The Motorcycle Diaries

by Ernesto Che Guevara

  “On Sunday morning we visited a tribe of Yaguas, the Indians of the red straw… Their way of living was fascinating — outside, beneath wooden planks and with tiny, hermetic palm frond huts to shelter in at night from the mosquitoes that attack in close formation.”

  An Indian man with Alberto Granado (left) and Dr. Bresciani. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara, June 1952.

  “The kids have distended bellies and are rather scrawny but the older people show no signs of vitamin deficiency, in contrast with its rate among more developed people living in the jungle. Their diet consists of yucca, bananas and palm fruit, mixed with the animals they hunt with rifles.”

  Ernesto Guevara and Alberto Granado aboard the Mambo-Tango, June 1952.

  “The raft was almost ready, only needing oars. That night an assembly of the colony’s patients gave us a farewell serenade, with lots of local songs sung by a blind man. The orchestra was made up of a flute player, a guitarist and an accordion player with almost no fingers, and a ‘healthy’ contingent helping out with a saxophone, a guitar and some percussion.”

  Ernesto Guevara and Alberto Granado aboard the Mambo-Tango, sailing down the Amazon River, June 1952.

  “We rowed at full strength and just when it seemed we were definitely on our way, we’d turn a half circle and head back into midstream. We watched with growing desperation as the lights drifted into the distance. Exhausted, we decided that at least we could win the fight against the mosquitoes and sleep peacefully until dawn.”

  “After receiving my degree I began to travel through Latin America. Except for Haiti and the Dominican Republic, I have visited — in one way or another — all the countries of Latin America. In the way I traveled, first as a student and afterward as a doctor, I began to come into close contact with poverty, with hunger, with disease, with the inability to cure a child because of a lack of resources… And I began to see there was something that, at that time, seemed to me almost as important as being a famous researcher or making some substantial contribution to medical science, and this was helping those people.”

  (from Appendix: “A Child of my Environment,” 1960)

  HACIA EL OMBLIGO DEL MUNDO

  toward the navel of the world

  The first leg of the journey wasn’t too long as the truck driver left us in Juliaca, where we had to find another truck to take us further (ever northward). We went, of course, on the recommendation of Puno’s Civil Guard, to the police station where we found a very drunk sergeant. He took a liking to us and invited us for a drink, ordering beers that were downed in one, all except for mine which remained full on the table.

  “What’s the matter, my Argentine friend, don’t you drink?”

  “No, it’s not that; in my country we don’t normally drink like this. Don’t feel bad, it’s just that we only drink if we’re eating at the same time.”

  “But, cheee,” he said, his nasal voice accentuating our country’s onomatopoeic nickname, “Why didn’t you say so?” With a clap of his hands he ordered some great cheese sandwiches — and I was fairly satisfied with that. Then he swept himself away into euphoric descriptions of his various heroic deeds, boasting about the fear and respect the people of the region held him in because of his fabulous marksmanship. To prove it he pulled out his gun and said to Alberto: “Look, cheee, stand 20 meters away with a cigarette in your mouth and if I can’t light it with the first bullet, I’ll give you 50 soles.” Alberto doesn’t like money that much and he wasn’t about to move from his chair, at least not for 50 soles. “Come on, cheee, I’ll make it 100.” Alberto didn’t move a muscle.

  When he got to 200 soles — laid out on the table — Alberto’s eyes began to flicker, but his instinct for self-preservation was stronger and he still didn’t move. So the sergeant took off his cap and, watching through a mirror, tossed it behind him and fired. The cap was still in perfect condition, of course, but the wall wasn’t and the owner of the bar flew into a fury, storming off to the police station to complain.

