While still a medical student in 1950, Ernesto traveled more than 3,744 kilometers (2,340 miles) through 12 northern provinces of Argentina on a motorized bicycle, the first of several journeys he would undertake. The excerpts here are from his diary of that trip, included in the book Mi hijo el Che [My Son Che] by Ernesto Guevara’s father, Ernesto Guevara Lynch. In spite of the brevity of this selection, it displays elements that were evident throughout Che’s life: his urgent need to describe his experiences and feelings, in his own language and style, and his ability to immerse himself in his surroundings, questioning everything he encountered and sharpening his awareness of the social injustice around him.
The only provinces that would remain untouched would be Salta, Jujuy del Norte and the two on the coast.
When I left Buenos Aires on the night of January 1, 1950, I was full of doubts about the potential of my bike’s motor and my only hope was of reaching Pilar quickly and in one piece (the end of my journey according to some well-intentioned tongues at home), and then going on to Pergamino, another of the final destinations they set for me.
As I left San Isidro and rode along the track, I shut down the little motor and pedaled onwards, so that another rider, traveling to Rosario by leg-power (on his bicycle), caught up with me. We continued together, me pedaling to keep the same speed as my companion. As I passed through Pilar, I felt the first joys of victory.
At 8:00 the following morning, we reached the first stage in my companion’s journey, San Antonio de Areco, where we breakfasted together and said our goodbyes. I continued along my way and reached Pergamino by nightfall. At this second, symbolic stage I was so triumphant and emboldened by success that I forgot my fatigue and set off toward Rosario, hanging honorably on to a fuel truck, reaching Rosario by 11:00 that night. My body was screaming for a mattress, but my will won out and I continued. At around 2:00 in the morning there was a cloudburst that lasted about an hour. I took out my raincoat and the sailcloth cape that had found its way into my pack through my mother’s foresight, laughed at the downpour and shouted a verse by Sábato at the top of my lungs. [...]
At 6:00 in the morning I arrived in Leones, changed the spark plugs and filled the tank. The road now reached a monotonous stretch. At about 10:00 in the morning I went through Belle Ville and attached myself to the back of another truck that towed me close to Villa María, where I stopped a moment to do some calculations, according to which I had taken less than 40 hours to get there. I had 144 kilometers1 to go, at 25 kilometers per hour, so there was nothing more to say. After another 10 kilometers along the track, a private car caught up with me—I was pedaling at that time to avoid overheating the motor in the midday sun—and stopped to see if I needed fuel. I said I didn’t but asked if he could tow me along at 60 kilometers per hour. I had done 10 kilometers when the back tire burst and, caught off guard, my entire humanity bit the dust (with a wonderful view of the ground with my face in the road).
Investigating the cause of the disaster, I found that the motor, running unnecessarily, had eaten through the tire, exposing the inner tube and causing my fall.
With no spares and extremely tired, I flung myself down by the road to rest. After an hour or two, an empty truck came along and the driver agreed to take me to Córdoba. I packed my things into the car and reached the Granados,2 the goal of my labors, in a total of 41 hours, 17 minutes….
In the [illegible] I have already written about, I met up with a tramp who was napping under a little bridge and who awoke with the commotion. We started to talk, and when he learned that I was a student he took a liking to me. He brought out a dirty thermos and made me mate with enough sugar to sweeten up an old maid. After a long chat, describing our various adventures to each other—embellishing to be sure, but perhaps revealing some truth—he recalled his days as a barber. Noticing my rather long locks, he took out some rusty scissors and a dirty comb and set to work. Halfway through, I felt something strange happening to my head and began to fear for my physical safety, but I never imagined that a pair of scissors could be such a dangerous weapon. When he offered a small mirror that he took from his pocket, I nearly fell over—he had cut so many different bits that not a patch on my head was left untouched.
I carried my shorn head like a kind of trophy to the Aguilar home, where I went to visit my sister Ana María. To my surprise they attached scant importance to the shearing, but were amazed I had drunk the mate he had given me. There’s no accounting for some people!
After a few days’ rest waiting for Tomasito [Granado], we left for Tanti. The place we were headed to was nothing out of the ordinary, but was near facilities including fresh spring water.
After two days, we headed off on our planned journey to Los Chorrillos, some 10 kilometers away. [...]
In the Córdoba ranges the vista of the Los Chorrillos waterfall from a height of some 50 meters is something really worth seeing. As the water falls, it separates into multiple small streams that ricochet off every stone until they scatter and fall into a lower basin and then, in a profusion of lesser falls, into a large natural basin. It is the biggest waterfall I have seen in streams of this size, but unfortunately it gets very little sunlight, so the water is extremely cold and one can only stay in a few minutes.
