by Ciro Bustos
Che called me over for a chat, to tell me of his latest plan for our escape. This time we would walk to Muyupampa, a village on the Sucre road. We would occupy the village to give us time to get food and medicine for the sick, then Debray and I would stay there and find a way to travel on by ourselves, if that was at all possible. Failing this, we would have to stay with the guerrillas until they had escaped the army dragnet and found space to dig in between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz to the north.
His assessment of the situation in the short term was pessimistic. The group’s mobility was minimal because lack of food had reduced them to a state of physical collapse, and this would not change until they contacted their urban network. Nor were there enough supplies to consider lying low until the sick could recover. With the death of Rubio, the countdown for the guerrillas had begun, and there was no hope of new recruits for quite some time. Meanwhile, behavioural problems had arisen, the thing that Che feared most. These problems would not be resolved unless he imposed the full force of his authority. The missing milk was an example of the sort of thing that could happen, and each incident was like a cancer gnawing away at revolutionary morale; if, that is, his own patience was not exhausted first. He gave the impression of having a lot of pent-up anger caused by similar events, left over from the Congo perhaps, which undermined the possibility of forging the ‘new man’ who was essential to the super-human project he dreamed of. In addition to the disputes over food, there were more serious ones about indiscipline. Che did not agree with the results of the investigation into the missing tins of milk, and doubted the accusations. He said something terrible: ‘I have no proof, and I don’t want to start shooting people like you did in Salta. But if we get out of this hole and on our feet again, I’ll crush the balls of whoever it turns out to be, even if it is a Cuban.’
It was a Cuban. So I learned nearly a year later from León when we were in jail together: a Cuban who was a terrible problem in the final stage of the march.
About this and other events he mulled over and thought worth mentioning, Che said something that should be taken into account because it suggests a reason for the inexplicable omissions in his diary: ‘I have to be careful what I write. We might be surprised at any time and backpacks containing inconvenient information could be left scattered around.’
This moment did not come until he was captured and killed while we were on trial in Camiri. But it had always been on my mind because it would have meant the end of the laboriously woven farce I had constructed after capture. The fact that he hardly said a word about me in his notes meant I was able to maintain my role as an idiot caught in a trap until the very end.
The intimate tone of the conversation, not confined to work, made me feel comfortable enough to ask a question that had occurred to me before leaving Córdoba. What would have happened if, having organised publicity beforehand, Che had flown in directly to Ezeiza airport, Buenos Aires, where hundreds of activists would be waiting for him (like a football hero or film star) to guarantee his safety and his life? Of course, I ventured, he would immediately have been arrested. But that would have been illegal since there were no charges against him in Argentina, and his arrival would have demonstrated how his charismatic presence could mobilize hundreds of thousands of potential young revolutionaries in a flash. Or maybe not? Che looked at me searchingly and, before walking off towards his hammock, replied in a hoarse voice: ‘I don’t believe in science fiction.’
We stayed in the Base Camp for two more days before leaving it for the exclusive use of the army. These were tense and silent working days for Che and his officers. Telepathic communication seemed to be sending out the same nostalgic messages. Tania, who was having serious difficulty keeping up on the marches, probably because of parasites, talked about La Paz and her favourite café. Papi talked about how he avoided taking taxis in La Paz since he seemed more Cuban than usual in a taxi. The Bolivians talked about the fabulous spicy chicken dishes at food stalls in the market. I had become good friends with one of them, a young doctor called Mario Gutiérrez Ardaya, aka Julio, and we would sit and chat whenever we could. I remember his warmth and humanity, more of an apostle than a fighter.
We left at dawn, following the course of the Ñanchuazú upriver. Tania and Alejandro, who were ill and therefore unable to stand the pace, walked separately with two compañeros in support. At nightfall, we bought abundant amounts of food from a hamlet: pork and corn, and some potatoes for a change. Hidden in the forest, we sat around an overflowing stockpot and had an ‘end of festival’ banquet that took us all night to finish.
