Once in Venezuela we decided to travel on to Caracas, where I met a doctor who had read some of my research on Hansen’s disease and who offered me work in the clinical laboratory of a leprosy hospital.
This event, coupled with the fact that a friend of Ernesto’s family was in Caracas and had a plane for transporting racehorses, gave rise to the pact between Che and I that he would return to Buenos Aires, thus fulfilling the promise I had made to his mother, Celia de la Serna, that Ernesto would go back and graduate.
I had to insist that Ernesto went back to Buenos Aires. He left for Miami, where he had to stay for a while enduring some hardships. We parted in July 1952 and were only able to shake hands again on 18 July 1960, when I visited him at the Banco Nacional de Cuba.
The plane’s itinerary was: Buenos Aires–Caracas, Caracas–Miami, Miami–Maracaibo–Buenos Aires. It carried Argentine horses to be sold in Miami; there it picked up American horses and sold them in Maracaibo. Che had to take advantage of that plane ride, in spite of the many stopovers, because it was an inexpensive way of traveling.
Che told us that in Miami he had had a tough time; he would go to the public library frequently, and his only meal was a daily milky coffee, until he made friends with the owner of a diner and the latter would offer him something to eat—until one lunchtime a Puerto Rican arrived and started to slag off the Truman government, and an FBI agent overheard him and the usual happened: Che had to keep his distance.
I was concerned that he should graduate. And with his peculiar study methods and his rare capacity and intelligence, he was able to pass eleven or twelve exams in less than a year. Che graduated in medicine in March 1953.
Once he had graduated, he embarked on a trip to meet up with me in Venezuela to decide if we should continue with our journey or take up some sort of research at Cabo Blanco, the leprosarium where I was employed. He didn’t want to borrow money from anybody and managed on what he had; he thought it was more romantic to do things his own way.
With two or three friends, he boarded a train that travels from Buenos Aires to La Paz in Bolivia, a journey of some 4,000 miles. A train that stops at every single city, great or small. A terrible journey.
He then crossed Lake Titicaca, where we had been when we traveled together, and carried on along the coast because he wanted to reach Venezuela quickly.
However, when he reached Guayaquil in Ecuador, he met Ricardo Rojo, a lawyer from Buenos Aires, who was in exile, having escaped from jail in a spectacular breakout. He had asked for asylum at the Guatemalan embassy in Buenos Aires and a diplomat had escorted him to Guatemala.
Rojo, who had not met Guevara before, said something that made Che change his mind.
When Ernesto told Rojo of his intention to continue on to Caracas, to meet up with me and take up a job of some sort, Rojo said, “But, Guevara, how can you go to Venezuela, a worthwhile country only if it’s dollars you’re after? Come with me to Guatemala, where a real social revolution is taking place.”
In view of that plan, I got a note from Ernesto that read: “Petiso, I’m off to Guatemala. I’ll write to you.”
I learned about the triumph of the Cuban revolution during a visit to the Guevara household. It was 31 December and Jorge Ricardo Masetti, who was among the dinner guests invited by Doña Celia, Ernesto’s mother, brought the news.
In reply to a letter from me, Che wrote the following:
Military Department of La Cabaña,
La Habana, 11th March 1959
Mial,
Although I was expecting it, your letter gave me great pleasure. I did not write to you until now from this my new country because I had planned to go to Venezuela with Fidel. Other events prevented me from doing so. I meant to go a little later, but I am ill and bed-ridden. I hope to go in approximately one month’s time.
You were in my thoughts to such an extent that when I was invited to Venezuela I demanded two free days to spend with you and yours. I hope this wish becomes a reality soon.
I won’t reply to the cheap philosophy of your letter because that would require a couple of matés, a little empanada1 and a shady corner under a tree. Then we will talk.
I send you the biggest hug that your macho dignity allows you to receive from another one.
Che
Before leaving Cuba for the last time, Che sent me a book with this dedication:
Havana, year of agriculture
Alberto,
I don’t know what to leave you as a memento. So I’ll oblige you to devote yourself to the sugar economy.2 My itinerant home will be off on two legs once again and my dreams shall know no bounds, at least until bullets decide otherwise …
I’ll be expecting you, sedentary gypsy, when the smell of gunpowder subsides. A hug for all of you (Tomás included).
Che