Uxmal is a much later city than Chichén-Itzá, having been founded in the 10th century by a chief of the Xiu family, Ah Zuitok Tutl Xiu,98 of Mexican origin.
Uxmal remained neutral in the wars between Chichén and Mayapán and later helped to overthrow the Mayapán chief in 1441, although Uxmal itself had already been abandoned. It is a truly beautiful city, much more recent than Chichén, although not in the same artistic league as Palenque. It’s a shame it has not been as well studied and reconstructed as Chichén has been, for it has structures of great beauty, such as the Governor’s Palace, which has been classified as the finest in the Mayan region, although personally I like the quadrangle at the Nunnery better. The Governor’s Palace, which is 95 meters long, 12 meters wide and eight meters high, was built with great charm. In Uxmal, the plumed serpent and other Aztec motifs are present, but in my view its mosaic friezes are very similar to the Zapotec or Mixtec work in the region of Mixtec Oaxaca. In a northern corner of the Governor’s Palace lies the so-called Temple of the Tortoises, a little archaeological jewel. The quadrangle at the Nunnery is a patio of 80 by 65 meters, enclosed by four wings, entered through a broad trapezoidal domed gate on the southern side. There you face the architecturally very beautiful Temple of Venus (a modern appellation) and the exquisitely executed east and west wings. Beside this structure rises the so-called Temple of the Diviner, which was probably the city’s most important ceremonial building. These are the most significant and the best-preserved structures, but there are many others, such as the north and north-east group, the Terrace of the Monuments, the Ball Court, the Cemetery, the west group, the Dovecote, the Great Pyramid, the south group and the Pyramid of the Old Woman, which have not yet been fully cleaned and restored.99
The following day (or rather, that same evening) we set off for Veracruz aboard the Ana Graciela, a little, 150-ton motor boat. The first day went well, but on the next a big northerly blew up and had us flying all over the place. We rested a day in Veracruz and then set off for Mexico City via Córdova, stopping there for an hour to look around. It’s no big deal, but still a very pleasant town, more than 800 meters above sea level, with a breeze that is refreshing in the tropical climate, and coffee fields in abundance. The nearby town of Orizaba is much more like the Andes: grim and cold. The Blanco River lies just beyond town, as if it were an extension of the town. It was the site of a historic massacre of workers protesting against their exploitation by a Yankee company. I don’t remember the year.
Only two important events. One shows that I am getting old: a girl whose thesis I helped edit included me in the list of those who had helped her (it’s customary here to dedicate your thesis to half the world) and I felt pretty happy. The other was a beautiful experience. I went to Iztacihualt, Mexico’s third largest volcano; it was quite a long way, and the journey’s novelty value was in the fact that some were traveling on horseback. At first I managed to keep up with the best, but at one point I stopped for five minutes to treat a blister and when I got going again I had to race to catch up with the rest of the column. I did so, but was really feeling it, and in the end I began to tire. Then I had the luck to meet a girl who could go no further, and on the pretext of helping her (she was on horseback), I went along dangling from the stirrup. We eventually reached the tents where we were to spend the night; I got totally frozen and couldn’t sleep. When we had arrived the ground was dry, but when we got up the next day there were 30 or 40 centimeters of snow and it was still snowing. We decided to keep going anyway, but we never even made it to the shoulder of the volcano and by 11 a.m. we were on our way back.
The road that had been dusty and rocky on the way up was now covered with snow. Suffering poor circulation in my feet, I was wearing five pairs of socks, and was barely able to walk. A muleteer with a loaded mule passed by me with bare feet, which really gave me a complex. When we reached the woods the scenery was so beautiful, for the snow in the pine trees was quite a magnificent sight and the falling snow further enhanced the beauty. I arrived home exhausted.
Once again to Iztacihualt, after a number of failures. This time it happened thus: At dawn, nine of us arrived at the foot of the slope and began to climb along the edge of La Gubia towards the Ago shelter, crazy to straighten our knees. When we hit the snow, two turned back. I remained in the last group and as we tackled the glacier and saw it was pure ice, the guy accompanying me turned back. I was therefore by myself when I fell, ending up in the ice clutching a shoulder. The fall made me more cautious and I continued very slowly. The guide tried to encourage me by showing me how to climb, but then he fell down. He flew past me like a ball, desperately trying to drive his axe into the ice, and after some 80 meters he did finally come to a stop, close to a precipice from which there was a great leap into the shit. After the guide’s thumping crash, we descended very carefully, discovering that it takes longer to go down than up. The guide was exhausted and kept wandering away from the downward path, so it was 6 p.m. by the time we reached the foot of the slope.
A long time has passed and there have been many events not yet recounted. I’ll just note the most important one. Since February 15, 1956, I’m a father: Hilda Beatriz Guevara is my firstborn.
I belong to the Roca del CE group of Mexico.
