Latin America Diaries (11 page)
Read Latin America Diaries Online
Authors: Ernesto Che Guevara
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
vieja
60
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 intention 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 [â¦].
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's
62
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 [â¦].
(This writing isn't really my own scattered thoughts but because four Cubans are arguing right next to me.)
Next time, when things are a bit quieter, I'll send you any news I haveâ¦
A hug for everyone.
April 1954
Vieja
,
As you can see I didn't go to El Petén. The son of a bitch who was supposed to give me a contract made me wait for a month, only to tell me it wasn't on. [â¦]
I'd already given him a list of medicines, instruments and everything else, and had studied up hard on the region's most
common tropical diseases. Of course, the knowledge will serve me well anyway, and more so now that I have an opportunity to work in a banana-growing region for the [United] Fruit Company.
What I don't want to miss is a visit to the ruins of El Petén. There's a city, Tikal, there, which is a wonder, and another, Piedras Negras, much less important, where Mayan art nevertheless reached extraordinary heights. The museum here has a lintel, which, although completely broken, is a true work of art by anyone's standard.
My old Peruvian friends lacked this tropical sensibility, and weren't able to create such high-quality work, apart from the fact that they didn't have the limestone from around here that is so easy to sculpt. [â¦]
I am increasingly happy to have left. My medical knowledge is not expanding, and at the same time I'm absorbing another kind of knowledge that engages me much more. [â¦]
Yes, I want to visit those places, but don't know when or how. To discuss plans in my situation would be to hurry a dream. Anyway, if, but only if, I get the fruit company job, I think I'll try and settle my debts here, and the ones I left there, to buy myself the camera, visit El Petén, and take myself north in Olympian style, that is, to Mexico [â¦].
I'm happy you have such a high opinion of me. In any case, it is very unlikely that archaeology would be the exclusive concern of my mature years. It seems somewhat paradoxical to me that I should make my life's “guiding star” the study of what is irremediably dead. I am certain of two things: first is that if I get to my truly creative phase at about 35 years, my exclusive, or at least main, concern will be nuclear physics, or genetics, or some other field that brings together the most interesting aspects of knowledge, and second is that the Americas will be the theater of my adventures in a way that is much more significant than I would have believed. I really think I have come to understand her and I feel Latin American in a way that is different from the way I feel about any other place on earth.
Naturally, I will travel in the rest of the world. [â¦]
There's little to say my about daily life that would interest you. In the mornings I go to the health department and work in the laboratory for a few hours; in the afternoons I visit libraries or museums to study a bit about the place; in the evenings I read medicine or whatever else, write letters and do domestic chores. I drink
mate
if we have it, and engage in endless discussions with the compañera Hilda Gadea, an
aprista
63
whom I try to persuade gently to leave that shit party. She has a heart of platinum, at least. She helps me in every aspect of my daily life (beginning with the boarding house
).
[â¦]
Days passâeventful and uneventful. I have the firm promise of a job as assistant to a medical worker. I returned my dollar. I visited Obdulio Barthe again, the Paraguayan who told me off for my behavior and confessed he thought I might be an agent for the Argentine embassy. I also discovered that his suspicion, or something along those lines, is widely held, except for the Honduran leader Ventura Ramos, who doesn't believe it. As the fight with Sra. de Holst continues, I sneak in once a day and sleep in Ãico (the Cuban's) room, who pisses himself laughing all day but never does anything. Ãico leaves on Monday, so I'll shift rooms to share with a Guatemalan friend called Coca. A Cuban (who sings tangos) sleeps in Ãico's room and has invited me to head south on foot as far as Venezuela. If it wasn't for the job they've promised me, I'd go. They've said they'll give me residency, and Zachrison has now become head of immigration. [â¦]
Once again the days pass uneventfully. I am at the boarding house
,
sharing with the Cuban songbird, now that Ãico has gone to Mexico. I go day after day looking for this job, but nothing, and
now they've told me to leave it for a week, and I'm not really sure what to do. I don't know whether the compañeros are still set on my not getting something or not. Little news arrives from Buenos Aires. Helenita is leaving for an unknown destination and I've stopped looking, but she will take me to her aunt's house, who will give me lunch. She's going to call the minister. I've got a good old attack of asthma, brought on by what I've been eating these last days. I hope I'll recover with a strict, three-day diet.
May 10, 1954
Vieja
,
[â¦] My future appears brighter, and my permission for residence is advancing, although with all the typical red tape common in these places, so within a month I'll be able to go to a movie without sponging off some kind pal.
I have promised myself something I think I've already told the old man, and I've also given him a vague idea of my plans. I have decided to leave these lodgings
on the 15th and head off into the open air with a sleeping bag I inherited from a compatriot who was passing through here. That way, I can get to all the places I want, except Petén, where you can't go because it's the rainy season, and I'll be able to climb a volcano or two. For some time now, I've been wanting to take a look at Mother Earth's tonsils (what a nice turn of phrase). This is the land of volcanoes to satisfy everyone's tasteâthose I like are the simple ones, not very high and not very active. I could get very rich here in Guatemala, but only if I put myself through the abject business of ratifying my degree, setting up a clinic and treating allergies (the place is full of fellow snufflers).
