This clamor smashed the glass castle of my reverie, bringing me back to reality. I realized at that moment that something which had been growing in me for some time, in the hustle and bustle of the city, had now matured: a real hatred of civilization. The crude sight of people rushing about like mad things, to the beat of a tremendous noise, now seemed to me the loathsome antithesis of peace, of this [illegible] which created such harmonious background music in the quiet rustling of the leaves.
I returned to the road and continued on my way. At 11:00 or 12:00 I came to a roadside police checkpoint where I stopped to rest. Along came a motorcyclist on a brand new Harley Davidson and offered me a tow. I asked him how fast he’d go. “If I go slow, about 80 or 90.” Naturally I had learned from experience, at the cost of my ribs, that I can’t go over 40 kilometers an hour while being towed, given the instability of my load and the uneven roads.
I declined, and after thanking [crossed out] who had offered me a mug of coffee, I kept going, hoping to reach Salta in daylight. I had 200 kilometers still to go, so I needed to get a move on.
At Rosario de la Frontera, I had an unhappy encounter at the police station. They were lifting the same Harley Davidson off the back of a truck. I went over to inquire about the rider. “Dead,” they told me.
Naturally, the minor personal tragedy of the obscure death of this motorcyclist has no impact on the sensibilities of the masses, but the knowledge that a man seeks danger, without even the vague heroism associated with public exploits, and dies taking a bend in the road, with no witnesses, made this unknown adventurer seem to have some kind of vague “death wish.” This is something that might make the study of such a personality interesting, but it is completely beyond the scope of these notes.
From Rosario de la Frontera to Metán the sealed and smooth road offered me an easy ride, preparing me for the stretch from Metán to Salta, which required a great deal of patience to spot the “serrations.”
Nevertheless, the bad roads of this area are compensated for by the magnificent landscape. We came to a mountainous zone where, around each bend, there was something new to marvel at. Approaching Lobería, I am lucky to see one of the most beautiful sights of my travels so far. Beside the road there was a kind of suspended railway bridge with the Juramento River running beneath. The banks are formed with stones of many colors and the river’s gray waters chart their turbulent course through sheer cliffs covered in magnificent vegetation.
I stay for a while gazing at the water…. The gray foam, leaping like sparks as the water crashes against the rocks and returns to the whirlpool, invites me to plunge in, to be rocked brutally in the water and shout incoherently like a condemned man.
I climb the hill feeling slightly melancholy; the roaring waters I was leaving behind seem to reproach me for my romantic shortcomings, and I feel like a confirmed bachelor. Above me and my philosophical Jack London style beard, the biggest nanny goat in the herd chuckles at my clumsiness as a climber. Once again the loud clamor of a truck drags me out of my hermit’s meditation.
It is already dark when I climb the last hill and find before me the magnificent town of Salta. Its only notable defect is the fact that the visitor is welcomed by the geometric rigidity of the cemetery.
With my developing lack of shame, I present myself at the hospital as an “exhausted, adventurous, almost broke medical student.” They offer me a vehicle with soft seats as lodgings, making a bed fit for a king. I sleep like a log until 7:00 in the morning, when they wake me so they can use the car. The rain is torrential, so my journey is delayed. At about 2:00 in the afternoon I start out for Jujuy, but the road out of the city is boggy from the heavy downpour and it is impossible for me to go on. Nevertheless, I find a truck and it turns out that the driver is an old acquaintance. A few kilometers on, we go our separate ways, he to Campo Santo to collect cement, while I head off on a road known as La Cornisa.
The water that has fallen runs together in little streams that descend from the surrounding hills and cross the road to join the Mojotoro River, which runs alongside the road. This is not the impressive spectacle of Salta and the Juramento, but its cheerful beauty acts as a tonic for the spirit. After leaving the river behind, the traveler moves into the true regions of La Cornisa—its majestic beauty found in its hills adorned with green forest. There is one mountain pass after another, framed by the adjacent greenery. Through the branches, the distant green plain can be seen as if through a tinted lens.
