Che’s Bolivian Diary: The Lost Episodes (Part I)

[Ed. Note: The incomplete entries published below as Part I of Che Guevara’s diary were from scraps of paper found in the canvas sack that I acquired not long ago, the provenance of which I have already described in the previous post . Although undated, it is my opinion that they were written fairly early in the Bolivian campaign, probably between February and April of 1967]

Tramping down a jungle pig path today. Got lost. Stumbled across a peasant carrying firewood, asked him way to nearest village. The fellow seemed to only speak some kind of archaic Indian lingo. Probably a police informant (these rural folk usually are); had him shot.

* * *

Found village, reconnoitered. Everybody gone. Killed a couple of chickens. That damned incompetent, Felipe, left the salt and my personal bottle of Fidel’s Flaming Marxist Hot Sauce at the last camp site. Ordered him shot; countermanded order when apprised by Julio that two of our ammunition boxes were filled with cigars instead of ammo, and that we were running low on bullets as a result of our liberation efforts.

* * *

Read Neruda’s poem, “Fleas Interest Me So Much”. In this godforsaken hamlet I could certainly relate to these lines: “let them gallop on my skin,
divulge their emotions,
amuse themselves with my blood,
but someone should introduce them to me.
I want to know them closely,
I want to know what to rely on.”

Ah, that Neruda! What genius! He makes Shakespeare sound like Ogden Nash.

* * *

Smoked one of the cigars from the ammunition box; friggin’ White Owls, for cryin’ out loud! Where did these cheap American heaters come from? Probably a CIA plot; those Kennedy’s will stop at nothing. Forced Felipe to smoke a dozen; turned green. Made up for not being able to shoot him.

* * *

Exporting revolution isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Fidel said, “Just turn up in any South American country, Che; you’ll have an army overnight.” And he’s right; I do have an army – of lice. This goatee’s got to go. Oh, and of course, I had another asthma attack.

Read another of Neruda’s poems. Perplexed by this line: “Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!” I was wondering how dwarves entered into this, when I noticed a blot on the page. Tomato sauce. Scraped it off and discovered that it’s “wharves”, not “dwarves”. Duh!

* * *

Reviewed strategy for fomenting revolution in Bolivia and went over it with my men.

Item #1: “Survival and adaptation to conditions of guerilla life.”

Felipe laughed, and Julio looked down at the ground, just shaking his head. I asked what’s so funny. Julio said, “That ‘survival’ part, comandante. I mean, look around: we’re lost in the jungle, the peasants in some of these villages would kill us just for our boots, and we’re low on ammo. We got maybe fifty guys – half of ‘em pro-Soviet Bolivian communists who spend most of their time trying to figure out how to exterminate the pro-Chinese half, and vice versa – and the Bolivian army trying to kill both sides off. Man, we’re going to spend all our time just working on that first item, and we’ll be damned lucky if we can pull it off.”

I told him that he was lacking in revolutionary zeal, but that as soon as we attracted a following, we would score some victories and he would see his confidence restored. I quickly moved on to the second item.

“Item #2: Erosion of enemy strength in the area marked out by the guerilla group for its own territory”

Felipe – perhaps still holding a grudge for being forced to smoke all those cheap American cheroots – spoke up with marked hostility. “Che, have you ever seen a map of Bolivia? This place is big, man! How we gonna erode enemy strength in a place where they outnumber us about a bazillion to one?” I was getting angry, now. Felipe was definitely beginning to unmask himself as a sunshine communist, completely devoid of that old school spirit and a can-do attitude. But I had an unanswerable rejoinder: “The Marxist state is inevitable.” And sure enough, he didn’t have an answer; just sat there shaking his head. I know it isn’t very egalitarian of me, but I confess that I do enjoy crushing dissent with my superior logic – not as much as crushing it with a firing squad, but almost.

* * *

I’ve had the men studying Quechua, the local Indian language, for the last few weeks, so that we can “blend in” with the locals. I decided to impress them by trying it out on a village elder. He didn’t understand a word I said, thereby unmasking himself as a spy. Had him shot. Unfortunately, found out later that in this part of Bolivia the natives don’t speak Quechua, but Guaraní. Well, he should have said something.

* * *

One of the Bolivian comrades came running into camp to report that he had found a coca farm and cocaine production plant a few miles away. I decided that this was a good opportunity to replenish our supplies of ammo, so I decided to lead a raid on the farm. Tomorrow morning, these running dogs of capitalism will face Marxist justice!

* * *

Well, that didn’t work. The narcotraficantes were better armed than we were. We had three killed, three wounded, and six desertions (I have sentenced them to death in absentia).

* * *

Lice really becoming a problem; I was convinced the facial hair had to go. When I asked if anyone wanted to shave me, every hand went up. I was greatly touched by this display of loyalty. Decided I must not show weakness, so will put up with lice for now in order to preserve charismatic goatee.