The abundance of water from all the surrounding slopes, emerging from natural springs, makes this area extremely fertile, and there is an explosion of ferns and other damp-loving plants, lending a spectacular beauty to this place.
It was here, above the waterfall, I first tried rock climbing. I had got it into my head to descend where the waterfall trickled down gently, but for more of a thrill I chose a hazardous short cut, the most difficult I could find.
Halfway down, a stone came loose and I fell some 10 meters amid an avalanche of stones and loose rocks.
When I finally managed to find my footing, after breaking several [illegible], I had to start climbing up again because it was impossible to descend further. Here I learned the first law of rock climbing: going up is easier than going down. The bitter defeat stayed with me all day, but the next day I dived from four meters, and also from two meters (more or less), into 70 centimeters of water, wiping out the bitter taste of failure from the previous day. [...]
That day and part of the next it rained a lot… and so we decided to pack up the tent. At around 5:30, as we were leisurely gathering our bits and pieces together, we heard the first throaty roar of the torrent. People spilled out of the neighboring houses, yelling, “The water’s coming down, the water’s coming down!” Our whole camp was a circus, the three of us running back and forth with our things. At the last minute, Grego Granado picked up one of the corners of a blanket, collecting what was left, while Tomás and I pulled out the tent pegs at full speed. The wave was bearing down on us and the people nearby were shouting, “Leave it, you crazies!” plus a few other fairly unCatholic words. But at that point, only one rope was left. I had the machete in my hand and couldn’t control myself. While everyone watched with baited breath, I shouted, “Charge, brave men!” and, with a theatrical blow, I cut the tether. We were still getting everything to one side when the torrent came down with a furious roar, revealing itself in all its incredible height—one-and-a-half meters—amid interminable deafening noise. […]
I left [Tanti] at 4:00 in the afternoon on January 29 and, after a short stop in Colonia Caroya, headed for San José de la Dormida,3 where I paid homage to the name of the place by lying down by the side of the road; I had a magnificent night’s sleep until 6:00 the following morning.
I pedaled about five kilometers further until I found a little house where they sold me a liter of fuel.
On the final stretch to San Francisco del Chañar, I started out in second. The little motor decided to take fright on a steep climb and left me to pedal about five kilometers uphill, until finally I found myself in the middle of the village. The van from the leprosy sanatorium gave me a lift from there.
The next day, we visited one of Alberto Granado’s4 [illegible] with a Dr. Rossetti. On the way back I fell off the bike, snapping eight spokes, leaving me stranded four days longer than planned until they fixed it. [...]
We’d planned to leave on the Saturday… with Alberto Granado,4 after a party or at least a drink at Mr. X’s place, this man being the senator for the region, the local head honcho, a modern lord of the knife and noose. […]
We spent the whole morning debating how to get away quickly. Finally, early in the afternoon, we decided to leave, me on the bike and [Alberto] and a friend on the motorbike. But first we decided to have a taste of their vermouth, which was something special [illegible]. There was no ice, so the little fellow [Alberto] went off to get some but couldn’t find any. So he went to ask for a bag of ice at the senator’s home, saying I was ill, and on his return we tackled the vermouth with unusual zeal. As bad luck would have it, the senator’s wife suddenly remembered that she needed some medicine and came to find Alberto [a pharmacist]. By the time we noticed her august presence it was already too late but, nevertheless, I flung myself down on the mattress, holding my head desperately as if in pain, only doing so to show off my gift as an actor because I already knew that it was in vain. […]
We left for Ojo de Agua at 4:00 p.m., when the sun was already low—Alberto had reduced our itinerary to a modest 55 kilometers. But the trip, full of mishaps, took four hours, mainly due to a series of flat tires.
In Ojo de Agua I was advised to see the director of a small hospital, where I met the administrator, a Mr. Mazza, the brother of the Córdoba senator at whose table I had eaten. Even though they had no idea who I was, the members of his family were very cordial toward me, warmly welcoming me and enthusiastic about the idea of my trip.
After a good dinner and around eight hours of sleep, I set out for the famous Salinas Grandes, the Argentine Sahara. All my officious informants said it would be impossible for me to cross the Salinas with just the pint of water I was taking, but the well-mixed blend of Irish and Galician blood that ran through my veins made me stubbornly restrict myself to that amount.
This part of the Santiago landscape reminds me of some areas to the north of Córdoba, from which it is separated only by an imaginary line. Along the sides of the roads there are enormous cacti, some six meters tall, like giant green candelabras. The vegetation is abundant and there are signs of fertility, but the scene slowly changes, the road becomes rough and dusty, the quebracho trees disappear and the jarilla seems to take over.