The wet foliage imbues the atmosphere with its freshness, and instead of the penetrating, aggressive humidity of Tucumán, there is something fresh and mild here. The charm of this warm, damp afternoon, refreshed by the dense forest… transported me to a dream world, a world very different from my present situation. But I knew the way back from it well and was not cut off by the fog-filled abysses of the realms of fantasy. [...]
Weary of so much beauty, like suffering indigestion from an excess of chocolate, I reach the town of Jujuy, with aches and pains inside and out, wanting to discover the measure of the province’s hospitality. What better occasion than now to research the hospitals of the country?
I sleep wonderfully in one of the wards, after being obliged to demonstrate my medical knowledge. Equipped with some tweezers and a bit of ether, I set about the thrilling hunt for [illegible] in a little kid’s shaven head.
His monotonous whining lacerates my ears like a fine stiletto, while my scientific alter ego counts with indolent rapacity the number of my [dead] enemies. I can’t understand how this little dark-skinned kid, barely two years old, could come to be so full of larvae. Even if you tried, it would not be easy to do. [...]
I get into bed and try to make of this insignificant episode a solid foundation for my pariah’s sleep. [...]
The magnificent new day shines brighter for me and invites me to set off again. The gentle purring of my bike is lost in the solitude, and I begin my return by the lowland road that takes me to Campo Santo. There is nothing worthy of note on that section of road, the only highlight being the scenery of Gallinato. Even better is the view from La Cornisa, because you can see farther, giving a sense of grandeur that the other lacks to some extent.
I arrive in Salta at 2:00 in the afternoon, and go to visit some friends at the hospital. They are amazed to find I had done the whole trip in only one day, and so one of them enquires, “But what did you see?” The question remains unanswered because it was formulated in such a way for there to be no answer.
And that’s the whole point, the real question being what do I see. I don’t nourish myself on the same sights as other tourists, and I find it strange to see how tourist maps, such as the map of Jujuy, highlight the Altar de la Patria, the cathedral where the national flag was blessed, the jewel of the pulpit and miraculous little virgin of Río Blanco and Pompeya, the house where General Lavalle was killed, the city council of the revolution, the provincial museum, etc.
No, one does not get to know a people that way, their way of life and so on. Buildings are just a glossy cover. The spirit of a people is reflected in the patients in the hospitals, the inmates at the police station and the anxious man in the street one chats to while the Río Grande displays its turbulent, swollen waters below. But all this takes a long time to explain, and who knows if I would be understood. I thank them and leave on a visit to the town I failed to see properly the first time around.
At dusk, I approach a police station on the outskirts of the city and ask permission to spend the night there. I planned to do the mountainous part on a truck, to save myself from the hard pedaling on bad roads and from having to wade across a river and several swollen streams. But I am quickly discouraged. As it is Saturday, it is very unlikely that a truck would pass by, since all of them go by early in order to reach Tucumán on Sunday morning. Resigned, I start chatting with the policemen, and they show me the famous female Anopheles [mosquito]—an elongated, stylized, slender creature that hardly looks as if it could be responsible for th
e terrible scourge of malaria.
The full moon displays its subtropical exuberance, throwing floods of silvery light that produce a very pleasant chiaroscuro. This inspires one of the policemen to talk at great length on philosophical matters, and he winds up with the following story:
“The other day, a man heard the galloping of a herd of horses and the barking of dogs. He went out with a lantern and his revolver and stationed himself in a strategic position. The horses went by again to the sound of the dogs’ barking, and after this ruckus, as if by way of an explanation, a black mule with enormous ears appeared, circumspectly following the herd. The chorus of barks got louder, and once again the herd of horses galloped past. The mule headed in a different direction and when the moon could be seen between its ears, the man felt a chill run down his spine.”
