Diary of the South American Jungle: Che Guevara's Private Archive

Author: Che Guevara, translated by Wang Xing
Translator: Wang Xing
Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-01-01
Features: The smiles in the Jaccaranda Bar mark a new stage in our adventure. We had grown accustomed to attracting the curiosity of onlookers with our eccentric attire and the "Strong Man's" ragged image, and his wheezing roar could also win the sympathy of our hosts. Whatever the case, we had once been so-called "street gentlemen"; we had belonged to that ancient and respected class of "wandering nobility," and our identity had won people's attention. However, all that has changed. Now we were just two vagrants with backpacks, the dust of our journey eroding all our belongings and our former noble self. The truck driver left us on a hillside as we entered the city. We dragged our luggage tiredly through the streets, followed by the mocking or indifferent glances of passersby. In the distant harbor, ships twinkled with alluring lights, and the dark yet friendly sea exhaled a gloomy scent into our nostrils. We bought bread (it looked expensive at the time, but later proved to be quite cheap as we traveled north), and continued our descent. Alberto was clearly exhausted; despite my efforts to hide it, I was just as tired. So, when we spotted a truck parked by the roadside, we gathered around the owner, showing him the hardships of our long journey from Santiago to here. The truck driver let us sleep on some wooden planks, surrounded by parasites with names ending in "hominis," but at least we had a roof overhead. We were eager to sleep, but word of our arrival reached a fellow countryman who was at a dilapidated small restaurant near the truck. He invited us to meet. "Meeting" in Chile means treating someone to a meal, so neither of us wanted to miss this good fortune. Our fellow countryman seemed deeply influenced by the customs of neighboring countries and was drunk. I hadn’t tasted fish in centuries, and the wine was so delicious, and our host was so hospitable, that we ate heartily and he even invited us to his house the next day.
The Jaccaranda Bar opened early, and as we brewed "mate," we chatted with the owner, who was interested in our travels. Then we set off to explore the city. Valparaíso is a picturesque city built on hills overlooking the bay, as if it had grown from the slopes extending into the sea. Buildings with wave-like metal roofs were arranged in layers, connected by winding stairs and cable cars. The unique beauty of the lively House Museum was highlighted by the contrast between its colorful houses and the grayish-blue sea. Like performing a patient surgical examination, we peered into the dirty stairs and dark corners, talking with groups of beggars; we gauged the depth of the city and the putrid scent that drew us in. We flared our nostrils, with cruel focus capturing the smell of poverty.
We came to the docks where ships were anchored, hoping to find one bound for Easter Island. The news was not encouraging: no ships would be going there in the next six months. However, we did get some vague information about a flight that flew there once a month.
The Seven Lakes Road We decided to take the Seven Lakes Road to Bariloche. The road is named "Seven Lakes Road" because there are seven lakes along the way before reaching Bariloche. The "Strong Man" had only a few minor breakdowns in the first few kilometers, but after dark, the old problem of the broken headlights reappeared. So we camped in a digger’s shack. This was a wise decision, as it was particularly cold that night. The weather was indeed freezing, and soon a stranger came to our shack asking to borrow a blanket: he and his wife were sleeping by the lake and were almost frozen. We shared "mate" with this resilient couple, who had already been living by the lake for some time with just a tent and a few supplies in their backpacks. We felt sorry for them.
We set off again, passing lakes of varying sizes surrounded by primitive forests, the scent of nature kissing our nostrils. Strangely, the sight of lakes, forests, and isolated houses with neat gardens soon grew tiresome. Looking at the scenery superficially only makes you notice its monotonous repetition and not the soul of the countryside; to achieve the latter, you must stay in one place for several days.
Finally, we reached the northern end of Lake Nahuelhuapi, had a hearty barbecue, and happily slept on the lakeshore. But when we prepared to set off again, we found that the rear tire of the motorcycle had a hole. A frustrating battle with the inner tube began. We had just patched one side when we discovered that the other side had been punctured. We used up all our patches and had to spend the night here. The Austrian in charge of the place had also ridden motorcycles in his youth, and he let us stay in an empty shack. He wanted to help us, these struggling motorcycle enthusiasts, but he was afraid of being discovered by the boss. The caretaker told us in broken Spanish that there were pumas nearby; "pumas are vicious. They attack people on their own. They have thick manes." When we closed the door, we realized that the sturdy-looking door was actually loose at the bottom. The mountain lions had filled our minds, so I placed my revolver beside my pillow, in case one arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night. I was woken by the sound of claws scratching at the door. It was almost dawn. Alberto was beside me, silent with fear. I gripped the trigger of the revolver tightly with my fingers. Two glowing eyes stared at us from the shadows of the woods, then leaped forward like cats, their huge black bodies sliding past our door. My reaction was completely instinctive: rational restraint had been overwhelmed by the instinct for self-preservation, and I pulled the trigger. The roar echoed in the room for a moment, then was silenced by a desperate scream coming from the direction of the door with a torch. We fell silent, filled with guilt, and from the caretaker’s loud shouts and his wife’s hysterical cries as she approached the body, we understood—or at least guessed—what had happened: it was their ill-tempered dog, Bobi.
Alberto went to Angostura to repair the tire. Since we couldn’t stay at a place that now saw us as killers, I thought I would have to sleep outside. Fortunately, our motorcycle was near another caretaker’s small house, and he let me and a friend stay in the kitchen. In the middle of the night, I heard the sound of rain, so I got up to cover the motorcycle with a raincoat. Since the sheepskin I used as a pillow was making me allergic, I decided to use some asthma spray. Just as I was doing this, the person I was sharing the room with woke up. The sound of the spray made him jerk violently, then he calmed down again. I noticed his body was tightly curled under the blanket, holding his breath, with a knife in his hand. Having had the experience of the previous night, I decided to stay calm and not show any fear of attack, because paranoia was easy to catch in places like this.
The next night, we arrived in San Carlos de Bariloche and stayed at the police station, waiting to take the Modesta Victoria to Peru.