The sun beats down on my head, enveloping me in waves of heat reflected up from the ground. I choose the leafy shade of a carob tree and lie down to sleep for an hour, get up, and after a couple of mates get on with the journey. Along the track, the milestone on Route 9 marking kilometer 1,000 welcomes me.
One kilometer later, the jarilla takes over completely and I am now in the Sahara but, suddenly and to my great surprise, the track (privileged to be one of the worst so far), turns into a magnificently sealed, firm, flat road where the bike’s motor was in its element, ticking over happily.
This was not the only surprise that awaited me in the heartland of the republic—I noticed there is a ranch every four or five kilometers, which made me wonder whether I really was in such a desolate place after all. But the ocean of silver-stained earth and its green mane allows no room for doubt. From time to time, like an awkward sentinel, the vigilant figure of a cactus appears.
In two-and-a-half hours I covered 80 kilometers of salt pan, and then I got another surprise: when I asked for some cold water to replace what had been warming up in my water bottle I learned that there was plenty of drinking water only three meters below the ground. Evidently, reputation is subordinate to subjective impression, unless there is some other explanation for the following phenomena: good roads, a lot of ranches, water at three meters. Not bad.
Well after dark I reached Loreto, a town of several thousand souls, but nevertheless quite backward.
The police officer I met when I went to ask about somewhere to spend the night told me there was not a single doctor in the town and, when he learned that I was doing fifth-year medicine, gave me the sound advice that I should set myself up there as the town healer. “Doctors can earn a lot of money and do us a favor, too.”[…]
I set off early, traveling along some terrible stretches of road and some very good surfaces. I parted ways forever with my water bottle, claimed by a treacherous pothole, and eventually reached Santiago where I was given a warm reception by a friend’s family.
It was here that the first report about me5 was done for a Tucumán newspaper, written by a Mr. Santillan, who met me on my first stop in the town. […]
That day I discovered the city of Santiago… where the infernal heat is too much even for its inhabitants, who remain locked in their homes until the evening, when they come out into the streets to get on with their social life.
The village of La Banda, on the other side of the Dulce River, was prettier. The river runs through a gully over half a mile wide, but it is dry for most of the year. There is a marked antagonism between the two towns, which I observed during a basketball game between teams from the two neighboring areas. […]
At 9:00 the next morning I continue on my way to Tucumán, where I arrived late that night.
At one point along the way something curious happened when I had stopped to inflate a tire, about a kilometer out from a town. A tramp appeared, sheltering under a small bridge, and naturally we began to talk. This man had been picking cotton in Chaco and, after wandering about for a while, he was thinking of heading for the grape harvest in San Juan. When he learned of my plan to travel through several provinces, and discovered that my exploits were nothing more than a joyride, he clasped his head in despair: “Mamma mía, you’re putting all this effort into nothing?”[…]
I set off again toward the capital of Tucumán province. Like a flash, I flitted through the majestic town of Tucumán at 30 kilometers an hour and immediately took the road to Salta, but was caught in a downpour of rain. I humbly ended up in the armory of a barracks, from where I left for Salta at 6:00 in the morning.
The road out of Tucumán is one of the most beautiful sights in the north [of Argentina]. Along some 20 kilometers of good road there is lush vegetation on both sides, a kind of tropical forest within the tourist’s reach, with a million little streams and a humid atmosphere that makes the place seem like a film set of the Amazon jungle. Entering these natural gardens, walking among the lianas, stepping through the ferns, observing how everything here makes fun of our scant botanical culture, one expects every moment to hear a lion roar, to see a snake glide silently by or the agile movement of a deer. Suddenly there was a roar, not very loud but constant. It turned out to be the chugging of a truck laboring up the hill.
This clamor smashed the glass castle of my reverie, bringing me back to reality. I realized at that moment that something which had been growing in me for some time, in the hustle and bustle of the city, had now matured: a real hatred of civilization. The crude sight of people rushing about like mad things, to the beat of a tremendous noise, now seemed to me the loathsome antithesis of peace, of this [illegible] which created such harmonious background music in the quiet rustling of the leaves.
I returned to the road and continued on my way. At 11:00 or 12:00 I came to a roadside police checkpoint where I stopped to rest. Along came a motorcyclist on a brand new Harley Davidson and offered me a tow. I asked him how fast he’d go. “If I go slow, about 80 or 90.” Naturally I had learned from experience, at the cost of my ribs, that I can’t go over 40 kilometers an hour while being towed, given the instability of my load and the uneven roads.