Five jobs I was offered all fell through, so I signed up as a cameraman in a small company and my progress in cinematography has been rapid. My plans for the future are unclear but I hope to finish a couple of research projects. This could be an important year for my future. I’ve already given up hospitals. I’ll write soon with more details.
* * *
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is where the diary ends. What follows are letters sent home describing his life in Mexico prior to his departure for Cuba in November 1956 as part of the guerrilla expedition led by Fidel Castro.
Mexico City
July 15, 1956
Vieja,
I received your letter and it seems as though you have been experiencing a pretty bad bout of depression. It contains a lot of wisdom and many things I didn’t know about you.
I’m no Christ or philanthropist, vieja. I’m exactly the opposite of a Christ and philanthropy looks [illegible] to me, but I fight for what I believe in, I fight with all the weapons at my disposal, and I try to lay out the other guy instead of letting myself get nailed to a cross or whatever. As for the hunger strike, you are totally wrong. We started it twice and the first time they freed 21 of the 24 detainees; the second time they announced that they would free Fidel Castro, the head of the movement, which will happen tomorrow, and if they do what they said, only two of us will be left in prison. I don’t want you to believe, as Hilda suggests, that the two of us who remain have been sacrificed. We are simply the ones whose papers aren’t in order and so we can’t access the resources that our comrades can. My plans are to leave for the nearest country that will grant me asylum, which might be difficult given the inter-American fame I’ve been lumbered with. From there I’ll prepare myself for whenever my services are required. I’m telling you yet again that it’s likely I won’t be able to write for a quite a while.
What really distresses me is your lack of understanding about all this and your advice about moderation, egoism, etc.— in other words, the most execrable qualities an individual could have. Not only am I not moderate, but I shall try never to be so. And if I ever see in myself that the sacred flame has become a timid little votive flicker, the least I can do is to vomit on my own shit. As for your appeal to moderate egoism, which means common and spineless individualism (the virtues of XX), I have to say that I’ve tried hard to eliminate him. I don’t mean so much the unfamiliar craven type, but the other one, the bohemian, unconcerned about his neighbor, filled with a sense of self-sufficiency because of a consciousness, mistaken or otherwise, of his own strength. During this time in prison, and during the period of training, I totally identified with my comrades in the struggle. I recall a phrase that I once thought was ridiculous, or at least strange,
referring to such a total identification between members of a group of combatants, to the effect that the idea of “I” was completely subsumed in the concept of “we.” It was a communist moral principle and naturally might look like doctrinaire exaggeration, but it was (and is) really beautiful to have this sense of “we.”
(The splotches aren’t tears of blood but tomato juice.)
You are deeply mistaken to believe that moderation or “moderate egoism” gives rise to great inventions or works of art. All great work requires passion and the revolution needs passion and audacity in large doses, things we have as collective humankind. Another strange thing I noted was your repeated mention of God the Father. I really hope you’re not reverting to the fold of your youth. I also warn you that the SOSs are to no avail: Petit got the wind up, Lezica dodged the issue and gave Hilda (who went there against my orders) a sermon on the obligations of political asylum. Raúl Lynch behaved well from afar, and Padilla Nervo said they were different ministries. They would all help but only on the condition that I abjure my ideals. I don’t think you would prefer a living son who was a Barabbas rather than a son who died wherever doing what he considered his duty. These attempts to help only put pressure on them and me.
But you have some clever ideas (at least to my way of thinking), and the best of them is the matter of the interplanetary rocket—a word I like.
Besides, there’s no doubt that, after righting the wrongs in Cuba, I’ll be off somewhere else; and it’s also certain that if I were locked up in some bureaucrat’s office or some allergy clinic, I’d be fucked. All in all, I think that this pain, the pain of a mother who’s aging and wants her son alive, is a feeling to be respected, and I should heed it, and more than that, I want to attend to it. I would like to see you, not just to console you, but also to console myself in my sporadic and shameful homesickness.
Vieja, I kiss you and promise to be with you if nothing else develops.
Your son,
Che
Mexico City, 15 [probably November 1955]
Dear vieja,
Still on Mexican soil, answering your last letters. I can give you very little news about my life. At the moment, all I do is some gymnastics and read like crazy—particularly what you can imagine— and I see Hilda some weekends.
I’ve given up trying to get my case resolved through legal channels, so my stay in Mexico will be only temporary. Anyway, Hilda is taking our chiquita to spend the New Year with her family. She’ll be there for a month and after that we’ll see what happens. My long-term goal is to see Europe and, if possible, live there, but that’s becoming increasingly difficult. When one contracts the kind of disease I have, it just keeps getting worse, and is cured only in the grave.
I had a life project, involving 10 years of wandering, then some years of medical study and then, with any remaining time, I would dive into the great adventure of physics.
All that is over. The only thing that is clear is that the 10 years of wandering will probably be longer (unless unforeseen circumstances put an end to my wandering altogether), but it will be very different from what I imagined. Now, when I land in a new country, it won’t just be to have a look and visit museums or ruins, but also (because the former will always interest me) to join the people’s struggle.