Doing this would be the most horrible betrayal of the two me's that do battle inside meâthe social reformer and the traveler [â¦].
Warm and damp hugs because it's been raining here all day (and while the
mate
lasts, it's very romantic). [â¦]
Recent events belong to history: a feature, I think, appearing in my notes for the first time.
A few days ago, some planes from Honduras crossed the border with Guatemala and flew over the city in broad daylight, shooting at both people and military targets. I joined the public health brigades to work in the medical corps and also the youth brigades that patrol the streets at night. The course of events was as follows: After these planes flew over, troops under the command of Colonel Castillo Armas, a Guatemalan émigré in Honduras, crossed the border and advanced on the town of Chiquimula. The Guatemalan government, although it had already protested to Honduras, let them enter without putting up any resistance and presented the case before the United Nations.
Colombia and Brazil, docile instruments of the Yankees, drew up a plan to hand the matter over to the OAS but this was rejected by the Soviet Union, which favored a cease-fire agreement. The invaders failed in their attempt to get the masses to rise up with the weapons they had dropped from planes, but they did capture the town of Bananera and cut off the Puerto Barrios railway line.
The goal of the mercenaries was clear: to take Puerto Barrios and then ship in various arms and more mercenary troops. This became clear when the schooner
Siesta de Trujillo
was captured as it tried to unload arms in that port. The final attack failed but in the hinterland areas the assailants committed extremely barbarous acts, murdering members of SETUFCO (the union of the United Fruit Company workers and employees) in the cemetery, where hand grenades were thrown at their chests.
The invaders believed they only had to say the word and the people would rise up as one to follow them, and that's why they parachute-dropped weapons, but the people immediately rallied to defend Ãrbenz. Although the invading troops were blocked and defeated on all fronts until they were pushed back beyond Chiquimula near the Honduran border, the pirate airplanes kept
attacking the battlefronts and towns, always coming from bases in Honduras and Nicaragua. Chiquimula was heavily bombed and bombs also fell on Guatemala City, injuring several people and killing a three-year-old little girl.
My own life unfolded as follows: First I reported to the youth brigades of the Alliance where we stayed for several days until the minister of public health
64
sent me to the Maestro Health Center where I am billeted. I volunteered for the front but they wouldn't even look at me.
June 20, 1954
Dear
vieja
,
This letter will reach you a little after your birthday, which might pass a little uneasily on my account. Let me say there's nothing to fear at the moment, but the same cannot be said of the future, although personally I have the feeling that I'm inviolable (inviolable is not the word, perhaps my subconscious is playing a bad joke on me).
To paint a picture of the situation: For the first time, five or six days ago, a pirate aircraft from Honduras flew over Guatemala, but did nothing. The next day and on successive days they bombed several Guatemalan military installations, and two days ago a plane machine-gunned the lower neighborhoods of the city, killing a two- year-old child. The incident has served to unite all Guatemalans behind their government, and others who, like myself, have been drawn to the country.
Simultaneously, mercenary troops led by an ex-army colonel (dismissed from the army some time ago for treason) left Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, crossed the border, and have now penetrated quite deeply into Guatemalan territory. The government, proceeding with great caution to ensure that the United States cannot declare
Guatemala the aggressor, has limited itself to protesting to Tegucigalpa and sending a full report of events to the UN Security Council, allowing the attacking forces to advance far enough that there would be no so-called border incidents. Colonel Ãrbenz certainly has guts; he's prepared to die at his post if necessary. His latest speech only reaffirmed this fact, which everyone already knew, bringing a measure of calm. The danger does not come from the number of troops that have entered the country so far, as this is minimal, or from the planes that have done no more than bomb civilian homes and machine-gun people; the danger lies in how the gringos (in this case, the Yankees) manipulate their stooges at the United Nations, since even the vaguest of declarations would greatly benefit the attackers.
The Yankees have finally dropped the good-guy mask Roosevelt had adopted, and now commit atrocities everywhere. If things reach the extreme where it's necessary to fight the planes and modern troops sent by the [United] Fruit Company or the United States, then a fight it will be. The people's spirits are very high, and the shameful attacks, along with the lies in the international press, have united even those who are indifferent to the government. There is a real climate of struggle. I have been assigned to the emergency medical services and have also joined the youth brigades to receive military instruction for whatever comes next. I don't think the tide will reach us, although we'll see what happens after the Security Council meets, which I think is tomorrow. At any rate, by the time this letter reaches you, you'll know what to expect in this regard.
For the rest, there's nothing much new. As the Argentine embassy is currently not functioning, I've received no fresh news since a letter from Beatriz and another of yours last week.
I'm told that at any minute I'll get the job at the health department, but the offices have been so busy with the commotion that it seems a little imprudent to hassle them about my little job when they're busy with much more important things.
Well,
vieja
, I hope you had the happiest birthday possible after this troubled year. I'll send news as soon as I can.
Chau