  Within minutes an officer showed up to find out what the scandal was all about, hauling the sergeant into a corner to give him a talking to. When they rejoined our group the sergeant launched into a tirade against my traveling buddy, also making faces at him so he’d get the point: “Listen up, Argentine, got any more firecrackers like that one you just let off?” Alberto caught on quickly and said, his face the picture of innocence, that he had run out. The officer gave him a warning about letting off fireworks in public places, then told the owner that the incident was over; he could see no sign on the wall that any gun had been fired. The woman went to ask the sergeant to shift a few centimeters from where he was located, standing rigidly against the wall, but a quick mental calculation of the pros and cons was enough for her to keep her mouth shut on that score and give Alberto an extra tongue lashing instead. “These Argentines think they own everything,” she said, plus a few more insults that were lost in the distance as we fled, one of us thinking wistfully of the beer, the other of the lost sandwiches.

  We found another truck to ride in, traveling with a couple of young guys from Lima. The whole time they tried to show us how much better they were than the silent Indians, who endured their taunts and showed no sign of being bothered. At first we looked the other way, paying them no attention, but after some hours the tedious journey across an interminable plain forced us to exchange a few words with the only other white people on board, the only ones we could chat with since the wary Indians barely dignified our questions with a response, offering only monosyllabic replies. In truth these boys from Lima were normal enough, they just needed to make the differences between themselves and the Indians clear. As we chewed vigorously on the coca leaves our newfound friends had diligently obtained for us, a flood of tangos engulfed our unsuspecting companions.

  We arrived at last light in a village called Ayaviry, where we stayed in a hotel paid for by the head of the Civil Guard. “Excuse me,” he responded, to our feeble protest against his startling gesture. “Two Argentine doctors sleeping rough because they have no money? It can’t be.” But in spite of the warm bed, we could barely keep our eyes closed: throughout the night, the coca we’d ingested revenged our bravado in floods of nausea, colic and severe headache.

  We left very early for Sicuani in the same truck the next morning, where we arrived in the middle of the afternoon overwhelmed by too much cold, rain and hunger. As always we spent the night at the Civil Guard post, and as always they looked after us well. A miserable little river called the Vilcanota runs through Sicuani, and we would be following the course of its water, an ocean of mud, for a while.

  In the Sicuani market we were pondering the whole range of colors overflowing from the stalls, tangling with the vendors’ monotone cries and the monotone buzz of the crowd, when we noticed a gathering of people on a corner and went to investigate.

  Surrounded by a dense, silent multitude a procession advanced, at the head of which were a dozen monks wearing colored habits, followed by a train of serious-looking notables wearing black dress and carrying a coffin. They marked the end of the formal funeral party and a teeming mass of people followed, without order or direction. The procession halted and one of the black-suited individuals appeared on a balcony — papers in hand: “It is our duty, as we say farewell to this great and worthy man, somebody or other…” etc. After his interminable babbling, the procession moved a block further and another darkly dressed character materialized on a balcony. “Somebody or other is dead, but the memory of his good deeds and his unblemished integrity…” etc. And so, poor old somebody or other crossed to his final resting place like this, pursued by the hatred of his fellow villagers who on every street corner unburdened themselves of him in flooding words.

  Another day’s traveling in much the same manner as previous days, and finally: CUZCO!

  EL OMBLIGO

  the navel

  The word that most perfectly describes the city of Cuzco is “evocative.” Intangib
le dust of another era settles on its streets, rising like the disturbed sediment of a muddy lake when you touch its bottom. But there are two or three Cuzcos, or it’s better to say, two or three ways the city can be summoned. When Mama Ocllo dropped her golden wedge into the soil and it sank effortlessly, the first Incas knew this was the place selected by Viracocha to be the permanent home for his chosen ones, who had left behind their nomadic lives to come as conquistadors to their promised land. With nostrils flaring zealously for new horizons, they watched as their formidable empire grew, always looking beyond the feeble barrier of the surrounding mountains. The converted nomads set to expanding Tahuantinsuyo, fortifying as they did so the center of their conquered territory — the navel of the world — Cuzco.* And here grew, as a necessary defense for the empire, the imposing Sacsahuamán, dominating the city from its heights and protecting the palaces and temples from the wrath of the enemies of the empire. The vision of this Cuzco emerges mournfully from the fortress destroyed by the stupidity of illiterate Spanish conquistadors, from the violated ruins of the temples, from the sacked palaces, from the faces of a brutalized race. This is the Cuzco inviting you to become a warrior and to defend, club in hand, the freedom and the life of the Inca.

