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 marks a new phase in our adventure. We had grown accustomed to attracting the attention of onlookers with our eccentric attire and the "Strong Man's" down-and-out image, and his wheezing roar could also win the sympathy of our hosts. Anyway, we had once been so-called "street gentlemen"; we had belonged to that respected class of "wandering nobility," using such a status as our calling card to gain people's attention. However, all that has changed. Now we were just two vagrants carrying our own luggage, the dust of our journey etching away all our belongings and the remnants of our once noble self. The truck driver left us on the 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 port, the ships flashed alluring glows, and the dark yet friendly sea exhaled a gloomy scent into our nostrils. We bought bread (the bread looked expensive at the time, but later proved to be quite cheap as we traveled north), and continued descending the hill. 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 left behind from our long journey from Santiago to here. The truck owner 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 beside the truck, so he invited us to meet. "Meeting" in Chile means treating someone to a meal, so neither of us wanted to miss this lucky opportunity. Our fellow countryman seemed deeply influenced by the customs of neighboring countries and was drunk. It had been centuries since I had tasted fish, and the wine was so delicious, and our host was so hospitable that we both enjoyed a hearty meal, 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. Strange buildings with corrugated iron 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 hidden corners, talking with the crowds 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 side of a ship docked in the port, looking for a boat to Easter Island. The news was not encouraging: there would be no ships to the island 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 so 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 headlights being broken 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 stayed by the lake for some time with just a tent and a little gear 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 quickly made us feel bored. Looking at the scenery superficially would only make you notice their monotonous repetition, not delve into the soul of the countryside; to achieve the latter, you must stay in one place for several days.
Finally, we arrived at the northern end of Lake Nahuelhuapi, and after a hearty barbecue, we happily slept on the lakeside. 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 glued a patch on one side when we discovered that the other side had been punctured. We used up all our patches and had to stay there overnight. The Austrian in charge of the camp had also ridden a motorcycle in his youth and let us stay in an empty shack. He wanted to help us, these struggling motorcyclists, 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 will attack people. 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 the revolver beside my pillow, in case one came in unannounced during the night. I was woken by the sound of claws scratching at the door. It was already almost dawn. Alberto was beside me, silent with fear. I gripped the trigger of the revolver tightly with my finger. 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, guilty, understanding or at least guessing what had happened from the caretaker's loud shouts and his wife's hysterical cries as she fell upon the body—it was their ill-tempered dog, Bobbi. Alberto went to Angostura to repair the tire. Since we couldn't stay at a place that considered us killers, I thought I could only sleep outdoors, but luckily, our motorcycle was near another caretaker's small house, who 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 gave me an allergy, 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 twitch 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.