María del Carmen Ariet García
Research Coordinator
Che Guevara Studies Center
Havana, Cuba
1. Ernesto Che Guevara, The Motorcycle Diaries. Notes on a Latin America Journey (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press), 2003.
2. Ernesto Che Guevara, Latin America Diaries (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press), 2011.
3. Ernesto Che Guevara, Latin America Diaries, p. 126.
4. Ernesto Che Guevara, Latin America Diaries, p. 84.
5. Interview with Jorge Ricardo Masetti in Ernesto Che Guevara, Self-Portrait: A Photographic and Literary Memoir (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press), 2004.
6. Ernesto Che Guevara, “América desde el balcón afroasiático” [Latin America from the Afro-Asian Perspective] is included in this anthology.
7. Interview with Radio Rivadivia, November 3, 1959, in Ernesto Che Guevara, Self-Portrait, p. 172.
8. Ernesto Che Guevara, Che Guevara Reader (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press) 2003, pp. 294-304.
9. See Che Guevara’s speech to the UN Conference on Trade and Development in Geneva, March 1964, in Che Guevara Reader, pp. 305-24.
10. Che Guevara Reader, pp. 350-62.
11. Che Guevara’s speech at the Afro-Asian summit is in Che Guevara Reader, pp. 340-49.
12. Ernesto Che Guevara, Self-Portrait, p. 97.
PART ONE
DISCOVERING LATIN AMERICA 1950–56
Introduction
This early period in Ernesto Che Guevara’s life is the key to understanding his later life. It begins in 1950 when, while still at medical school, he set out on a trip around Argentina and ends with his arrival in Cuba in 1956 on board a cabin cruiser with Fidel Castro and other Cubans with the goal of initiating a guerrilla movement against the Batista dictatorship.
This was a formative stage, filled with many questions and concerns from the moment Ernesto embarked on his tour of his native Argentina on a motorized bicycle until he finds his true path and throws in his lot in with the Cuban revolutionaries.
His first trip around Latin America,1 which began in late 1951 and lasted until mid-1952, bound him forever to the cause to which he would dedicate his life: Latin America’s full independence. This trip inspired a second trip. After receiving his medical degree, in 1953 he set out once more to gain a deeper knowledge of Latin America and a greater commitment to its people.2
He went in search of a true revolution in Bolivia and Guatemala. Finally, in Mexico in 1955 he met Fidel Castro and other Cuban revolutionaries, an encounter that would determine the rest of his life.
It was during this period that Che the revolutionary began to emerge, the young man who later developed into the socialist theoretician and rebel leader, the seeds of which had always existed within him. It was a stage of spiritual and political growth, which brought him closer to his future as the symbol of hope for Latin America.
1. The journal of Ernesto’s first trip through Latin America was posthumously published as The Motorcycle Diaries, and was the basis of the popular movie of the same name.
2. Ernesto’s experiences during this second trip are recorded in his book, Latin America Diaries.
Travels in Argentina (1950)
While still a medical student in 1950, Ernesto traveled more than 3,744 kilometers (2,340 miles) through 12 northern provinces of Argentina on a motorized bicycle, the first of several journeys he would undertake. The excerpts here are from his diary of that trip, included in the book Mi hijo el Che [My Son Che] by Ernesto Guevara’s father, Ernesto Guevara Lynch. In spite of the brevity of this selection, it displays elements that were evident throughout Che’s life: his urgent need to describe his experiences and feelings, in his own language and style, and his ability to immerse himself in his surroundings, questioning everything he encountered and sharpening his awareness of the social injustice around him.
Excerpts from the “Bicycle Diaries”
The only provinces that would remain untouched would be Salta, Jujuy del Norte and the two on the coast.
When I left Buenos Aires on the night of January 1, 1950, I was full of doubts about the potential of my bike’s motor and my only hope was of reaching Pilar quickly and in one piece (the end of my journey according to some well-intentioned tongues at home), and then going on to Pergamino, another of the final destinations they set for me.