The following day, Che decided to divide up his forces, for two unavoidable reasons: first, so that the sick could rest, and second so we could move on more quickly to the village of Muyupampa where they could buy supplies and finally offload the burden of us visitors. It is tempting to speculate now about what effect Che splitting off from a third of his force might have had on the final catastrophe. We passed the confluence of rivers where (as when roads converge) people are most likely to settle, and had to take extra precautions not to be detected.
The next morning we came to another larger hamlet where several bridle paths crossed. We posted guards in all directions, resulting in the capture of various peasants. We wanted information, so we had to detain them while we cooked, to stop them giving our presence away. This precaution was a bit tardy because over the previous couple of days quite a few children and adults had managed to slip away.
At midday, one of the guards apprehended what Che called a ‘Greek Gift’: an Englishman guided by some Guaraní children who had run off three days earlier when the guerrillas passed their house. The astute Englishman had found them when they reached the village of Lagunillas and persuaded them to re-trace their steps that same night.
The so-called Englishman was George Andrew Roth, a freelance Anglo-Chilean photographer, who had accompanied the army to the Base Camp when it made its first incursion. He was a maverick, intrepid and enthusiastic, interested only in a scoop to enhance his journalistic reputation. He arrived in the dark grey summer suit, white nylon shirt, and blue tie he had been wearing in Santiago de Chile when he heard the news that guerrillas were operating in Bolivia. With just his camera bag and a toothbrush for luggage, he got on the first plane to Buenos Aires and introduced himself to the US news channel CBS who gave him an advance to travel to Ñancahuazú.
In La Paz, he went to Army Command headquarters and managed to get himself a permit, signed by General Juan José Torres, which allowed him into the zone of operations as a war correspondent. While we were trying to escape via Gutiérrez, he was at the Base Camp. When the Guaraní children appeared in the village of Lagunillas where the army was billeted, he immediately hired a horse from them and offered them money to take him to the guerrillas, avoiding the army cordon. This was despite the fact that the already restrictive security measures imposed by the army had been tightened since the disaster of 10 April. And here he was, in his city suit and tie, wearing slip-on shoes, his legs dangling down the flanks of his horse. He had done what we had failed to do: connect with the local population, make them serve as guides, and break through the military cordon.
The first thing Roth asked was if he could interview the guerrilla leader, and if he was in fact Che Guevara, a rumour circulating round the army. Roth recounted in detail his stay at the Base Camp with the troops, the discovery of Braulio’s diary, the alleged photograph of Che with a pipe, the discovery of the Cubans’ luggage hidden at the finca and Tania’s jeep in Camiri. A depressing scenario. The discovery of the jeep meant Tania’s cover was blown, as were her years of working as a mole to embed herself in the ranks of the government, the armed forces and the security services. One thing was clear. The guerrillas were no more than what they appeared: a group of sick, exhausted men, alone against the state.
Che discussed our escape with me again. He said that Debray had outlined a plan whereby we could use the Englishman to make our escape, t
aking advantage of his status as a bona fide journalist, with a safe-conduct from the military top brass. But there was the problem of the Englishman’s real identity and whether we could trust him. Among his papers and documents were personal details showing that in Puerto Rico he had at one stage belonged to the Peace Corps, a US civil society organization used by the State Department and the CIA to penetrate indigenous Latin American communities (they were active in much of Bolivia, inspired by Kennedy’s Alliance for Progress). His passport had been altered from student to journalist. He had lived in the United States. He was English. He was Chilean. He was a photographer. The guerrillas suspected he was an infiltrator, so I questioned the plan and said to Che, ‘What’s the point of putting ourselves into the hands of an enemy agent? Nevertheless, Ramón, I shall follow your orders.’