I declined, and after thanking [crossed out] who had offered me a mug of coffee, I kept going, hoping to reach Salta in daylight. I had 200 kilometers still to go, so I needed to get a move on.
At Rosario de la Frontera, I had an unhappy encounter at the police station. They were lifting the same Harley Davidson off the back of a truck. I went over to inquire about the rider. “Dead,” they told me.
Naturally, the minor personal tragedy of the obscure death of this motorcyclist has no impact on the sensibilities of the masses, but the knowledge that a man seeks danger, without even the vague heroism associated with public exploits, and dies taking a bend in the road, with no witnesses, made this unknown adventurer seem to have some kind of vague “death wish.” This is something that might make the study of such a personality interesting, but it is completely beyond the scope of these notes.
From Rosario de la Frontera to Metán the sealed and smooth road offered me an easy ride, preparing me for the stretch from Metán to Salta, which required a great deal of patience to spot the “serrations.”
Nevertheless, the bad roads of this area are compensated for by the magnificent landscape. We came to a mountainous zone where, around each bend, there was something new to marvel at. Approaching Lobería, I am lucky to see one of the most beautiful sights of my travels so far. Beside the road there was a kind of suspended railway bridge with the Juramento River running beneath. The banks are formed with stones of many colors and the river’s gray waters chart their turbulent course through sheer cliffs covered in magnificent vegetation.
I stay for a while gazing at the water…. The gray foam, leaping like sparks as the water crashes against the rocks and returns to the whirlpool, invites me to plunge in, to be rocked brutally in the water and shout incoherently like a condemned man.
I climb the hill feeling slightly melancholy; the roaring waters I was leaving behind seem to reproach me for my romantic shortcomings, and I feel like a confirmed bachelor. Above me and my philosophical Jack London style beard, the biggest nanny goat in the herd chuckles at my clumsiness as a climber. Once again the loud clamor of a truck drags me out of my hermit’s meditation.
It is already dark when I climb the last hill and find before me the magnificent town of Salta. Its only notable defect is the fact that the visitor is welcomed by the geometric rigidity of the cemetery.
With my developing lack of shame, I present myself at the hospital as an “exhausted, adventurous, almost broke medical student.” They offer me a vehicle with soft seats as lodgings, making a bed fit for a king. I sleep like a log until 7:00 in the morning, when they wake me so they can use the car. The rain is torrential, so my journey is delayed. At about 2:00 in the afternoon I start out for Jujuy, but the road out of the city is boggy from the heavy downpour and it is impossible for me to go on. Nevertheless, I find a truck and it turns out that the driver is an old acquaintance. A few kilometers on, we go our separate ways, he to Campo Santo to collect cement, while I head off on a road known as La Cornisa.
The water that has fallen runs together in little streams that descend from the surrounding hills and cross the road to join the Mojotoro River, which runs alongside the road. This is not the impressive spectacle of Salta and the Juramento, but its cheerful beauty acts as a tonic for the spirit. After leaving the river behind, the traveler moves into the true regions of La Cornisa—its majestic beauty found in its hills adorned with green forest. There is one mountain pass after another, framed by the adjacent greenery. Through the branches, the distant green plain can be seen as if through a tinted lens.
The wet foliage imbues the atmosphere with its freshness, and instead of the penetrating, aggressive humidity of Tucumán, there is something fresh and mild here. The charm of this warm, damp afternoon, refreshed by the dense forest… transported me to a dream world, a world very different from my present situation. But I knew the way back from it well and was not cut off by the fog-filled abysses of the realms of fantasy. [...]
Weary of so much beauty, like suffering indigestion from an excess of chocolate, I reach the town of Jujuy, with aches and pains inside and out, wanting to discover the measure of the province’s hospitality. What better occasion than now to research the hospitals of the country?
I sleep wonderfully in one of the wards, after being obliged to demonstrate my medical knowledge. Equipped with some tweezers and a bit of ether, I set about the thrilling hunt for [illegible] in a little kid’s shaven head.
His monotonous whining lacerates my ears like a fine stiletto, while my scientific alter ego counts with indolent rapacity the number of my [dead] enemies. I can’t understand how this little dark-skinned kid, barely two years old, could come to be so full of larvae. Even if you tried, it would not be easy to do. [...]
I get into bed and try to make of this insignificant episode a solid foundation for my pariah’s sleep. [...]
The magnificent new day shines brighter for me and invites me to set off again. The gentle purring of my bike is lost in the solitude, and I begin my return by the lowland road that takes me to Campo Santo. There is nothing worthy of note on that section of road, the only highlight being the scenery of Gallinato. Even better is the view from La Cornisa, because you can see farther, giving a sense of grandeur that the other lacks to some extent.
