Read Latin America Diaries Online
Authors: Ernesto Che Guevara
There are ornaments of different sizes, all worked in jade. Palenque is known for the beauty and delicacy of its bas-reliefs and stuccowork, which were achieved with a technique that was lost with the later advance of the Third Empire in which the Toltec
influence was beginning to appear (with the work becoming more monumental and less sculptural).
The sculptural motifs of Palenque are more human than those of the Aztecs or Toltecs and generally depict full human figures engaged in historic events or rituals together with the main gods of their Olympus: the sun, the moon, Venus, water, etc.
According to the US archaeologist Morley's classification, Palenque is a category-two population center in the Mayan realm. (He gave category one status only to Copán, Tikal, Uxmal and Chichén-Itzá.) Archaeological research reveals that Palenque raised monuments in the first quarter of the
baktún
9 (AD 435-534), more or less contemporaneous with Piedras Negras, the other artistic center of the empire. Both flourished during the First Empire. There are 19 category-two cities in Morley's classification, although recent research is lending more significance to Palenque. Whether this city is category one or not, it's undeniable that this is the city where Mayan stuccowork achieved the greatest development in terms of its technique and artistic quality.
We left Palenque at night and took a train south-east to the small port of Campeche, where we spent a day. There's not a lot to see, just the ruins of some fortresses built as a defense against pirates. Two hours on a bus took us to Mérida, a fairly large town for its kind but with a very provincial feeling. Mérida is not a seaport, and it seems like a town 500 kilometers (not just 30) from the sea. It gets quite cool at night considering the heat during the day. The museum is badly presented and resourced, but it does have some interesting things. Mérida's principal attractions are the ruined Mayan cities in the vicinity, of which we visited two of the most important: Uxmal and Chichén-Itzá.
According to the legend of Chilam Balam of Chumayel, Chichén-Itzá was discovered and populated by the Mayas during their expansion in about the fourth century, although the oldest date that can be read with any certainty corresponds to
AD 878. It was a period when the cities of the old empire were being abandoned, and work on Chichén-Itzá began within the framework of the new empire. The Itza [people] had withdrawn from the city in 692 and settled in the Campeche region. Later, the Mayan renaissance, spanning roughly two centuries from 997 to 1194, saw the rise of the Mayapán League and the construction of the monuments we see today, with their Chac-Mool and plumed serpents, although the foundations they were built on belong to the earlier Mayan period. The resurgence was the result of the apparently peaceful Quetzalcoatl invasion from Mexico's central plains, which brought the eagle and the serpent that are the central emblems of that region. The decline of Chichén-Itzá began when it lost the civil war with Mayapán, these two, plus Uxmal, having made up the governing trio of the Mayan confederation. Mayapán called on Mexican mercenary warriors for support and destroyed the power of its opponents, carrying them off to live in its midst. Then in 1441 any kind of centralized government in the north of Yucatán seems to have collapsed, as civil war broke the hegemony of the Mayapán House of Cocomina.
So to begin with a description of its temples and other structures: The first is the Sacrificial Cave, situated in the north of the city and today filled with greenish water. On its south side it has a small altar off which the victims were probably thrown, along with ceremonial objects. Despite the quantity already plundered from the waters, the jewelry still safe beneath the water must be fabulous. The cave is 40-60 meters wide, 10 meters high and 20 meters deep. There is another cave on the south side, called Xtoloc, from which drinking water was drawn, but unlike the Sacrificial Cave, in this case the descent is via a gently sloping ramp that reaches the water's edge. The so-called Castle, the city's great pyramid, is more than 500 meters to the south, with a main bridge that overlooks the cave; the two are joined by a causeway six meters wide and five meters above the ground. The Castle is possibly the oldest of the
temples still standing; it has 91 steps on each side, a total of 364, thought to represent the days of the year, with a final step above completing the total. Crowning the structure is a poorly finished temple with few engravings, but in a tomb accessed via a covered stone ramp there are sculptures and jewels of great archaeological significance. At the bottom, a door opens on to an underground stairway, leading to the chamber that contains what Morley considered the greatest archaeological treasure in the Americas (although not in my view): a life-sized red jaguar encrusted with 43 apple-green jade discs supposedly representing the jaguar's spots. Some 100 meters to the east lies the Temple of the Warriors, the most majestic and evocative of Chichén-Itzá's structures, crowned with a number of colonnades featuring the plumed serpent and Chac-Mool in prime position; the latter is a reclining figure of great dignity, its feet tucked in close to its buttocks and holding a plate where offerings are placed.
