Latin America Diaries (18 page)

Nothing worth mentioning from the last two days. I had a go at cooking—it tired me out, even my muscles were tired by the end, showing how unfit I am. Núñez Aguilar leaves for Argentina today; I gave him the old man's address, perhaps they will speak. Valdez—I don't remember his first name—is another of the young poets in the group. I've only read one of his free verse compositions, which has a strong element of social struggle, but not that spark that distinguishes an authentic poet. He's 18, a bit of a brat like most guys his age, despite the beginnings of something more serious. He is frank and forthright, without much political ambition but capable of acquiring it over time.

Another day wasted with nothing new. Marco Antonio Derdon, alias “Earthquake”: a kid with few intellectual gifts and a physique indicating a degree of hypophyseal or hypogenital infantilism, as confirmed by the fact that, while we were in the refuge, one of his testicles moved up at the same time that he suffered an indirect inguinal hernia. There's nothing attractive about him besides his pathological make-up, as it's impossible to speak of any political formation in his case.

Another null and void day. Something of an international event to break the monotony has been the suicide of President Vargas.
⁷⁷
It's a little disturbing as it is unclear along what path the
vice-president, or those behind him, will take Brazil. In any event, I suspect tumultuous days lie ahead for the Brazilian people. On the local scale, a refugee has escaped by jumping over the wire on the wall.

Hugo Blanco, alias “Old Lady,” a young poet and a bad one. I don't even think he's particularly smart. Kindness is his most distinguishing feature. The smile of a good kid always accompanies the poet.

Another day with nothing new. Alfonso Riva Arroyo: the leader of the health workers' union and interesting because of his intellectual scruples. He has the mind of a Marxist and is in open conflict with the communists. He also has insomnia, which I imagine has a psychological origin. He's a carpenter—a good one, he says. I gave him a letter for the old man. This completes my account of people in the main hall of the embassy.

Two or three days in which a lot of time has passed and one important general measure has been introduced: Perón has agreed to accept families as well, which changes the perspective for many of the refugees. One man, for example, decided to give himself up to the police because he didn't want to be separated from his family, and after announcing this and waiting for a day, he went to do so. But the police wanted to play games and would neither lock him up nor let him go; he spent a good few hours outside with his wife and children who had come to say good-bye. In the end the minister got tired of it all and let him back inside to sleep. At 2 a.m. news arrived that he had been granted permission to leave with his whole family. The following night, something less spectacular but no less important occurred. Víctor Manuel Gutiérrez
⁷⁸
entered over one of the garden walls and was granted asylum, but at 2 a.m. the main wing was reinforced so no one else could get in.

Raúl Salazar: a typographer around 30 years old, a simple way of thinking, possibly subnormal, who devotes himself to his work and nothing else, but all the same has some sway in the PGT. He was on the People's Court and a union leader, quite a tame one, I imagine.

In the last two days some great things have happened. Gutiérrez's entry provoked uproar in the embassy, and one of the Pinedas said something tactless about Perón's demagogy—that the granting of asylum to families was only to shit all over the communists and over Pellecer when he had tried to clarify things. Afterwards, they confined 13 of us to the garage and prohibited us from speaking with the others; they also isolated Pellecer and Gutiérrez in a room by themselves. As if in response to this, the two younger Pinedas escaped the same night.

It was gratifying to see the fury on Banabés' face, reflecting the fury of officialdom as well. I'll continue with that group at the same time as the 13. Now there's Lencho Méndez, Luis Arturo Pineda, Roberto Castañeda, Cheché Vega and myself, leaving eight: Humberto Pineda, older brother of the aforementioned, has a similar psychological make-up, but seems better and generally in good humor, although just as restless as his brother. They certainly have their heads screwed on. José Antonio Ochoa, a typographer, a union leader with a good line, although not a member of any party. He belongs to the group of 13. He has a gentle nature, the same consistency as his chubby body, with a clear intelligence and a very consistent political line. He is cheerful, expressive and playful, a little childlike and at times melancholy. He's not capable of any heroic action, but is incapable of treachery.

As if responding to my thoughts, Ochoa has managed to get transferred to the other side, where he is content. Now there are 10 of us are left in the lock-up.

Ricardo Ramírez is perhaps one of the most capable youth leaders. Evidently the party for him is a substitute for a home,
which he appears not to have had in his youth or, to be more precise, his childhood, because he's just turned 23. He's going to Buenos Aires where his experience in the party will naturally come in handy. He's highly cultured and his way of confronting problems is much less dogmatic than that of other comrades.

