Latin America Diaries (25 page)

Modern researchers have disagreed on many points with the archaeologist from North America, but they have nothing conclusive to say about the significance of Machu-Picchu.

After several hours the train, an asthmatic thing, almost a toy, that runs first along a small river to continue later along the banks of the Urubamba, passing the stately ruins of Ollantaitambo, eventually comes to the bridge crossing the river. A winding track
of some eight kilometers climbs 400 meters above the torrent, bringing us to the hotel in the ruins, which is run by a Señor Soto. He is a man of extraordinary knowledge in Inca matters, and a good singer, who, in the delicious tropical evenings, contributes to enhancing the suggestive charms of the ruined city.

Machu-Picchu is constructed on the top of a mountain, covering an area of some two kilometers in perimeter. It is basically divided into three sections: that of the two temples, another for the main residences and an area for the common people.

In the section reserved for religious activities are the ruins of a magnificent temple made of great blocks of white granite, with the three windows that gave rise to Bingham's mythological speculations. Adorning a series of beautifully constructed buildings is the Intiwatana, where the sun is moored: a stone finger some 60 centimeters high, the basis of indigenous rites and one of few such pieces still standing since the Spaniards were careful to destroy this symbol upon conquering any Inca fortress.

The buildings that housed the nobility show examples of extraordinary artistic value, for example the circular tower I have already mentioned, the sequence of bridges and canals cut into the stone and the many residences that are notable for the execution of their stonemasonry.

In the dwellings presumably occupied by the plebeians, one notes a great difference in the rough finish of the rock. They are separated from the religious part of the complex by a small square, or flat area, where the main water reservoirs—now dried up—were located, this supposedly being one of the main reasons for abandoning the place as a permanent residence.

Machu-Picchu is a city of steps with almost all of its constructions on different levels, united by stairways, some of exquisitely carved rock, and others of stones aligned without much aesthetic zeal. But all of them, like the city as a whole, were capable of standing up to the rigors of the weather, and lost only
their roofs made of tree trunks and straw, unable to resist the assault of the elements.

Dietary needs were satisfied by vegetables planted in the terraces that are still perfectly conserved.

It was very easy to defend, surrounded on two sides by almost vertical slopes, a third passable only along readily defendable tracks, while the fourth faces Huaina-Picchu. This peak towers some 200 meters over its brother. It is difficult to climb, and would be almost impossible for the tourist, were it not for the remains of the Inca paving enabling one to edge to its peak along sheer precipices. The place seems to have been more for observation than anything else, since there are no major constructions. The Urubamba River encircles the two peaks almost completely, so they are almost impossible for attacking forces to conquer.

I have already noted that the archaeological meaning of Machu Picchu is disputed, but the origin of the city is not the vital thing and, in any case, it is best to leave the debate to specialists.

Most important and irrefutable is that here we have found the pure expression of the most powerful indigenous civilization in the Americas—still untainted by contact with conquering armies and replete with immensely evocative treasures between its walls that have deteriorated from the tedium of having no life among them. The spectacular landscape circling the fortress supplies an essential backdrop, inspiring dreamers to wander its ruins aimlessly; Yankee tourists, bound by their practical worldview, might place those members of the disintegrating tribes they encounter in their travels among these once-living walls, unaware of the moral distance that separates them, because the subtle difference can only be grasped by the semi-indigenous spirit of the Latin American.

Let us agree, for the moment, to give the city two possible meanings: one for the fighter, pursuing what is today described as a chimera, with an arm reaching toward the future and a stone
voice crying out to be heard all over the continent: “Citizens of Indo-America, reconquer the past!” And for others, those who with a desire to be “far from the madding crowd,” there are some appropriate words jotted down by a British subject in the hotel visitors' book, conveying all the bitterness of imperial yearning: “I am lucky to find a place without Coca-Cola propaganda.”
²

Published in the weekly supplement to
Siete
(Panama), December 12, 1953.

______________

1.
This article was written after Ernesto revisited the historic Inca site of Machu-Picchu in 1953.

2.
Written in English in the original.

The Dilemma of Guatemala
¹

Anyone who has traveled these lands of the Americas will have heard the disdainful pronouncements of some people about certain regimes with clearly democratic leanings. These sentiments date from the Spanish Republic and its fall. At that time they said the republic consisted of a mob of layabouts who knew only how to dance the
jota
, and that Franco established order and exiled communism from Spain. Time polished such opinions, standardizing criteria, and the words used, like stones thrown at any moribund democracy, went along the lines of, “That wasn't liberty, but the rule of libertines.”

The governments that in Peru, Venezuela and Cuba had held out the dream of a new era for the Americas were thus defined. The price that democratic groups in these countries have had to pay for their apprenticeship in the techniques of oppression has been high. A great number of innocent victims have been immolated to maintain an order required for the interests of the feudal bourgeoisie and foreign capital. Patriots now know that victory will have to be achieved by blood and fire, that there can be no forgiveness for traitors, and that the total extermination of reactionary groups is the only way to ensure the rule of justice in the Americas.

When I once again heard the words “rule of libertines” used to describe Guatemala, I feared for the small republic. Does it mean that the resurrection of the dream of the Latin American people, embodied by this country and by Bolivia, is condemned to go the way of its precursors? Herein lies the dilemma.

