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

I knew it was a bad idea to split our forces, I just knew it. Joaquin’s group hasn’t made contact for over two weeks; totally lost in the jungle, no doubt. Of course, I’m lost, too, but Joaquin’s the one who has the working compass, and the good maps (my maps turned out to be from the Congo - a splendid souvenir of our glorious effort in Africa, but of dubious value in the present situation. Note: find out who packed map case; have shot).

But all of that is merely a temporary logistics problem. Right now, I’m squatting here by a creek with my men, decked out in camouflage hand-picked by Julio, and I’m starting to get a rash. We’re planning to ambush a Bolivian patrol, absolute quiet is necessary, and my ears are assaulted by the rasping noise of six men scratching furiously. I swear, I think this stuff Julio picked is poison ivy.

“Quiet!”, I whisper loudly. “The dictatorship of the proletariat depends on the overthrow of bourgeois sensibilities.” Naturally, wise-guy Fernando has to pipe up. “Sí, comandante. But do we have to give up bourgeois calamine lotion, too? I swear, chief, I think this stuff is poison ivy.” Why is it that, whenever I’m right, it’s always bad news?

I silenced them. There is a noise of tramping on the other side of the creek. The Bolivian patrol! I signal to my men to be ready to fire on my command.

It’s starting to rain. Thank Stalin for that! Maybe the rainfall will drown out the racket made by the men – honestly, with all that scratching, it’s starting to sound like a nail-filing exam at a women’s beauty academy. The trouble, though, is, it is the cusp of the evening and it’s getting dark. It will be difficult to tell precisely where the troops will ford the creek.

The light begins to fade in earnest, and the green of our jungle surroundings is changing to gray and black. There! Our foes are pushing through the brush on the opposite bank of the creek. On to victory!

* * *

Or not. It’s the sort of thing that, in rare private moments, almost makes me agnostic about Marxism.

“Fire!”, I had shouted, and we poured a fusillade in the direction of the Bolivian patrol.

Our marksmanship – for once – turned out to be flawless (or so it seemed at the time). There was no return fire. We approached the bank of the creek warily, waded across, and discovered that our marksmanship had, indeed, been good: we had killed a wild pig. “Flashlight!”, I ordered, in what I’m afraid was a voice husky with disappointment. Felipe handed me his Soviet-made electric torch and I flipped the switch back and forth several times; I sighed the sigh of the long-suffering revolutionary. “Matches!”, I growled, through clinched teeth. By the flickering light of the match, I could see that we had not only succeeded in killing a pig, but had done so without hitting it with a single bullet. Sixty rounds of precious ammunition expended to bag a wild pig that apparently had been frightened to death by the mere noise of our shots.

“Well, bundle him up and we’ll take him back to camp. At least we’ll eat well tonight.”

Alas, it was not to be. Our neighborhood was suddenly filed with rifle fire, and bullets were ricocheting off of the tree trunks. That damned Bolivian patrol!

I ordered my men to hightail it, but, as always seems to be the case when a rapid tactical withdrawal is called for, they had anticipated my command. We somehow managed to regroup at our camp a mile or so from the scene of our latest set-back. After swallowing a handful of berries apiece (our packaged rations had run out two days ago), and washing them down with stagnant water, we tried to rest, but the poison ivy camouflage had done its work, and we were in agony. And the agony was to be made even worse an hour later, when the scratching noise of my men was supplemented by a wave of – how can I put it? – an almost orgasmic moaning. I called Fernando over and asked him what the problem was. “Can’t you smell it, chief?” My asthma was flaring up and I had a sinus infection, to boot, so, frankly I couldn’t smell a thing. “What, Fernando, what do you smell?”

“Roast pork, comandante! Those Bolivian bastards are eating our pig!” I strained my overtaxed bronchioles and was just barely able to detect a trace of the delicious aroma, wafting into camp on the same light breeze that also brought the sound of laughter and singing from our victorious foes. Well, I thought to myself, eat, drink and be merry, my reactionary friends, for tomorrow you shall die (Note: check source of that phrase; believe it might be Patrice Lumumba, or perhaps Mao).