  High above the city another Cuzco can be seen, displacing the destroyed fortress: a Cuzco with colored-tile roofs, its gentle uniformity interrupted by the cuppola of a baroque church; and as the city falls away it shows us only its narrow streets and its native inhabitants dressed in typical costume, all the local colors. This Cuzco invites you to be a hesitant tourist, to pass over things superficially and relax into the beauty beneath a leaden winter sky.

  And there is yet another Cuzco, a vibrant city whose monuments bear witness to the formidable courage of the warriors who conquered the region in the name of Spain, the Cuzco to be found in museums and libraries, in the church facades and in the clear, sharp features of the white chiefs who even today feel pride in the conquest. This is the Cuzco asking you to pull on your armor and, mounted on the ample back of a powerful horse, cleave a path through the defenseless flesh of a naked Indian flock whose human wall collapses and disappears beneath the four hooves of the galloping beast.

  Each one of these Cuzcos can be admired separately, and to each one we dedicated a part of our stay.

  *Mama Ocllo was the sister/wife of Manco Capac, the first Inca Emperor. According to the legend, the two were born simultaneously, rising up from Lake Titicaca, symbolizing the unity and equality of the masculine and feminine aspects. Viracocha was the Inca Creator God. Tahuantinsuyo (four quarters) was the Inca world, of which Cuzco was the center.

  LA TIERRA DEL INCA

  the land of the incas

  Cuzco is completely surrounded by mountains that signified less a defense than a danger for its Inca inhabitants, who, in order to defend themselves, built the immense mass of a fortress, Sacsahuamán. This version of the story, at least, satisfies the superficial inquirer, a version which for obvious reasons I cannot discount. It’s possible, however, that the fortress constituted the initial nucleus of the great city. In the period immediately after abandoning nomadic life, when the Incas were barely more than an ambitious tribe and defense against a numerically superior adversary was based around closely protecting the settled population, the walls of Sacsahuamán offered an ideal site. This double function of city and fortress explains some of the reasoning behind its construction, which doesn’t make sense if its purpose was simply to repel an invading enemy, and much less so considering Cuzco lay defenseless on every other periphery. It is worth noting that the fortress is built in such a way that it controls the two steep valleys leading to the city. The serrated walls mean that when enemies attacked they could be held hostage on three flanks, and if they penetrated these defenses, they came up against a second, similar wall and then a third. The defenders had room to maneuver, enabling them to concentrate on their counterattack.

  All this, and the subsequent glory of the city, creates the impression that the Quechua warriors were undefeated in the defense of their fortress against the pounding enemies. Even though the fortifications are the expression of a highly inventive people, intuitive in mathematics, they seem to belong — in my view, at least — to the pre-Inca stage of their civilization, a period before they learned to appreciate the comforts of a material life; being a sober race the Quechuas didn’t achieve a level of cultural splendor, but they did make considerable advances in the fields of architecture and the arts. The continued success of the Quechua warriors drove enemy tribes further from Cuzco. Leaving the secure confines of the fortress, that in any case could no longer contain their multiplying race, they spread down the neighboring valley along the stream whose waters they used. Highly conscious of their present glory, they turned their eyes to the past in search of an explanation for their superiority. In honor of the memory of a god whose omnipotence had allowed them to rise to dominance, they created temples and the priest caste. In this way, expressing their greatness in stone, an imposing Cuzco grew into the city eventually conquered by the Spaniards.