We left it there for the time being; the outcome would depend on Debray’s conversation with Roth. He would ask him to help us find a way out in exchange for an interview with the Bolivian chief, Inti. The negotiation went ahead and Debray thought Roth was sincere, that his willingness to take risks on our behalf was genuine. He had weighed everything up and wanted to be the Herbert Matthews of Ñancahuazú. It sounded credible. Che noted in his diary: ‘Carlos reluctantly accepts’.
So we re-organised the escape. Che wrote an apocryphal interview text, which, if everything turned out well, Roth would know was his. We had said goodbye to Tania, Alejandro and Joaquín, Negro, the doctor, Braulio, Marcos and some of the Bolivians, Moisés, Pedro, Ernesto (also a doctor), Apolinario, Walter, Victor and also to the resaca, Pepe, Paco, Eusebio and Chingolo, who remained behind under the second-in-command, Joaquín.
We carried on marching till dusk, when the middle section set up camp and the vanguard went ahead to explore the area until they found a track. While I shaved and changed my appearance from filthy militiaman to a supposed journalist, who was nearly as scruffy, another argument arose between myself and Inti. Che asked Pombo how much Bolivian money there was so that he could give me some to replace my funds and my Buenos Aires tourist clothes which I had left in Tania’s jeep. I had to get to La Paz and then travel on to Argentina looking reasonably presentable. Pombo had 5,000 Bolivian pesos available. Inti said that was extravagant. It did not seem very much to me, since there was transport to be paid for and eventually bribes at some point. Inti trivialised the problem: ‘In this country, you can buy a general for 400 pesos.’ I told him that was a stupid underestimate, since even before firing a single shot, Tania had given a 500 peso bribe plus expenses to the driver who brought us from Sucre to Camiri. And now the whole area was at war. I had to get out of there, and I could not bribe by credit card. Che agreed with me and Pombo gave me the 5,000 pesos. In Che’s diary entry of 21 March he wrote: ‘I will give 500 pesos to send off and 1,000 to get around with’, but he is talking about the dollars needed for Argentina, not about local necessities in Bolivian pesos. And anyway, the amount was increased, without my saying a word, to 2,000 dollars. He said, ‘I think 2,000 dollars should do it.’
It was a very cold night and, without a jacket, my clothes were not warm enough. I looked suspicious, so Che spontaneously presented me with his jacket, an imitation sheepskin with an artificial wool lining, made in Czechoslovakia. It was the one he was wearing when he arrived in Bolivia and in the photo of him and Tuma beside the jeep, waiting to board the barge en route from Santa Cruz to Gutiérrez. In this jacket, I changed from criminal to construction engineer. Papi and Pombo were present when Che gave me my last instructions and we had our last conversation. He said he was almost certain we would be arrested, but since the opportunity to get out had arisen, we should take it. He had thought of giving me a pistol, but if we were detained, it would be worse for me. Che said: ‘You take command of the group and go over the hills. Try to avoid villages and walk at night. Mount a rearguard guerrilla action. If you manage to get out of the military zone, go as far away as you can in whichever direction possible. If you’re arrested, the most important thing is to conceal the presence of Cubans here and my presence too, for the time being.’
He thought for a moment, his fingers stroking his beard, then with a gesture of disdain, as if he were chucking ideas into the rubbish bin, he said in a loud voice: ‘But, if you see they know everything, go for it, try and make as much noise as possible. So I can be myself again, and wear my beret.’
Returning to Che’s diary, what relation do those words of advice, and his concern that I might be cold, bear to what he writes on 30 April in his monthly analysis: ‘Danton and Carlos were victims of their haste, their desperation to leave’?
We embraced again in silence. I turned and walked to where Papi, Chino, Pombo, Urbano and Tuma were waiting their turn to say goodbye.
34
Under Arrest in Muyupampa: 20 April 1967
Some nights when the moon is full, the light on open ground is so clear you can read a newspaper. So, emerging suddenly from the dense forest, to drop down into the valley, I could see obstacles on the path quite clearly. It gave the landscape an eerie quality, like a black and white film, and together with the relative silence of the jungle, heightened the drama of our march.