Four revolutionary parties constitute the support base of the government and all of them, except for the Guatemalan Workers' Party [PGT] are fragmented into two or more antagonistic factions that fight among themselves even more viciously than with their traditional feudal enemies, forgetting in their domestic squabbles the aspirations of the Guatemalan people. Meanwhile, the reactionary forces spread their nets wide. The US State Department and the United Fruit Company—one never knows which is which in that country to the north—in open alliance with the landowners and the spineless, sanctimonious bourgeoisie—are making all kinds of plans to silence a proud adversary that has emerged for them like a boil on the bosom of the Caribbean. While Caracas awaits orders that will open the way for more or less barefaced interference, the displaced little generals and the craven coffee growers seek to make alliances with other dictators in neighboring countries.

And while in the adjoining countries the fully muzzled press can only sing the praises of the “leader” on the only note permitted them, what pass for “independent” newspapers here unleash a farrago of long, involved stories about the government and its defenders, creating whatever climate they want. Democracy permits this.

The “beachhead of communism,” setting a magnificent example of freedom and ingenuity, allows them to undermine their own nationalist foundations, permitting the destruction of yet another of Latin America's dreams.

Look back a little at the immediate past, compañeros, and observe the leaders who have had to flee, the murdered or
imprisoned members of APRA [American Popular Revolutionary Alliance] in Peru, of Democratic Action in Venezuela, and look at the magnificent young Cubans assassinated by Batista. Draw close to the 20 bullet-wounds in the body of the poet soldier, Ruiz Pineda, and look at the miasmas of the Venezuelan prisons. Look fearlessly, but with care, at this past that serves as an example, and answer this question: is this the future of Guatemala?

Has the struggle been, is the struggle, for this? The historic responsibility of those who must fulfill the hopes of Latin America is great. The time for euphemism is over. It is time that garrote answers garrote. If one must die, let it be like Sandino and not like Azaña.
²

May treacherous guns be grasped not by Guatemalan hands. If they want to kill freedom, let it be the other side that does it, those who hide freedom away. We must do away with feebleness and refuse to pardon treason. Let not the unshed blood of a traitor cost the lives of thousands of brave defenders of the people. The old dilemma of Hamlet has come to my lips, in the words of a poet from Guatemala-America: “Are you or are you not, or who are you?” Let the groups that support the government answer this.

This article was first published in the book compiled by Ernesto Guevara Lynch,
Aquí va un soldado de América
, (1987).

______________

1.
According to his father, this article (along with a bundle of letters, books and various other papers) was sent to Argentina when he left Guatemala for Mexico in September 1954.

2.
Here the author draws a parallel between Augusto César Sandino, the assassinated Nicaraguan revolutionary, and Manuel Azaña, the impotent president of the Spanish Republic in 1936.

A los mineros de Bolivia
^*

One 9th of April

Es el trueno y se desboca

con inimitable fragor.

Cien y mil truenos estallan,

y es profunda su canción.

Son los mineros que llegan,

son los mineros del pueblo,

los hombres que se encandilan

cuando salen al sol,

y que dominan el trueno

y aman su recio fragor.

¿Qué la metralla los siega

y la dinamita

estalla

y sus cuerpos se disfunden

en partículas de horror,

cuando llega alguna bala

hasta el ígneo cinturón?

¡QUÉ IMPORTA!;

Es el trueno y se desboca

con inimitable fragor.

Cien mil truenos estallan,

y es profunda su canción.

Por la boca del trueno

Se oye volar el valor.

Son los mineros de acero,

son el pueblo y su dolor.

Salen de una caverna

colgada en la montaña.

Son enjambres de topos

que llegan a morir

sin miedo a la metralla.

Morir, tal la palabra

que es norte de sus días;

morir despedazado,

morir de silicosis,

morir animizado,

morir lenta agonía

en la cueva derrumbada.

______________

*
To the Bolivian miners

Invitación al camino
*

For Helena Leyva

Hermana, falta mucho para llegar al triunfo

Hermana, falta mucho para llegar al triunfo.

El camino es largo y el presente incierto;

¡el mañana es nuestro!

No te quedes a la vera del camino.

Sacia tus pies en este polvo eterno.

Conozco tu cansancio y tu desazón tan grandes;

Sé que en el combate se te opondrá tu sangre

y sé que morirás antes que dañarla;

A la reconquista ven, no a la matanza.

Si desdeñas el fusil, empuña la fe;

si la fe te falla, lanza un sollozo;

si no puedes llorar, no llores,

pero avanza, compañera,

aunque no tengas armas y se niegue el norte.

No te invito a regiones de ilusión,

no habrá dioses, paraísos, ni demonios

—tal vez la muerte oscura sin que una cruz la marque—

Ayúdanos hermana, que no te frene el miedo,

¡vamos a poner en el infierno el cielo!

No mires a las nubes, los pájaros o el viento;

nuestros castillos tienen raíces en el suelo.

Mira el polvo, la tierra tiene

la injusticia hambrienta de la esencia humana.

Aquí este mismo infierno es la esperanza.

No te digo allí, detrás de esa colina;

no te digo allí, donde se pierde el polvo;

no te digo, de hoy, a tantos días visto…

Te digo: ven, dame tu mano cálida

—esa que conocen mis enjugadas lágrimas—