the unwelcoming place, heading straight for the border with Peru. But first we bade farewell to the Pacific with one last swim (soap and everything) and it served to awaken a dormant yearning in Alberto: to eat seafood. We began a patient search for clams and other seafood on the beach by some cliffs. We ate something salty and slimy, but it didn’t distract us from our hunger or satisfy Alberto’s craving, in fact it wouldn’t even have made a prisoner happy. The slime was repulsive and, with nothing to season it, worse.

  We set off at our usual time, after eating at the police station, marking out our track along the coast until the border. A van, however, picked us up and we reached the border post installed in comfort. We met a customs officer who had worked on the Argentine border, and acknowledging and appreciating our passion for mate he gave us hot water, cookies and, best of all, found us a ride to Tacna. The police chief welcomed us amiably at the border with several pretentious inanities about Argentines in Peru and with a handshake, we said goodbye to that hospitable Chilean land.

  CHILE, OJEADA DE LEJOS

  chile, a vision from afar

  When I made these travel notes, hot and fresh with enthusiasm, I wrote some things that were perhaps a little flashy and somewhat removed from the intended spirit of scientific inquiry. And it’s probably not appropriate now, more than a year after writing them, to give my current opinions about Chile; I’d prefer to review what I wrote then.

  Beginning with our area of expertise, medicine: the panorama of health care in Chile leaves a lot to be desired (although I realized later it was by far superior to that in other countries I got to know). Free, public hospitals are extremely rare and even in those, posters announcing the following appear: “Why do you complain about your treatment if you are not contributing to the maintenance of this hospital?” Generally speaking, medical attention in the north is free, but hospital accommodation has to be paid for, and prices range from petty sums to virtual monuments to legalized theft. Sick or injured workers at the Chuquicamata mine receive medical attention and hospital treatment for five Chilean escudos a day, but someone not working at the mine would pay between 300 and 500 escudos a day. Hospitals have no money and they lack medicine and adequate facilities. We have seen filthy operating rooms with pitiful lighting, not just in small towns but even in Valparaíso. There aren’t enough surgical instruments. The bathrooms are dirty. Awareness of hygiene is poor. It’s a Chilean custom (afterwards I saw it across practically all of South America) not to throw used toilet paper in the toilet but on to the floor or in the boxes provided.

  The standard of living in Chile is lower than in Argentina. On top of the very low wages paid in the south, unemployment is high and the authorities afford workers very little protection (although it’s better than what is provided in the north of the continent). Veritable waves of Chileans are driven by all this into emigrating to Argentina, in search of the legendary city of gold which cunning political propaganda has offered those who live to the west of the Andes. In the north, workers in the copper, nitrate, gold and sulphur mines are better paid, but life is much more expensive, and in general they lack many essential consumer items and the mountain climate is cruel. It brings to mind the meaningful shrug with which a manager at Chuquicamata answered my questions regarding compensation paid to the families of the 10,000 or more workers interred in the local cemetery.

  The political scene is confusing (this was written before the elections in which Ibáñez triumphed). There are four presidential candidates, of whom Carlos Ibáñez del Campo seems most likely to win. A retired soldier with dictatorial tendencies and political ambitions similar to those of Perón, he inspires his people with all the enthusiasm of a caudillo. His base of power is the Popular Socialist Party, behind which various minor factions are united. Second in line, as far as I can see, is Pedro Enrique Alfonso, the official government candidate, who is politically ambiguous; he seems to be friendly with the Americans and courts almost all the other parties. The champion
of the right is the tycoon Arturo Matte Larraín, the son-in-law of the late President Alessandri who enjoys the support of all the reactionary sectors of the population. Last on the list is the Popular Front candidate Salvador Allende,* who is supported by the communists even though they have seen their voting power reduced by 40,000, the number of people denied the right to vote because of their affiliation to the Communist Party.

  It’s likely that Ibáñez will observe a politics of Latin Americanism, manipulating hatred for the United States to gain popularity; nationalizing the copper mines and others (although the fact that the United States owns huge Peruvian mineral deposits and is practically ready to begin exploiting them doesn’t greatly increase my confidence that nationalization of these Chilean mines will be feasible, at least in the short term); continue nationalizing the railroads and substantially enlarge Argentine–Chilean trade.