At midnight, when the group accompanying us reached the path to Muyupampa (the village we intended to capture), they made contact with our advance guard who told them a couple of things that forced a change of plan. The tip of the advance guard had bumped into a group of village people patrolling the area on a self-defence mission. They were quickly disarmed and provided some valuable information. The reason they had mobilized was to act as a buffer between the army, which had occupied the village, and the guerrillas. They wanted to avoid any confrontation that might bring death and destruction to the village. Miguel, commander of the vanguard operation, set up an ambush, assigned the prisoners to Inti, and sent Ñato to inform Che.
When the rest of us arrived, we made a mistake that was to have serious consequences. In the light of the splendid moon, we saw the prisoners talking animatedly to Inti, trying to convince him of their good faith. We did not immediately realize that by the same token they could see us in the exact same detail. Inti tried to repair the damage and, having explained that we three ‘journalists’ were also prisoners of the guerrillas, ordered the two groups to be separated, on different sides of the path. Ñato returned a couple of hours later with Che’s latest orders. The operation was to be abandoned again, given that a dozen men could not fight a whole company of soldiers for a village without knowing where its sympathies lay. Che ordered the Englishman released, and left it up to Debray and myself to decide our course of action before the guerrillas withdrew from the area. Inti took the two of us aside and explained the choice we had: go back with them, or stay and try to make it out ourselves.
Che wrote a personal diary in all his campaigns, and his ‘Bolivian Diary’ has become a cult document and a testimony of irrefutable historical value. But a diary is only a diary; a mere a record of circumstances, emotions and everyday events. It reflects feelings rather than rigorous political, military or moral judgements, a task he would leave as far as he could to the future, as he did with his diaries from the Sierra Maestra and the Congo. They were intimate jottings, written not to be published but for him to evaluate by himself at a later date. Although he took precautions in case it got lost – as he himself told me – he was not worried about semantic exactitude or strict logic. There were occasions where his honesty even made him doubt the justice of his own actions, if there was not enough proof to back them up, but this did not prevent him using irony and humour. Che had seen my reaction to Debray’s plan to leave with Roth, but he did not see Debray’s reaction now, there on the side of the path. He was not there to see it. He was told about it. But he was told wrong.
If we consult Che’s diary, when he explains the exit plan, it says as follows: ‘The Frenchman asked to talk the problem [our leaving] over with the Englishman and as a sign of good faith, ask him to help get us out: Carlos acce
pted grudgingly and I washed my hands of it.’ The same day, 19 April, he writes: ‘Ñato reported to me at 1 o’clock … He asked for instructions and I told them to withdraw, given that it was now late, to release the English journalist, and let the Frenchman and Carlos do whatever they thought best. At four o’clock we began to withdraw even though we had not achieved our goal, but Carlos decided to stay and so did the Frenchman, this time it was he who did it grudgingly.’ What actually happened was that, for Inti, Debray was not only a philosopher but also French, whereas I was only an Argentine – nothing strange in that, the whole Latin American Left, the Argentines included, would react the same way in the short term. So he goes up to Debray to explain Che’s orders. But Debray (I can still see his face lit by the moonlight) says: ‘I agree with whatever Carlos decides.’ He passes the ball to me, and not for the last time. So it is my opinion Inti hears. And my opinion is that the guerrillas are making a great deal of frustrating and exhausting effort just to get us out, because we have missions to carry out on the outside. What is difficult now after the recent battles will get more and more difficult as the army turns the whole area into a military zone. If we have to leave, we have to do it now, it is our last chance. Che has given me urgent orders and, to my mind, that is because they need to be carried out straight away. At the same time, I tell Inti: ‘These guys have seen our faces, you can’t release them at the same time as us.’ Inti assured me he would bear it in mind and promised to hold them until Che gave orders to the contrary. I added: ‘If the village is a couple of leagues away, we need a few hours start.’