I arrive in Salta at 2:00 in the afternoon, and go to visit some friends at the hospital. They are amazed to find I had done the whole trip in only one day, and so one of them enquires, “But what did you see?” The question remains unanswered because it was formulated in such a way for there to be no answer.
And that’s the whole point, the real question being what do I see. I don’t nourish myself on the same sights as other tourists, and I find it strange to see how tourist maps, such as the map of Jujuy, highlight the Altar de la Patria, the cathedral where the national flag was blessed, the jewel of the pulpit and miraculous little virgin of Río Blanco and Pompeya, the house where General Lavalle was killed, the city council of the revolution, the provincial museum, etc.
No, one does not get to know a people that way, their way of life and so on. Buildings are just a glossy cover. The spirit of a people is reflected in the patients in the hospitals, the inmates at the police station and the anxious man in the street one chats to while the Río Grande displays its turbulent, swollen waters below. But all this takes a long time to explain, and who knows if I would be understood. I thank them and leave on a visit to the town I failed to see properly the first time around.
At dusk, I approach a police station on the outskirts of the city and ask permission to spend the night there. I planned to do the mountainous part on a truck, to save myself from the hard pedaling on bad roads and from having to wade across a river and several swollen streams. But I am quickly discouraged. As it is Saturday, it is very unlikely that a truck would pass by, since all of them go by early in order to reach Tucumán on Sunday morning. Resigned, I start chatting with the policemen, and they show me the famous female Anopheles [mosquito]—an elongated, stylized, slender creature that hardly looks as if it could be responsible for the terrible scourge of malaria.
The full moon displays its subtropical exuberance, throwing floods of silvery light that produce a very pleasant chiaroscuro. This inspires one of the policemen to talk at great length on philosophical matters, and he winds up with the following story:
“The other day, a man heard the galloping of a herd of horses and the barking of dogs. He went out with a lantern and his revolver and stationed himself in a strategic position. The horses went by again to the sound of the dogs’ barking, and after this ruckus, as if by way of an explanation, a black mule with enormous ears appeared, circumspectly following the herd. The chorus of barks got louder, and once again the herd of horses galloped past. The mule headed in a different direction and when the moon could be seen between its ears, the man felt a chill run down his spine.”
The old policeman interrupted his companion with this wise comment: “There must be a tortured soul in that mule.” He suggested that the animal be killed to liberate it. “What else?” he asked. “Nothing; on the contrary, he’ll thank you. What more does he want?” Dispensing with any humanitarian considerations, I, who had been brought up on stories of justice, propriety, annoying noises, etc., ventured the timid objection that the mule’s owner and neighbors wouldn’t be very happy about it all.
They looked at me in a way that shamed me. How could that mule have an owner, and, even if it had one, who wouldn’t be happy to free a tortured soul? They didn’t even deign to demolish my argument.
The three of us remained staring pensively at the moon, which magnificently spread silvery shadows over the hills. The cool Salta night was filled with the music of frogs, and I fell into a short sleep, lulled by their songs.
At 4:00 a.m. I bade farewell to the policemen and began my arduous trek toward Tucumán. The bike’s brakes were giving me trouble so I had to be careful on the slopes. I didn’t know what I might find around a bend, since my headlight wasn’t strong enough to show me what was ahead.
At around 7:00 in the morning, I had a pleasant surprise: a long line of trucks was bogged in the mud, one after the other. The drivers had just woken up and were discussing the situation. I went up to them to investigate and, to my surprise, found that my old friend Luchini was one of them.
There was a heated exchange and the truck drivers immediately bet me that I couldn’t reach the sealed road that led to Tucumán before they did. I was to set out right away, and, if they got there first, too bad; but if they couldn’t catch up with me, I was to wait there, and they would treat me to a fabulous meal with all the trimmings. I then forgot all about the scenery, my faulty brakes, the zigzags, the dangerous curves, exhaustion and thirst and concentrated only on the splendor of the banquet awaiting me. Every step that drew me closer to my goal made more vivid my vision of a sumptuous, juicy chicken surrounded by delicious baked potatoes…
1. One kilometer is equal to 0.62 miles.
2. Ernesto had been friends with the Granado brothers (Tomás, Gregorio and Alberto) since they were children in Córdoba, Argentina.
3. Dormida means sleep in Spanish.
4. Alberto Granado would be Ernesto’s companion on his first big trip around Latin America on the motorcycle.
5. An article about Ernesto’s trip around Argentina was published in the daily Trópico on February 3, 1950: “Guevara, un joven raidista, cumplirá una extensa gira.”