*Chile annexed the mineral-rich Atacarna desert in the so-called “Nitrate Wars” of 1879–83.
*Indians or mestizos.
**A character from “Martín Fierro,” an epic poem of gaucho life by the Argentine José Hernández.
EN LOS DOMINIOS DE LA PACHAMAMA
in the dominions of pachamama
By three in the morning, the blankets of the Peruvian police had demonstrated their value, swathing us in restorative warmth. The policeman on guard then shook us awake — there was a truck heading for Ilave — and we found ourselves in the sad situation of having to leave them behind. The night was magnificent, if terribly cold, and we were granted the privilege of some planks to sit on, separating us from the foul-smelling, flea-ridden human flock below us, their potent but warm stink a virtual lasso. Only as the vehicle began its ascent did we realize the magnitude of the concession: nothing of the smell came close and it would have been difficult for a single, athletic flea to spring on to us for refuge. The wind lashed liberally against our bodies, however, and within minutes we were literally frozen. The truck continued to climb and with every minute the cold became more intense. To stop ourselves falling off we had to keep our hands outside the more or less protective blankets; it was difficult to shift position even slightly without coming close to head-first flight into the back of the truck. Close to dawn, some carburetor problem which afflicts engines at this altitude caused the truck to stop; we were nearing the highest point of the road, almost 5,000 meters. In some corners of the sky the sun was rising and a vague light replaced the total darkness accompanying us until then. The psychological effect of the sun is strange: it had not yet appeared over the horizon and we already felt comforted, just imagining the heat it would bring.
On one side of the road huge, semi-spherical fungi were growing — the only vegetation in the region — and we used them to make a pathetic fire which served to heat water from a little bit of snow. The spectacle offered by the two of us drinking our strange brew must have seemed as interesting to the Indians as their traditional dress seemed to us, because not a moment passed without one of them approaching to ask in broken Spanish just why we were pouring water into that strange artefact. The truck categorically refused to take us any further, so all of us had to walk about three kilometers in the snow. It was remarkable to see the Indians treading through the snow, their bare calloused feet not seeming to worry them, while we felt our toes freeze in the intense cold despite our boots and woolly socks. At a weary, steady pace, they trotted along like llamas in single file.
Saved from that rough patch, the truck continued with renewed passion and we soon cleared the highest pass, where there was a strange pyramid made of irregular-sized stones and crowned with a cross. As the truck passed, almost everyone spat and one or two crossed themselves. Intrigued, we asked what the significance of this strange ritual was but only the most complete of silences met us.
The sun was warming up and the temperature became more agreeable as we descended, always following the course of a river we had seen begin at the summit of the mountain and grow to a fair size. Snowcapped peaks looked down on us from all sides and herds of llamas and alpacas looked on without expression as the truck drove past, while several uncivilized vicuñas fled the disturbance.
At one of the many stops we made along the road, an Indian timidly approached us with his son who spoke good Spanish, and began to ask us all about the wonderful “land of Perón.” Our imaginations ignited by the spectacular grandeur we were traveling through, it was easy for us to paint extraordinary events, embellishing to our hearts’ desire the capo’s exploits, filling the minds of our listeners with stories of the idyllic, beautiful life in our country. Through his son, the man asked us for a copy of the Argentine constitution with its declaration of the rights of the elderly, and we enthusiastically promised to send him one. When we resumed the trip, the old Indian took an appetizing corncob from beneath his clothes and offered it to us. We finished it off quickly, democratically dividing the kernels between us.
In the middle of the afternoon, with the heavy, gray sky bearing down on us, we passed an interesting place where erosion had worn the huge boulders on the roadside into feudal castles. They had battlements, gargoyles observing us disconcertingly, and a host of fabulous monsters that seemed to be standing guard, protecting the tranquillity for the mythical characters who surely inhabited the place. The slight drizzle which for some time had brushed our faces became stronger and turned into a heavy downpour. The driver called out to the “Argentine doctors,” inviting us into his cabin, the height of comfort in those parts. We immediately made friends with a schoolteacher from Puno, whom the government had sacked for being a member of APRA [American Popular Revolutionary Alliance]. The man, who clearly had indigenous blood and who moreover was an “Aprista” — which meant nothing to us — had many incredible stories of Indian customs and culture, delighting us with a thousand anecdotes and memories of his life as a teacher. Following the call of his Indian blood, he had sided with the Aymaras in the never-ending debates among the experts on the region against the Coyas, whom he qualified as cowardly ladinos.*
He also gave us the key to the strange ritual observed by our traveling companions earlier in the day. Arriving at the highest point of the mountain the Indian gifts all of his sadness to Pachamama, Mother Earth, in the symbolic form of a stone. These gradually amass to shape the pyramids we had seen. When the Spaniards arrived to conquer the region they immediately tried to destroy such beliefs and abolish such rituals, but without success. So the Spanish monks decided to accept the inevitable, placing a single cross atop each pile of stones. All this took place four centuries ago (as told by Garcilaso de la Vega*) and judging by the number of Indians who made the sign of the cross, the religious didn’t make a lot of progress. The rise of modern transport has meant the faithful now spit out chewed coca leaves instead of placing stones, and this carries their troubles to rest with Pachamama.