  Even today, when the bestial rage of the conquering rabble can be seen in each of the acts designed to eternalize the conquest, and the Inca caste has long since vanished as a dominant power, their stone blocks stand enigmatically, impervious to the ravages of time. The white troops sacked the already defeated city, attacking the Inca temples with unbridled fury. They unified their greed for the gold that covered the walls, in perfect representations of Inti the Sun God, with the sadistic pleasure of exchanging the joyful and life-giving symbol of a grieving people for the bereaved idol of a joyful people. The temples to Inti were razed to their foundations or their walls were made to serve the ascent of the churches of the new religion: the cathedral was erected over the remains of a grand palace, and above the walls of the Temple of the Sun rose the Church of Santo Domingo, both lesson and punishment from the proud conqueror. And yet every so often the heart of America, shuddering with indignation, sends a nervous spasm through the gentle back of the Andes, and tumultuous shock waves assault the surface of the land. Three times the cuppola of proud Santo Domingo has collapsed from on high, to the rhythm of broken bones, and its worn walls have opened and fallen too. But the foundations they rest on are unmoved, the great blocks of the Temple of the Sun indifferently exhibit their gray stone; however colossal the disaster befalling its oppressor, not one of its huge rocks shifts from its place.

  But Kon’s revenge is meager in the face of the magnitude of the insult. The gray stones have grown tired of pleading with their protector gods for the destruction of the abhorrent conquering race, and now they simply show an inanimate exhaustion — useful only for provoking the admiring grunts of some tourist or other. What use was the patient labor of the Indians, builders of the Inca Roca Palace, subtle sculptors of angular stone, when faced with the impetuous actions of the white conquistadors and their knowledge of brick work, vaulting and rounded arches?

  The anguished Indian, waiting for the terrible vengeance of his gods, saw instead a cloud of churches rise, erasing even the possibility of a proud past. The six-meter walls of the Inca Roca Palace, considered by the conquistadors to be useful only as weight bearers for their colonial palace, reflect in their perfect stone structures the cry of the defeated warrior.

  But the race that created Ollantay* left something more than the conglomeration of Cuzco as a monument to its grand past. Along the Vilcanota or Urubamba Rivers, over more than a hundred kilometers, the signs of the Inca past are scattered. The most important of them are always in the heights of the mountains, where their fortresses were impenetrable and secure from surprise attack. After trekking for two long hours along a rough path we reached the peak of Pisac; also arriving there, though long before us, were the swords of the Spanish soldiers, destroying Pisac’s defenders, defenses and even its temple. Among the dispersed mass of disorganized stone you can perceive that it was once a defensive construction, the dwellings of the pri
ests; the place where Intiwatana stayed and where he caught and tied up the midday sun. So little is left!

  Tracing the course of the Vilcanota and passing by some relatively unimportant sites, we reached Ollantaytambo, a vast fortress where Manco II* rose up in arms against the Spaniards, resisting Hernando Pizarro’s troops and founding the minor dynasty of the Four Incas. This dynasty coexisted with the Spanish Empire until its last effeminate representative was assassinated in Cuzco’s main square, on the orders of Viceroy Toledo.

  A rocky hill no less than 100 meters high plunges suddenly to the Vilcanota River. The fortress rests on top and its single vulnerable side, connected to its mountain neighbors by narrow paths, is guarded by stone defenses that easily impede the access of any attacking force similar in strength to the defenders. The lower part of the construction has a purely defensive purpose, its less steep areas split into some 20 easily defendable levels, making an attacker vulnerable to counterattack on each side. The upper part of the fortress contained the soldiers’ quarters, and is crowned by a temple which probably housed their loot in the form of precious metal objects. But of all that not even a memory remains, and even the massive stone blocks that made up the temple have been removed from their resting place.

  Near Sacsahuamán, on the road returning to Cuzco, there’s an example of typical Inca construction which, in our guide’s opinion, was a bathing place for the Incas. This seemed a little strange to me, given the distance between the site and Cuzco, unless it was a ritual bathing place for the monarch only. The ancient Inca emperors (if this version is correct) must have had even tougher skins than their descendants because the water, though wonderful to drink, is extremely cold. The site, crowned with three deep trapezoidal recesses (whose form and purpose are unclear), is called Tambomachay and is at the entrance of the Valley of the Incas.