The old policeman interrupted his companion with this wise comment: “There must be a tortured soul in that mule.” He suggested that the animal be killed to liberate it. “What else?” he asked. “Nothing; on the contrary, he’ll thank you. What more does he want?” Dispensing with any humanitarian considerations, I, who had been brought up on stories of justice, propriety, annoying noises, etc., ventured the timid objection that the mule’s owner and neighbors wouldn’t be very happy about it all.
They looked at me in a way that shamed me. How could that mule have an owner, and, even if it had one, who wouldn’t be happy to free a tortured soul? They didn’t even deign to demolish my argument.
The three of us remained staring pensively at the moon, which magnificently spread silvery shadows over the hills. The cool Salta night was filled with the music of frogs, and I fell into a short sleep, lulled by their songs.
At 4:00 a.m. I bade farewell to the policemen and began my arduous trek toward Tucumán. The bike’s brakes were giving me trouble so I had to be careful on the slopes. I didn’t know what I might find around a bend, since my headlight wasn’t strong enough to show me what was ahead.
At around 7:00 in the morning, I had a pleasant surprise: a long line of trucks was bogged in the mud, one after the other. The drivers had just woken up and were discussing the situation. I went up to them to investigate and, to my surprise, found that my old friend Luchini was one of them.
There was a heated exchange and the truck drivers immediately bet me that I couldn’t reach the sealed road that led to Tucumán before they did. I was to set out right away, and, if they got there first, too bad; but if they couldn’t catch up with me, I was to wait there, and they would treat me to a fabulous meal with all the trimmings. I then forgot all about the scenery, my faulty brakes, the zigzags, the dangerous curves, exhaustion and thirst and concentrated only on the splendor of the banquet awaiting me. Every step that drew me closer to my goal made more vivid my vision of a sumptuous, juicy chicken surrounded by delicious baked potatoes…
1. One kilometer is equal to 0.62 miles.
2. Ernesto had been friends with the Granado brothers (Tomás, Gregorio and Alberto) since they were children in Córdoba, Argentina.
3. Dormida means sleep in Spanish.
4. Alberto Granado would be Ernesto’s companion on his first big trip around Latin America on the motorcycle.
5. An article about Ernesto’s trip around Argentina was published in the daily Trópico on February 3, 1950: “Guevara, un joven raidista, cumplirá una extensa gira.”
First Trip through Latin America (1951–52)
Notas de viaje (or “travel notes”) was the title given to this book by the Che Guevara Studies Center (Havana) when it was first decided to publish Che’s youthful diary. It contains 42 chronicles that young Ernesto wrote a year after making his first journey through Latin America, visiting Chile, Peru, Colombia and Venezuela between late 1951 and mid-1952. He based these accounts on his travel diary and notes, a method of writing he would utilize throughout his life.
This selection has been chosen not only for their literary value but also because they show the significance the trip had for the young Ernesto.
Excerpts from The Motorcycle Diaries
So We Understand Each Other
This is not a story of heroic feats, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it to be. It is a glimpse of two lives running parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams.
In nine months of a man’s life he can think a lot of things, from the loftiest meditations on philosophy to the most desperate longing for a bowl of soup—in total accord with the state of his stomach. And if, at the same time, he’s somewhat of an adventurer, he might live through episodes of interest to other people and his haphazard record might read something like these notes.
And so, the coin was thrown in the air, turning many times, landing sometimes heads and other times tails. Man, the measure of all things, speaks here through my mouth and narrates in my own language that which my eyes have seen. It is likely that out of 10 possible heads I have seen only one true tail, or vice versa. In fact it’s probable, and there are no excuses, for these lips can only describe what these eyes actually see. Is it that our whole vision was never quite complete, that it was too transient or not always well-informed? Were we too uncompromising in our judgments? Okay, but this is how the typewriter interpreted those fleeting impulses raising my fingers to the keys, and those impulses have now died. Moreover, no one can be held responsible for them.