Of those from the embassy, the one missing from the picture I've painted is Arana, an old typographer (about 50 years old), weak and lacking any ideological foundation but loyal to the party. A man of average intelligence, he nevertheless understands sufficiently that the only real road for the working class is communism.

Several days have passed with nothing new, except that Cheché caused a row with a little whore, who is a servant here, and we are locked up more securely. Now another of “the 13” is Faustino Fermán Tino, a shoemaker. A simple mind but as loyal and sincere as anyone could be; a cheerful and steady character and a skilled shoemaker—these are his best features. Tomás Yancos, one of the older compañeros at the embassy, is an enigmatic personality. Like Rivas Arroyo, who later turned traitor, it seems he's one of those who had “certain differences” with the party, even if they were compatible with the general line.

This is wrong, and Yancos has turned out to be a son of a bitch. He's a strange character, with a brusqueness that repels people, although often he seems to be in jest. Generally, he's quite unpleasant.

Several days have passed and more or less important things have happened, most of which I've forgotten now, but most significant was the flight of Lencho Méndez and Roberto Murailles.
⁷⁹
Roberto was a bit of a moron, completely impulsive and with no intellectual foundation. His loyalty is certain but nothing else I fear.

The next day, 118 refugees left in the five planes that came for them, among them Carlos Manuel Pellecer and Víctor Manuel Gutiérrez. The embassy has remained empty and I'm the only one left of the group of 13 from the kennels.

I spoke to Sánchez Toranzo and I can leave today. Varisco, a friend of Gualo García's, came on one of the planes, bringing me $150 from home, as well as two suits, four kilos of
mate
, and a mountain of useless stuff.

Of the 13, I have not yet mentioned “Figaro” Vázquez, the hairdresser, a man without much of an intellectual base but with great pretensions. He's not a bad type, but he reacts impulsively, not with revolutionary reason; everything he does is very ostentatious and he's fairly rabid. He was responsible for introducing a note of discord to the friendly atmosphere of the 13.

Humberto Pineda
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is the leader of our group as acknowledged by us all and by the embassy. He is a man who has given up his violent impulses, like those of his sons, in favor of calm and reason. His intellectual ability is not particularly great and nor is his intellectual training, but he can handle anything that is expected of him and is a good militant.

Eduardo Contreras is a teacher, small in stature and in age, a very good person, cheerful and mischievous, with a certain theoretical formation and strong practical experience. Brave and loyal. At times he's a little pedantic, but it's neither unpleasant nor offensive.

I walked to freedom with no problem and immediately paid my first visit—a romantic one. I went to sleep at old Sra. Leyva's place and visited F.U., who never sent me the article, so there is nothing concrete against me. Today I'll see if I can get my passport back, and if there's no problem tomorrow morning I'll go to check out Atitlán and Quetzaltenango. I'll borrow a camera.

Atitlán is not better than the lakes of southern Argentina—not even close. Apart from the fact that this is no time for delivering final judgments, I dare to do so anyway, as the difference is so immense. After checking out the lake, I went to Chichicastenango and learned some really fascinating things about the lives and particularly the customs of the Indians, but in doing so I drank some rum and ate who knows what, resulting in an asthma attack. I was also throwing money away, so I returned to Guatemala City. The next day I collected my passport and exit visa, and within a day I had the visa for Mexico. Today, Sunday, I've said my farewell to Guatemala with a little trip to San Juan Sacatepéquez, including a few passionate embraces and a little quickie. Tomorrow I'll say good-bye to those I want to farewell, and on Tuesday morning I'll begin the great Mexican adventure.

The first stage of the great adventure has concluded happily, and here I am installed in Mexico,
⁸¹
although I have no idea about the future. I left [Guatemala] accompanied by my slight misgivings; I reached the border where I got through ok, but the professional swindling really began on the Mexican side. I joined up with a good kid from Guatemala, an engineering student called Julio Roberto Cáceres Valle,
⁸²
who also seems to have the travel bug. I'm thinking of moving on to Veracruz to try to take the great leap from there.

We traveled to Mexico City together but now I'm on my own. Maybe he'll come back.

The only really interesting thing during the trip was an excursion to the excavations at Mitla, near Oaxaca. They are old Mixtec mines, apparently not very important, consisting of several rectangular patios surrounded by rectangular structures with rectilinear decoration.