As I left San Isidro and rode along the track, I shut down the little motor and pedaled onwards, so that another rider, traveling to Rosario by leg-power (on his bicycle), caught up with me. We continued together, me pedaling to keep the same speed as my companion. As I passed through Pilar, I felt the first joys of victory.
At 8:00 the following morning, we reached the first stage in my companion’s journey, San Antonio de Areco, where we breakfasted together and said our goodbyes. I continued along my way and reached Pergamino by nightfall. At this second, symbolic stage I was so triumphant and emboldened by success that I forgot my fatigue and set off toward Rosario, hanging honorably on to a fuel truck, reaching Rosario by 11:00 that night. My body was screaming for a mattress, but my will won out and I continued. At around 2:00 in the morning there was a cloudburst that lasted about an hour. I took out my raincoat and the sailcloth cape that had found its way into my pack through my mother’s foresight, laughed at the downpour and shouted a verse by Sábato at the top of my lungs. [...]
At 6:00 in the morning I arrived in Leones, changed the spark plugs and filled the tank. The road now reached a monotonous stretch. At about 10:00 in the morning I went through Belle Ville and attached myself to the back of another truck that towed me close to Villa María, where I stopped a moment to do some calculations, according to which I had taken less than 40 hours to get there. I had 144 kilometers1 to go, at 25 kilometers per hour, so there was nothing more to say. After another 10 kilometers along the track, a private car caught up with me—I was pedaling at that time to avoid overheating the motor in the midday sun—and stopped to see if I needed fuel. I said I didn’t but asked if he could tow me along at 60 kilometers per hour. I had done 10 kilometers when the back tire burst and, caught off guard, my entire humanity bit the dust (with a wonderful view of the ground with my face in the road).
Investigating the cause of the disaster, I found that the motor, running unnecessarily, had eaten through the tire, exposing the inner tube and causing my fall.
With no spares and extremely tired, I flung myself down by the road to rest. After an hour or two, an empty truck came along and the driver agreed to take me to Córdoba. I packed my things into the car and reached the Granados,2 the goal of my labors, in a total of 41 hours, 17 minutes….
In the [illegible] I have already written about, I met up with a tramp who was napping under a little bridge and who awoke with the commotion. We started to talk, and when he learned that I was a student he took a liking to me. He brought out a dirty thermos and made me mate with enough sugar to sweeten up an old maid. After a long chat, describing our various adventures to each other—embellishing to be sure, but perhaps revealing some truth—he recalled his days as a barber. Noticing my rather long locks, he took out some rusty scissors and a dirty comb and set to work. Halfway through, I felt something strange happening to my head and began to fear for my physical safety, but I never imagined that a pair of scissors could be such a dangerous weapon. When he offered a small mirror that he took from his pocket, I nearly fell over—he had cut so many different bits that not a patch on my head was left untouched.
I carried my shorn head like a kind of trophy to the Aguilar home, where I went to visit my sister Ana María. To my surprise they attached scant importance to the shearing, but were amazed I had drunk the mate he had given me. There’s no accounting for some people!
After a few days’ rest waiting for Tomasito [Granado], we left for Tanti. The place we were headed to was nothing out of the ordinary, but was near facilities including fresh spring water.
After two days, we headed
off on our planned journey to Los Chorrillos, some 10 kilometers away. [...]
In the Córdoba ranges the vista of the Los Chorrillos waterfall from a height of some 50 meters is something really worth seeing. As the water falls, it separates into multiple small streams that ricochet off every stone until they scatter and fall into a lower basin and then, in a profusion of lesser falls, into a large natural basin. It is the biggest waterfall I have seen in streams of this size, but unfortunately it gets very little sunlight, so the water is extremely cold and one can only stay in a few minutes.
The abundance of water from all the surrounding slopes, emerging from natural springs, makes this area extremely fertile, and there is an explosion of ferns and other damp-loving plants, lending a spectacular beauty to this place.
It was here, above the waterfall, I first tried rock climbing. I had got it into my head to descend where the waterfall trickled down gently, but for more of a thrill I chose a hazardous short cut, the most difficult I could find.