The person who wrote these notes passed away the moment his feet touched Argentine soil again. The person who reorganizes and polishes them, me, is no longer, at least I am not the person I once was. All this wandering around “Our America with a capital A” has changed me more than I thought.
In any photographic manual you’ll come across the strikingly clear image of a landscape, apparently taken by night, in the light of a full moon. The secret behind this magical vision of “darkness at noon” is usually revealed in the accompanying text. Readers of this book will not be well versed about the sensitivity of my retina—I can hardly sense it myself. So they will not be able to check what is said against a photographic plate to discover at precisely what time each of my “pictures” was taken. What this means is that if I present you with an image and say, for instance, that it was taken at night, you can either believe me, or not; it matters little to me, since if you don’t happen to know the scene I’ve “photographed” in my notes, it will be hard for you to find an alternative to the truth I’m about to tell. But I’ll leave you now, with myself, the man I used to be…
La Gioconda’s Smile
We had come to a new phase in our adventure. We were used to calling idle attention to ourselves with our strange dress and the prosaic figure of La Poderosa II,1 whose asthmatic wheezing aroused pity in our hosts. To a certain extent we had been knights of the road; we belonged to that longstanding “wandering aristocracy” and had calling cards with our impeccable and impressive titles. No longer. Now we were just two hitchhikers with backpacks, and with all the grime of the road stuck to our overalls, shadows of our former aristocratic selves.
The truck driver had left us at the upper edge of the city, at its entrance, and with weary steps we dragged our packs down the streets, followed by the amused or indifferent glances of onlookers. In the distance the harbor radiated with the tempting glimmer of its boats, while the sea, black and inviting, cried out to us—its gray smell dilating our nostrils. We bought bread—which seemed so expensive at the time though it became cheaper as we ventured further north—and kept walking downhill. Alberto wore his exhaustion obviously, and although I tried not to show it I was just as tired. So when we found a truck stop we assaulted the attendant with our tragic faces, relating in florid detail the hardships we had suffered on the long hard road from Santiago. He let us sleep on some wooden planks, in the company of some parasites whose name ends in hominis, but at least we had a roof over our heads.
We set about sleeping with determination. News of our arrival, however, reached the ears of a fellow-countryman installed in a c
heap restaurant next to the trailer park, and he wanted to meet us. To meet in Chile signifies a certain hospitality and neither of us was in a position to turn down this manna from heaven. Our compatriot proved to be profoundly imbued with the spirit of the sisterland and consequently was fantastically drunk. It was a long time since I had eaten fish, and the wine was so delicious, and our host so attentive… Anyway, we ate well and he invited us to his house the following day.
La Gioconda threw open its doors early and we brewed our mate, chatting with the owner who was very interested in our journey. After that, we went to explore the city. Valparaíso is very picturesque, built to the edge of the beach and overlooking a large bay. As it grew it clambered up the hills that sweep down to their deaths in the sea. The madhouse museum beauty of its strange corrugated iron architecture, arranged on a series of tiers linked by winding flights of stairs and funiculars, is heightened by the contrast of diversely colored houses blending with the leaden blue of the bay. As if patiently dissecting, we pry into dirty stairways and dark recesses, talking to the swarms of beggars; we plumb the city’s depths, the miasma that draws us in. Our distended nostrils inhale the poverty with sadistic intensity…
We visited the ships down at the docks to see if any were going to Easter Island but the news was disheartening: it would be six months before any boat was going there. We collected some vague details about flights that left once a month.
Easter Island! The imagination stops in its ascending flight to turn somersaults at the very thought: “Over there, having a white ‘boyfriend’ is an honor”; “Work? Ha! the women do everything—you just eat, sleep and keep them content.” This marvellous place where the weather is perfect, the women are perfect, the food perfect, the work perfect (in its beatific nonexistence). What does it matter if we stay there a year; who cares about studying, work, family, etc. In a shop window a giant crayfish winks at us, and from his bed of lettuce his whole body tells us, “I’m from Easter Island, where the weather is perfect, the women are perfect...”