  Chile as a nation offers economic promise to any person disposed to work for it, so long as they don’t belong to the proletariat: that is, anyone who has a certain dose of education and technical knowledge. The land has the capacity to sustain enough livestock (especially sheep) and cereals to provide for its population. There are the necessary mineral resources to transform it into a powerful industrial country: iron, copper, coal, tin, gold, silver, manganese and nitrates. The biggest effort Chile should make is to shake its uncomfortable Yankee friend from its back, a task that for the moment at least is Herculean, given the quantity of dollars the United States has invested and the ease with which it flexes its economic muscle whenever its interests appear threatened.

  *In 1970, Allende was elected as Chilean President. In 1973, a U.S.-backed coup installed General Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship, which lasted 17 years.

  TARATA, EL MUNDO NUEVO

  tarata, the new world

  Scarcely a few meters separated us from the Civil Guard post marking the limits of the town, but already our backpacks felt a hundred times heavier than they were. The sun stung us but as always we were wrapped in too many clothes for the hour of the day, though later we’d get very cold. The road climbed quickly and in no time we had passed the pyramid we’d seen from the village, built in homage to those Peruvians who died in the war with Chile.* We decided it would be a good place to make our first stop and test our luck with the passing trucks. All we could see in the direction of the road was a barren hillside, with barely any vegetation; placid Tacna, with its little dirt streets and terracotta roofs, waited so far in the distance it seemed almost daunting. The first truck to pass caused us great turmoil; we stuck our thumbs out apprehensively and to our surprise the driver stopped just ahead of us. Alberto took command of the operation, explaining in words that by now were very familiar to me the purpose of our journey and asking him for a lift; the driver gave an affirmative nod, indicating we should climb in the back, with a whole band of Indians.

  Collecting our bags and crazy with gratitude, we were about to climb up when he called out to us: “Five soles to Tarata, you know that, right?” Alberto, furious, asked why he’d said nothing earlier, when we’d asked to be taken free of charge. The driver wasn’t sure exactly what “free of charge” meant, but to Tarata it was five soles…

  “And every one of them will be like that,” Alberto said angrily, in that simple phrase directing all of his frustration toward me, who had suggested the idea in the first place of walking out of town to hitch a lift, rather than wait there like he wanted to do. The moment became decisive. We could go back, in which case we’d be admitting defeat, or we could continue on foot, letting whatever would happen, happen. We decided on the second course and started walking. It soon became apparent that our choice was not altogether wise: the sun was about to set and all around there was a total absence of life. Still, we supposed that so close to the village there would be some shack or other and, sustained by this illusion, we carried on.

  It was soon pitch dark and we hadn’t encountered a single sign of habitation. Even worse, we had no water with which to cook or brew mate. The cold intensified; the desert climate and the altitude we had reached turned the screw. Our exhaustion was unbelievable. We resolved simply to lay out our blankets over the ground and sleep until dawn. There was no moon, and the night was very dark, so we felt our way around spreading our blankets and wraped ourselves up as well as we could.

  After five minutes Alberto informed me he was frozen solid; I responded that my poor body was even colder. But this wasn’t a competition in refrigeration, so we decided to tackle the situation and search for some twigs to make a small fire and to occupy our hands. The result was unsurprisingly pathetic. Between us we managed a handful of sticks, making a timid fire incapable of heating anything at all. The hunger was grating but the cold much more so, to the point where we could no longer lie there just watching the four embers of our fire. We had to pack up camp and walk on in the dark. At first, to get warm, we set a fast pace and in no time we were desperate for breath. Under my jacket I felt the sweat running off me, but my feet were numb with cold and the sharp wind cut our faces like a knife. After two hours we were exhausted and my watch said only 12:30 a.m. A hopeful estimate gave us at least five hours of night to go. Further debate and another shot at sleeping between our blankets. After five minutes we were on our way again. The night was still young when we saw head lights in the distance; it wasn’t something to get too excited about — the chances of getting a ride were bad — but at least the road was lit up. And that’s how it went, the truck passed us by, indifferent in the face of our frantic shouts, and its lights exposed a deserted wasteland; no trees, no houses. Then confusion descended, every minute was slower than the one before until eventually the minutes became hours. Two or three times a distant dog’s bark gave us some hope, but the pitch black night disclosed nothing and the dogs fell silent or moved off in other directions.