The inspired voice of the teacher rose to a resounding pitch whenever he spoke about his Indians, the once rebellious Aymara race who had held the Inca armies in check, and it fell to a vacant depth when he spoke of the Indians’ present condition, brutalized by modern civilization and by their compañeros, his bitter enemies the mestizos, who revenge themselves on the Aymaras for their own position halfway between two worlds. He spoke of the need to build schools that would orient individuals within their own world, enabling them to play a useful role within it; of the need to change fundamentally the present system of education, which, on the rare occasion it does offer Indians education (according only to white man’s criteria), simply fills them with shame and resentment, rendering them unable to help their fellow Indians and at the severe disadvantage of having to fight within a hostile white society which refuses to accept them. The destiny of those unhappy individuals is to stagnate in some minor bureaucratic position and die hoping that one of their children, thanks to the miraculous powers of a drop of colonizing blood in their veins, might somehow achieve the goal they aspire to until their last days. In the convulsive clenching of his fist one could perceive the confession of a man tormented by his own misfortune, and also the very desire he attributed to his hypothetical example. Wasn’t he in fact a typical product of an “education” which damages the person receiving its favor, a concession to the magic power of that single “drop,” even if it came from some poor mestizo woman sold to a local cacique* or was the result of an Indian maid’s rape by her drunken Spanish master?
But our journey was almost over and the teacher fell silent. The road curved and we crossed a bridge over the same river we had first seen early that morning as a tiny stream. Ilave was on the other side.
*Spanish-speaking Latin Americans, often used to refer to Indians who adopt Spanish ways.
*The Inca Garcilaso, son of an Inca princess and a conquistador, was one of the chroniclers of the conquest.
*A local political boss.
EL LAGO DEL SOL
lake of the sun
The sacred lake revealed only a small part of its grandeur. The narrow tongue of land surrounding the bay Puno is built on hid it from view. Reed canoes bobbed here and there in the tranquil water and a few fishing boats filed out through the lake’s entrance. The wind was very cold and the smothering, leaden sky seemed to replicate our state of mind. Although we had come directly to Puno without stopping in Ilave, and had secured temporary lodging and a good meal at the local barracks, our luck seemed to have run out. Very politely the commanding officer had shown us the door, explaining that as this was a border checkpoint foreign civilians were strictly forbidden from staying overnight.
We didn’t want to go without exploring the lake, so we went to the pier to see if anyone would take us out in a boat, where we could admire the lake in all its magnitude. We used an interpreter to advance the operation because none of the fishermen, all pure Aymara, knew any Spanish at all. For a modest sum of five soles, we managed to get them to take both of us and the intrusive guide who was sticking to us. We considered swimming in the lake, but after testing the temperature with the tips of our little fingers we thought better of it (Alberto made a big show of taking off his clothes and boots, only to put them back on again, of course).
Like tiny pinpoints dispersed across the vast, gray surface of the lake, a group of islands emerged in the distance. Our interpreter described the lives of the fishermen there, some of whom have barely ever seen a white man, and who live according to the old ways, eating the same food, fishing with 500-year-old techniques and keeping their costumes, rituals and traditions alive.
When we returned to the port, we walked over to one of the boats running between Puno and a Bolivian port to try and get some mate, which we were low on. But they drink almost no mate in the north of Bolivia, in fact they’d hardly heard of it, and we couldn’t even get a half-kilo. We examined the boat which had been designed in England and built here; its lavishness clashed with the general poverty of the whole region.
Our problem of lodging found its solution at the Civil Guard post, where a very friendly lieutenant let us stay in the infirmary, the two of us in one bed but at least we were cosy and warm. After a pretty interesting visit to the cathedral the following day, we found a truck heading for Cuzco. The doctor in Puno had given us letter of introduction for Dr. Hermosa — an ex-leprologist now living in Cuzco.
Ernesto Guevara and La Poderosa II, 1951.
