Riot in Lima, 1962
- 11 hours ago
- 5 min read
by Vincent Guy
My first venture abroad was an exchange with young Eric de Lavigne. His mother was the worst cook in the whole of France, and he was the naughtiest nastiest boy I’ve ever met.
A lot happened to me between then and the following entry from my journal. Not only did I grow from a somewhat precocious 12-year-old into an 18-year-old young man; I travelled alone or in company to Switzerland, Austria, Sweden, Italy. I had my first serious love affair, initiated on the afternoon of my 17th birthday. I discovered the delights of Scotland, though it took me another 50 years before I moved here. In company with a county champion runner, I loped naked across the heights of the Brecon Beacons. I became a born-again Christian and went round trying to bear witness and convert people; a couple of years later I became a card-carrying atheist. I read lots of books and got a place at Oxford. On my gap year in South America, I spent 24 hours at the highest point on the road across the Andes in a broken-down bus stuck in a pothole. Now it was time to get back to England. Just had to get my money changed for the trip …
Revolution
20 July 1962
A tourist, drenched by the anti-riot hoses as he stood on the steps of the Hotel Bolívar, was heard to say:
“These Latin-American revolutions just don’t encourage sightseers from the States.”
The tourist industry is reported to be slumping. Personally, I’m enjoying it all immensely. After all, I came to see a revolution.
After six weeks bickering over who had played dirtiest in the elections, they finally decided that all three candidates had the same ballot support. At 4 am the same day 15 tanks and a suitable number of shock troops surrounded the Presidential Palace, giving two minutes for the doors to be opened. Nothing happened because their loudspeaker wasn’t strong enough; nobody heard a thing inside. However, the military were sporting enough not to blow the place sky-high as they threatened, merely broke open the gates with a tank and carted off the president, as he heroically intoned the national anthem.
John F. Kennedy (the real president of Peru?), with surprising speed, broke off diplomatic relations and suspended aid, so I nipped into town after work to change all my Peruvian currency into dollars before the market froze. The people of Lima, having spent six patriotic months shouting “Viva!” to boost the egos of the demagogues and several hours queueing in the drizzle on election day, were annoyed that a group of public-spirited generals should annul the results in defiance of the constitution.
First hint of trouble: the wiser shopkeepers removing the plate glass from their windows as they locked up. Then, entering the Plaza San Martín, I came up against the rumps of a detachment of cavalry horses standing at the ready. Shouts of “Libertad!” and “Abajo los tiranos!” (Down with the tyrants) attracted the attention of the riot squads using leather truncheons to move the crowd. A game of tag between police and mob; the cheerleaders scattered as the cops rushed them, re-forming again when the green-coated backs were turned. A dumpy Señora, fanatical supporter of some faction or other, skipped in and out slapping policemen on the back of the legs, crying “Libertad!”. Saplings, planted for the city’s embellishment by the deposed government, were ripped down for use as goads against the law. I met up with a friend of mine, Oscar, who had some experience of riots. He kindly steered me into a doorway when the stones started to fly. Neon signs were steadily eliminated by the missiles which didn’t reach the policemen‘s helmets. Oscar said it was all hooliganism and the best thing to do was keep calm and aloof. Advice soon vindicated, when an officer came working down the pavement using boot and baton to shift the crowd. To us: “Would the Señores kindly move along,” wherewith he spun round to whack a more obstinate (or less respectable) element over the skull. The poor victim scrambled up off the ground putting his glasses straight. Cries of righteous indignation.
Around the corner shoeshine stands were upended, the shiners hoisted in the air by the demonstrators. A form of protest. Oscar thought not and began arguing with some fellow onlookers. “Not right to molest innocent people“ – “Yeah, all right for you. You don’t have to sweat for a living.“
An English face appeared beside me:
“Those truly culpable are the members of the new government.“
“Or the old one for bungling the election?” I query.
His inscrutable shake of the head was swept away as everybody fled from the path of a charging bus forcing its way through, before broken glass made the streets impassable.
Sirens. “Allí viene el Rochabus!” (Here comes the Rochabus). This product of ingenious German invention is an armoured anti-riot tank with powerful hoses in place of guns. Instantly everyone scampered to the side streets. Oscar and I flattened into a shop entrance with some dozen others on top of us. The awesome Bus came screaming across the plaza, spitting furiously. A defiant soul yelled “Justicia!” (Justice) and the hose turned on him, but he merely ducked behind a car and dodged this way and that as the tank tried to get him into its sights. Then the captain noticed us and swung in our direction. The barrel pointed straight at our inadequate shelter and I fleetingly wished I hadn’t worn my best jacket. “Get out of there!,” a rough voice from within. The ladies most exposed frantically shook their fingers at the monster. “A nosotros no! Por favor!“ (Not us, please!) My left trouser leg soaked, others more gravely affected, we fled around the corner, an extra squirt encouraged the stragglers.
With tears in our eyes (Teargas Grade 3 Extra Strong), we took refuge in the entrance hall of an apartment block. Heated discussion. A Jewish Señora was defending the APRA party and a bald queer mincing out the graces of MDP. Two señoritas took affront in unison whenever Alianza Popular was criticised, while another explained that she voted for Belaúnde: “Porque es muy macho“ (because he’s very manly), “As for that Beltrán, well, he just doesn’t love the Patria.“ Shooting outside, rumble of tanks, shattering glass, more sirens. I opened the door gingerly, shut it quickly against the wafting tear gas; time enough to see cavalry charging down the Avenida, sabres drawn.
At 10 pm I slip out. Streets empty. I get a taxi home. Pass a couple of Bren-gun carriers patrolling the centre in low gear.
*Vincent sent me an excellent 2024 image of a riot in Lima as he was unable to find the black and white ones he took in 1961 (or were they ruined by water?). But the image was from Reuters and OC wishes to avoid being sued. So, I found this one for free on Pixabay. Ed.
Comments