Halfway down, a stone came loose and I fell some 10 meters amid an avalanche of stones and loose rocks.
When I finally managed to find my footing, after breaking several [illegible], I had to start climbing up again because it was impossible to descend further. Here I learned the first law of rock climbing: going up is easier than going down. The bitter defeat stayed with me all day, but the next day I dived from four meters, and also from two meters (more or less), into 70 centimeters of water, wiping out the bitter taste of failure from the previous day. [...]
That day and part of the next it rained a lot… and so we decided to pack up the tent. At around 5:30, as we were leisurely gathering our bits and pieces together, we heard the first throaty roar of the torrent. People spilled out of the neighboring houses, yelling, “The water’s coming down, the water’s coming down!” Our whole camp was a circus, the three of us running back and forth with our things. At the last minute, Grego Granado picked up one of the corners of a blanket, collecting what was left, while Tomás and I pulled out the tent pegs at full speed. The wave was bearing down on us and the people nearby were shouting, “Leave it, you crazies!” plus a few other fairly unCatholic words. But at that point, only one rope was left. I had the machete in my hand and couldn’t control myself. While everyone watched with baited breath, I shouted, “Charge, brave men!” and, with a theatrical blow, I cut the tether. We were still getting everything to one side when the torrent came down with a furious roar, revealing itself in all its incredible height—one-and-a-half meters—amid interminable deafening noise. […]
I left [Tanti] at 4:00 in the afternoon on January 29 and, after a short stop in Colonia Caroya, headed for San José de la Dormida,3 where I paid homage to the name of the place by lying down by the side of the road; I had a magnificent night’s sleep until 6:00 the following morning.
I pedaled about five kilometers further until I found a little house where they sold me a liter of fuel.
On the final stretch to San Francisco del Chañar, I started out in second. The little motor decided to take fright on a steep climb and left me to pedal about five kilometers uphill, until finally I found myself in the middle of the village. The van from the leprosy sanatorium gave me a lift from there.
The next day, we visited one of Alberto Granado’s4 [illegible] with a Dr. Rossetti. On the way back I fell off the bike, snapping eight spokes, leaving me stranded four days longer than planned until they fixed it. [...]
We’d planned to leave on the Saturday… with Alberto Granado,4 after a party or at least a drink at Mr. X’s place, this man being the senator for the region, the local head honcho, a modern lord of the knife and noose. […]
We spent the whole morning debating how to get away quickly. Finally, early in the afternoon, we decided to leave, me on the bike and [Alberto] and a friend on the motorbike. But first we decided to have a taste of their vermouth, which was something special [illegible]. There was no ice, so the little fellow [Alberto] went off to get some but couldn’t find any. So he went to ask for a bag of ice at the senator’s home, saying I was ill, and on his return we tackled the vermouth with unusual zeal. As bad luck would have it, the senator’s wife suddenly remembered that she needed some medicine and came to find Alberto [a pharmacist]. By the time we noticed her august presence it was already too late but, nevertheless, I flung myself down on the mattress, holding my head desperately as if in pain, only doing so to show off my gift as an actor because I already knew that it was in vain. […]
We left for Ojo de Agua at 4:00 p.m., when the sun was already low—Alberto had reduced our itinerary to a modest 55 kilometers. But the trip, full of mishaps, took four hours, mainly due to a series of flat tires.
In Ojo de Agua I was advised to see the director of a small hospital, where I met the administrator, a Mr. Mazza, the brother of the Córdoba senator at whose table I had eaten. Even though they had no idea who I was, the members of his family were very cordial toward me, warmly welcoming me and enthusiastic about the idea of my trip.
After a good dinner and around eight hours of sleep, I set out for the famous Salinas Grandes, the Argentine Sahara. All my officious informants said it would be impossible for me to cross the Salinas with just the pint of water I was taking, but the well-mixed blend of Irish and Galician blood that ran through my veins made me stubbornly restrict myself to that amount.