I have read the latest news from Argentina about the refusal to legalize the three new parties and the remnants of the Communist Party. Predictable as this is, the measure is less symptomatic than everything else that has been happening in Argentina for some time. All its actions display such a clear tendency—to favor one caste or class—that there can be no mistake or confusion. That class is the national landowning class, allied with foreign investors, as always.
If I say these rather harsh things to you, it is a case of “beating you because I love you.” Now comes a hug, one of my last from Mexico, and since I’m making admonitions, here is a final one: The only lament of the mother of the Maceo brothers100 was that she had no more sons to offer to Cuba. I don’t ask that much from you, only that my price, or the price of seeing me, does not cost you your convictions, or that you won’t regret it one day.
Chau
[No date]101
Dear vieja,
I’m writing from somewhere in Mexico, waiting for things to resolve themselves. The air of freedom is, in reality, the air of clandestinity, but never mind, it adds an intriguing cinematic touch.
I’m in great health and with even greater optimism. As to your judgments about the liberators, I see that little by little, almost without wanting to, you are losing confidence in them.
That thing about trust and your firm objection is one of the most tragic things you’ve written, but don’t worry, I won’t show anyone. Just imagine what the Egyptian newspapers are saying, for example, imagine the “West’s loss of trust.” It’s logical that they have much more confidence in a fiefdom belonging to them than in a real country, even one without an independence project.
The oil won’t be Argentine either. The bases they so feared Perón would provide will be provided by them; or at least they will grant a similar concession. Freedom of speech is now the new myth—we used to have a Peronist myth, now we have a myth of liberation. In this way the newspapers screw everyone. By the time general elections come around they will have banned the Communist Party and will be trying everything in their power to neutralize Frondizi, who is the best that Argentina can hope for. In the end, vieja, the perspective I see from here is quite desolate for the Argentine poor, that is, for the majority of the population.
Anyway, I have very little time to write and don’t want to waste it on such matters. In reality, however, I don’t have much to tell you about my own life—all I do is exercise and read. I think I’ll come out of this quite invincible in terms of understanding economics, even if I have forgotten to take my own pulse and check for vital signs (I never did that well). My path seems to be slowly but surely diverging away from clinical medicine, but not so far that I am not nostalgic for hospitals. What I told you about the physiology professorship was a lie, but not a big one. A lie because I was never going to accept it, but the offer was real and the likelihood they would have given it to me high, since I had an interview appointment and everything. Anyway, that’s all history. Saint Karl has acquired a new recruit.
I can’t say anything about the future. Write and tell me the family news, which is very refreshing in these latitudes.
Vieja, a huge kiss from,
your clandestine son.
[Approximately October 1956]
Dear Mamá,
Your prickly son of a bad mother is not, on top of everything else, a good-for-nothing; he’s like Paul Muni who said what he had to say in that tragic voice, and disappeared into the distance, his shadow lengthening to the tune of such an evocative soundtrack.102 My current profession means I am always on the go, here today, there tomorrow, etc., and my relatives… well I haven’t been to see them because of this (and also, I confess, because I probably have more in common with a whale than with a bourgeois married couple employed at the kinds of worthy institutions I would wipe from the face of the earth if I got the chance to do so. I don’t want you to think that this is just a passing aversion; it’s real mistrust. Lezica has shown that we speak different languages and have no common points of reference.) I have given you this lengthy bracketed explanation because, after my opening line, I thought you might imagine I’m on the way to a becoming a morfa-burgués.103 Being too lazy to start over and remove the paragraph, I embarked on a lengthy explanation that now strikes me as rather unconvincing. Full stop, new paragraph.
Within a month, Hilda will go to visit her family in Peru, taking advantage of the fact that she is no longer a political criminal but a somewhat misguided representative of the admirable and anticommunist party the APRA. I’m in the process of changing the focus of my studies: whereas previously I devoted myself for better or worse to medicine, and spent my spare time informally studying Sa
int Karl [Marx], this new stage of my life demands that I change the order. Now Saint Karl is primordial; he is the axis and will remain so for however many years the spheroid has room for me on its outer mantle. Medicine is more or less a trivial and passing pursuit, except for one small area on which I’m thinking of writing more than one substantive study—the kind that causes bookstore basements to tremble beneath its weight.
As you’ll recall, and if you don’t remember I’ll remind you now, I was working on a book on the role of the doctor, etc., of which I only finished a couple of chapters that whiffed of some newspaper serial with a title like Bodies and Souls.104 They were nothing more than poorly written rubbish, displaying a thorough ignorance of the fundamental issues, so I decided to study. Again, to write it, I had to reach a series of conclusions that were kicking against my essentially adventurous trajectory, so I decided to deal with the main things first, to pit myself against the order of things, shield on my arm, the whole fantasy, and then, if the windmills don’t crack open my nut, I’ll get down to writing.