April 2, 2006

Dear Colleague,

    In 1951, twenty-three year old Ernesto Guevara, a medical student near the end of his studies, jumped on a beat-up motorbike and together with his friend Alberto Granada embarked on a 5,000 km journey up-and-down the wilds of South America. Why he never made plain. When the two friends met a couple of Chilean mine workers on the road searching for work, Ernesto shared his blanket with them in the bitterly cold desert night but, despite this act of friendship, couldn't help feeling that the workers viewed him with disdain for his aimless travel. The miners had to be on the road to find work, whereas the two young Argentineans, for all the hardships they endured, were on a lark that was not untypical of upper-middle-class youths whether they lived in North or South America.

    I enjoyed the movie The Motorcycle Diaries, who had the "ravingly beautiful" (New Yorker's words) Gael Garcia Bernal playing Ernesto and the stupendous landscapes of South America--endless pampas, searing desert, towering mountains, icy plateaus, and mosquito-infested rain forest--serving as backdrop. So I decided to read the diaries, republished in 2004 to coincide with the release of the movie. What a strange man Ernesto was! A sufferer of asthma since childhood, he was often sick on the road, and yet, when he did not have to struggle for the next breath, he was infused with the spirit of adventure and bursting with sheer physical vitality. A good and serious student who aspired to be a medical researcher, yet couldn't see himself chained to a life of test tubes and books. A man of action, he was also a poet. "The mountains, where not a single blade of grass can grow in the nitrate soil, are defenseless against attacks of wind and water. They display their gray spine, prematurely aged in the battle with the elements, and their wrinkles that do not correspond to their true geological age. And how many of those mountains surrounding their famous brother enclose in their heavy entrails similar riches [copper], as they wait for the soulless arms of the mechanical shovels to devour their insides, spiced as they would be with the lives of the poor, unsung heroes of this battle, who die miserably in one of the thousand traps set by nature to defend its treasures?" And I can't help asking, How many geographers can be as concise and eloquent?

    Ernesto and Alberto frequently had to beg a ride in the trucks that plied the back roads of Chile and Peru. On one truck, they were penned in with ten young bulls. They did not complain. However, when they were penned in with workers, Ernesto--the great revolutionary of the future--had this to say. "The night was magnificent, if terribly cold, and we were granted the privilege of some planks to sit on, separating us from the foul-smelling, flea-ridden human flock below us, their potent but warm stink a virtual lasso."

    Where did pity for the down-trodden come from? Alberto had the same experiences but saw no need to change society. At Cuzco, Peru, the young men received hospitality from a rancher. When they left for the next stage of their journey, they were provided with two horses and a Quecha-speaking guide. The rich rancher insisted that the young men load their bags on the shoulder of the guide, who traveled on foot. It just seemed natural for the rich to treat the poor as beasts of burden. "We waited until the first bend erased us from sight and took our bags from our guide, whose enigmatic face revealed nothing of whether or not he appreciated the gesture." With such gestures, an "icon of the century" (Time magazine) was born.

Best wishes,

Yi-Fu