This part of the Santiago landscape reminds me of some areas to the north of Córdoba, from which it is separated only by an imaginary line. Along the sides of the roads there are enormous cacti, some six meters tall, like giant green candelabras. The vegetation is abundant and there are signs of fertility, but the scene slowly changes, the road becomes rough and dusty, the quebracho trees disappear and the jarilla seems to take over.
The sun beats down on my head, enveloping me in waves of heat reflected up from the ground. I choose the leafy shade of a carob tree and lie down to sleep for an hour, get up, and after a couple of mates get on with the journey. Along the track, the milestone on Route 9 marking kilometer 1,000 welcomes me.
One kilometer later, the jarilla takes over completely and I am now in the Sahara but, suddenly and to my great surprise, the track (privileged to be one of the worst so far), turns into a magnificently sealed, firm, flat road where the bike’s motor was in its element, ticking over happily.
This was not the only surprise that awaited me in the heartland of the republic—I noticed there is a ranch every four or five kilometers, which made me wonder whether I really was in such a desolate place after all. But the ocean of silver-stained earth and its green mane allows no room for doubt. From time to time, like an awkward sentinel, the vigilant figure of a cactus appears.
In two-and-a-half hours I covered 80 kilometers of salt pan, and then I got another surprise: when I asked for some cold water to replace what had been warming up in my water bottle I learned that there was plenty of drinking water only three meters below the ground. Evidently, reputation is subordinate to subjective impression, unless there is some other explanation for the following phenomena: good roads, a lot of ranches, water at three meters. Not bad.
Well after dark I reached Loreto, a town of several thousand souls, but nevertheless quite backward.
The police officer I met when I went to ask about somewhere to spend the night told me there was not a single doctor in the town and, when he learned that I was doing fifth-year medicine, gave me the sound advice that I should set myself up there as the town healer. “Doctors can earn a lot of money and do us a favor, too.”[…]
I set off early, traveling along some terrible stretches of road and some very good surfaces. I parted ways forever with my water bottle, claimed by a treacherous pothole, and eventually reached Santiago where I was given a warm reception by a friend’s family.
It was here that the first report about me5 was done for a Tucumán newspaper, written by a Mr. Santillan, who met me on my first stop in the town. […]
That day I discove
red the city of Santiago… where the infernal heat is too much even for its inhabitants, who remain locked in their homes until the evening, when they come out into the streets to get on with their social life.
The village of La Banda, on the other side of the Dulce River, was prettier. The river runs through a gully over half a mile wide, but it is dry for most of the year. There is a marked antagonism between the two towns, which I observed during a basketball game between teams from the two neighboring areas. […]
At 9:00 the next morning I continue on my way to Tucumán, where I arrived late that night.
At one point along the way something curious happened when I had stopped to inflate a tire, about a kilometer out from a town. A tramp appeared, sheltering under a small bridge, and naturally we began to talk. This man had been picking cotton in Chaco and, after wandering about for a while, he was thinking of heading for the grape harvest in San Juan. When he learned of my plan to travel through several provinces, and discovered that my exploits were nothing more than a joyride, he clasped his head in despair: “Mamma mía, you’re putting all this effort into nothing?”[…]
I set off again toward the capital of Tucumán province. Like a flash, I flitted through the majestic town of Tucumán at 30 kilometers an hour and immediately took the road to Salta, but was caught in a downpour of rain. I humbly ended up in the armory of a barracks, from where I left for Salta at 6:00 in the morning.
The road out of Tucumán is one of the most beautiful sights in the north [of Argentina]. Along some 20 kilometers of good road there is lush vegetation on both sides, a kind of tropical forest within the tourist’s reach, with a million little streams and a humid atmosphere that makes the place seem like a film set of the Amazon jungle. Entering these natural gardens, walking among the lianas, stepping through the ferns, observing how everything here makes fun of our scant botanical culture, one expects every moment to hear a lion roar, to see a snake glide silently by or the agile movement of a deer. Suddenly there was a roar, not very loud but constant. It turned out to be the chugging of a truck laboring up the hill.