“And suddenly, slipping in as if part of our fantasy, the question arose:
‘Why don’t we go to North America?’
‘North America? But how?’
‘On La Poderosa, man’.”
All photos copyright © Che Guevara Studies Center, Havana
Ernesto Guevara and friend.
“My most important mission before leaving was to take exams in as many subjects as possible; Alberto’s to prepare the bike for the long journey, and to study and plan our route.”
Self-Portrait, by Ernesto Guevara, Argentina, 1951.
Ernesto Guevara and a friend in Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1951.
Ernesto Guevara in Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1951.
Alberto Granado (front left), Ernesto Guevara (center with cap) and friends, with La Poderosa II, 1951, when Ernesto and Alberto had just begun their adventure.
Alberto Granado attempting to scale the Argentine Andes, near San Martín de los Andes. Photograph by Ernesto Guevara, January 1952.
“After some minutes of joking about in the patch of snow crowning the peak, we took to the task of descending… Alberto lost his goggles and my pants were reduced to rags.”
Alberto Granado on board the Modesta Victoria, crossing into Chile. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara from Lake Nahuel Huapí, February 1952.
“A gentle sun illuminated the new day, our day of departure, our farewell to Argentine soil. Carrying the bike on to the Modesta Victoria was not an easy task, but with patience we eventually did it.”
Alberto Granado (center) with two friends from Córdoba, climbing Santa Lucía in Santiago de Chile. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara, March 1952.
“The following day we climbed up Santa Lucía, a rocky formation in the center of the city with its own particular history, and were peacefully performing the task of photographing the city when a convoy of Suquía members arrived…”
On the road from Taratá to Puno, Peru. (Ernesto third from left). Photograph taken by Alberto Granado, March 25, 1952.
“The spectacle offered by the two of us drinking our strange brew must have seemed as interesting to the Indians as their traditional dress seemed to us, because not a moment passed without one of them approaching to ask in broken Spanish just why we were pouring water into that strange artefact.”
The view of Cuzco from the fortress Sascahuáman. Photograph taken by Alberto or Ernesto, April 1952.
“High above the city another Cuzco can be seen, displacing the destroyed fortress: a Cuzco with colored-tile roofs… 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.”
Detail of the Church of Santo Domingo, erected over the ruins of the Temple of the Sun. Photograph by Alberto or Ernesto, April 1952.
“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.”
Pisac, a village in the Peruvian Andes. Photograph taken by Alberto or Ernesto, April 1952.
“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.”
The fortress of Ollantaytambo. Photographs taken by Ernesto Guevara, April 1952.
“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.”
Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu. Photograph taken by Alberto or Ernesto, April 5, 1952.
“The most important and irrefutable thing, however, is that here we found the pure expression of the most powerful indigenous race in the Americas — untouched by a conquering civilization and full of immensely evocative treasures… The spectacular landscape circling the fortress supplies an essential backdrop, inspiring dreamers to wander its ruins for the sake of it.”
The María Angola Cathedral. Photograph taken by Ernesto or Alberto, April 1952.
“The cost of restoring the cathedral bell towers, destroyed by the earthquake in 1950, had been met by General Franco’s government, and as a gesture of gratitude the band was ordered to play the Spanish national anthem… I couldn’t say whether with good intentions or bad, the band had [instead] struck up the Spanish republican anthem.”
The Cathedral of Cuzco. Photograph taken by Ernesto or Alberto, April 1952.
“The glitz of its brilliant interior reflects a glorious past… Gold doesn’t have the gentle dignity of silver which becomes more charming as it ages, and so the cathedral seems to be decorated like an old woman with too much makeup. There is real artistry in the choir stalls, made from wood by Indian or mestizo craftsmen. In their carved scenes of the lives of the saints, they have infused the cedar with the spirit of the Catholic Church and the enigmatic soul of the true Andean peoples.”
Alberto Granado (second from left) with the Cambalache brothers in Pucallpa, Peru. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara, May 1952.
“We left in a hurry the next morning, before the woman who owned the place woke up, because we hadn’t paid the bill and the Camba brothers were short on cash because of repairs t
o the axle.”
Alberto Granado fishing with staff from the San Pablo leper colony. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara, June 1952.
“Thursday is a day of rest for the colony so we changed our routine, not visiting the compound. We tried to fish, without success, in the morning. In the afternoon we played football and my performance in goal was less atrocious.”
A family of Yagua Indians with Alberto Granado (holding child) and Dr. Bresciani (left), the director of the San Pablo leper colony. Photograph taken by Ernesto Guevara, June 1952.