  At six in the morning we saw two huts by the edge of the road, illuminated in the clear, gray light of dawn. The last few meters we traveled in a flash, as if we had no weight at all on our backs. It seemed that we had never been welcomed with such friendliness, that we had never eaten bread and cheese like they sold us, or had such revitalizing mate. We were like demigods to these simple people: Alberto brandished his doctor’s certificate for them, and moreover we had come from that wonderful country Argentina, where Perón lived with his wife Evita, where the poor have as much as the rich and the Indian isn’t exploited or treated as severely as he is in this country. We answered thousands of questions about our country and its way of life. With the night chill still deeply embedded in our bones, our rose-colored imagery transformed Argentina into an alluring vision of the past. Our spirits lifted by the timid kindness of the cholos,* we made for a nearby dry riverbed, in which we spread our blankets and slept, caressed by the rising sun.

  At 12 we set off again, much happier, the previous night’s suffering forgotten, following old Vizcacha’s advice.** The road was long though and we were soon pausing with notable frequency. We stopped for a rest at five in the afternoon, apathetically observing the approaching outline of a truck. As usual it was transporting a cargo of human livestock, the most profitable business of all in that area. But to our surprise, the truck stopped and we saw the Civil Guard from Tacna waving happily to us and inviting us to climb on; the invitation, of course, did not need to be repeated. The Aymara Indians in the back looked at us curiously but didn’t dare ask anything. Alberto tried to start a conversation with some of them, though their Spanish was bad. The truck continued to climb through an absolutely desolate landscape where only a few struggling thorn bushes gave any appearance of being alive. Then, suddenly, the grumbling with which the truck made its way higher gave way to a sigh of relief as we leveled out on to the plateau. We entered the town of Estaque and the view was incredible; our ecstatic eyes fixed themselves momentarily on the landscape extending around us and then we had to find out the names and explanations for all the things we saw. The Aymaras could barely understan
d us but the few indications they gave, in confused Spanish, only increased the emotional impact of the surroundings. We were in a legendary valley, whose evolution had been suspended several hundred years ago, and we happy 20th-century mortals had today been given the good fortune to see it. The irrigation channels — built by the Incas for the well-being of their subjects — flowed from the mountain into the valley, forming a thousand little waterfalls and running back and forth across the road as it spiralled down. Ahead of us, low clouds hid the tops of the mountains, but in some of the clear spaces you could just make out snow falling on the highest peaks, gradually turning them white. The different crops cultivated by the Indians, carefully grown in terraced beds, allowed us to penetrate a new realm of botanical science: oca, quinua, canihua, rocoto, maize. We saw people wearing the same dress as the Indians in the truck, in their natural surroundings. They wore short, sadly colored woollen ponchos, tight calf-length pants, and sandals made from rope or old car tires. Absorbing everything we saw, we continued down the valley to Tarata. In the Aymara language this means the apex, or place of confluence, and it’s been well named since it stands within a great V formed by the mountain chains that are the town’s guardians. It is an ancient, gentle village where life continues on the course it has traveled for centuries. The colonial church must be an archaeological gem because, even more than its age, it marks the union of imported European art with the spirit of the local Indians. In the narrow lanes of the town, its hugely uneven streets paved in local stone, the Indian women with their children on their backs… in short, in every typical scene, the town’s very breath evokes the time before Spanish colonization. But the people before us are not the same proud race that repeatedly rose up against Inca rule, forcing them to maintain a permanent army on their borders; these people who watch us walk through the streets of the town are a defeated race. Their stares are tame, almost fearful, and completely indifferent to the outside world. Some give the impression they go on living only because it’s a habit they cannot shake. The Civil Guard took us to the police station where they gave us board and some of the officers invited us to eat. We walked around town and then rested for a while, since at three in the morning we were heading off to Puno on a passenger truck. Thanks to the Civil Guard, we were traveling for free.