Free Latin America Diaries by Ernesto «Che» Guevara Page A

asthma, a challenge I accept. I shall have to succeed without means and I believe I can do it, but I also think that success will be more the result of my natural qualities—which are greater than my subconscious would believe—than the faith I have in achieving it.
    Three days now and nothing new, except for an asthma attack that has confined me to “my quarters.” It’s Sunday and Hilda has gone to the port but I didn’t feel up to it. There’s nothing definite about the job, although I imagine the final result will be yes. I wish it would resolve itself one way or the other so I can work out what I’m actually doing. Financially, these months in the wilderness will serve only to leave me without debt, and with a camera. The future, in terms of the country, is unclear; I’ll have to explain this to Alberto. It seems my asthma has subsided a bit.
    If I haven’t improved much tomorrow, I won’t move […]. The question of work has not been resolved, except perhaps in principle. Within another couple of days there will be further communication, perhaps this time it will be final. We’ll see…
    Two more days in the sun; everything and nothing has happened. The job is still unresolved, although my impression is that it’s mine. I spoke to the union boss, who said he would submit a list of questions to the contractor.
    Two more days with nothing fully resolved. I’m now saying I’m going to El Petén, although I don’t have the slightest assurance that this is the case. I’m at the point of making a list of what I will need […]. I am desperate to go. Perhaps by Monday everything will besettled. Tomorrow, Myrna leaves for an adventure in Canada.
    Myrna has gone, 52 leaving behind a collection of broken hearts without knowing who she herself loves. But worse is that I don’t know if I’m leaving. Always the same uncertainty […].
    Bad news yet again. This is the story that never ends. The son of a bitch Andrade wouldn’t even see me; this morning he made me ask myself a couple of times what I really wanted to do. I’m really up in the air and don’t know what to do.
    Two more days and nothing happening. My original decision to write immediately to Dr. Aguilar 53 never materialized. I’ll only do it if they answer me today with “no” or another evasion. The lawyer García Granados was also cool. Only Julia answers me.
    Of work, fuck all. I still have Dr. Aguilar’s letter in my pocket. In a while I’ll try to see the son of a bitch Andrade and get him to tell me something. I’m guessing it’s no. I’ve got all my correspondence on hold because of this.
    Enthusiasm depends on health and circumstances; both have been failing me. The Petén job seems more and more remote. The letter has already gone to Dr. Aguilar but, of course, I haven’t received an answer. The whole thing is fucked. I don’t know what the hell to do […]. I feel like pissing off—perhaps to Venezuela.
    More days, if not ripe with results, then at least with promises. From Tiquisate, no news. From Buenos Aires, news of the death of my aunt Sara. From El Petén, I’ve stopped counting on it. From the boarding house , that I have to pay up. From the gringo, that he doesn’t like the food at his new boarding house , and that if it doesn’t improve we can swap places […]. From Sra. de Holst, that I should go and live with her. That’s a précis of my recent life.I’m practicing at the Sanidad laboratory in case they call me to Tiquisate — otherwise I’m just waiting to see what happens. I’ve promised to pay the boarding houseby Saturday for at least a month, which is just two days away, but I don’t know where that cash will come from.
    Several days have passed with a few new developments, not very important for the future, but giant news for today. Things turned ugly