Next to the Temple of the Warriors are the columns that give the place its name, the Thousand Columns, and then a number of badly damaged structures with two or three ball courts and a steam bath. The main Ball Court, measuring 146 by 36 meters, lies a couple of hundred meters west of the Castle. Two stone hoops are still embedded in the wall through which the solid rubber balls had to be thrown, not with the hands but with elbows or knees. Legend has it that this was so difficult anyone who managed it won the right to remove all the jewelry from those present. On the east side of the Ball Court is the Temple of the Jaguars, with badly deteriorated friezes. Opposite the north face of the Castle is a series of small platforms, known as the Pines, the House of the Eagles and Tzompantli (place of the skulls, where the heads of the sacrificial victims were kept), but these have no great architectural interest. Further to the south, along the present-day road to Mérida, one finds what Morley called the Tomb of the High Priest, and Mexican anthropologists call the Ossuary. It contains a great number of
offerings and is one of the few places where pearls have been found (in the new tomb at Palenque there's one that resembles a tear drop). Today only two large heads of plumed serpents and some rectangular columns remain. Next come a number of minor temples, such as the Temple of the Stag and the Temple of Chac Mool, previously known as the Red House, and eventually one reaches the Caracol or Observatory, one of the principal structures in size and significance. The Caracol is the observatory where the Mayas conducted their astronomical research; its two vast platforms support an important building, now partly destroyed: a tower 12 meters tall that one climbs by a narrow spiral staircase. The rays of the sun and moon and the spring and autumn equinoxes pass through an aperture in the tower. At the southernmost point of Chichén-Itzá lies the Nunnery, a partially ruined structure with pretty border decorations and some remnants of friezes. To the east is an unpretentious structure, Akab'Dzib, which also has some small remnants of friezes.
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,
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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.
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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.â 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 rocketâa 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 crazyâparticularly what you can imagineâ 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 tendencyâto favor one caste or classâthat 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 brothers
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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]
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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 mythâwe 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 lifeâall 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.
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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
.
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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 Saint 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 studyâthe 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.
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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.
I owe Celia the letter of praise I will write after this if I have time. The others are in debt to me as the last word has been mine, even with Beatriz. Tell her that the papers arrive like clockwork and that they give me a very good idea of all the government's beautiful deeds. I cut out the articles carefully, following the example of my
pater
, and now Hilda is emulating her
mater
. A kiss for everyone, with all the appropriate additions and a replyânegative or positive, but convincingâabout the Guatemalan.
Now all that remains is the final part of the speech, which refers to the man, which could be titled: “What next?” Now comes the tough part,
vieja
, the part I've never shunned and always enjoyed. The sky has not darkened, the stars have not fallen out of the sky, nor have there been terrible floods or hurricanes; the signs are good. They augur victory. But if they are wrongâand in the end even the gods can make mistakesâI think I'll be able to say, like a poet you don't know: “I shall carry beneath the earth only the sorrow of an
unfinished song.” To avoid pre-mortem pathos, this letter will appear when things get really hot, and then you'll know that your son, in some sun-drenched land in the Americas, is swearing at himself for not having studied enough surgery to help a wounded man, and cursing the Mexican government for not letting him perfect his already respectable marksmanship so he could knock over puppets with better results. The struggle will be with our backs to the wall, as in the hymns, until victory or death.
Another kiss for you, with all the love of a farewell that still resists being total.
Your son
[approximately November 1956]
Dear Tita [Infante],