CARMELITA AND EL TIGRE

by Jack Ewing

“Baarooom” resounded the hollow buttress-root of the Chilamate tree with each blow of the thick branch. Carmelita wasn’t sure which was louder, the “baarooom” of wood against wood or her pounding heart. Again she struck the hollow root. “Baarooom.”

“Carmela honey,” her father’s voice penetrated the darkness before his silhouette came into view. “What’s wrong? What’s all the noise.”
“Oh daddy,” she cried, “thank god you’ve come. It’s el tigre come to eat our pigs, and probably me too. It was my turn to guard them. I tried to scare him away, but he keeps coming closer.”

The elder Morales took the club from her hand and struck the root, “baarooooom ... baaroooom ... baaroooom.” He paused to listen. Nothing. “Baarooooom ... baaroooom ... baaroooom.” Another pause. Again he hefted the stout stick, but before he could swing, the jaguar’s snarl, ripped from within the jungle, through the coal black night, close-by, too close. He began shouting, “Go away devil cat. Leave our pigs alone.”

Carmela saw the torches first. “Daddy, everyone’s coming, look!” Her uncle was in the lead followed by a cousin, her mother and aunt. All were carrying short sticks tufted with dry, frazzled pulp from the chonta palm and dipped in fat, flames dancing off the ends. They surrounded the group of 19 pigs and sang and shouted at el tigre. Again her father struck the root. “Barooom ... barooom.” Time passed; the small group continued their vigil. Finally came the mighty roar of el tigre, this time from far away. “There’ll be another time,” it seemed to bellow. Carmelita’s father patted her head. “You’ve done your job well, honey. Go get some sleep now.”

Nine year old Carmela Morales was traveling with her father, two uncles, an aunt, and three cousins. They were herding 19 pigs from their home in Boruca to the market town of San Marcos de Tarrazu, near Cartago. The incident described above took place in Barú, where two rivers meet, in the year 1909. It wasn’t the only occasion when the jaguar tormented their camp. In fact, before the trip was over, el tigre would pick-off, one by one, eight of the 19 pigs including the only two belonging to Carmela’s family.
Carmelita’s size belied her strength. She left Boruca bearing half a quintal (50 Lbs) of corn to feed the family’s pigs during the journey. Each day, as the grain was consumed, her burden lessened slightly. The mud was sometimes so deep and Carmela’s load so heavy that she sank to mid-thigh in the mire, yet she never dropped the corn and never complained.

From Barú they walked inland and upward to the Valley of the General, (current day San Isidro,) and from there over the Cerro de la Muerte. One of the Carmela’s uncles was bitten by a poisonous snake called a “lora” near División, and died two days later. Three weeks from the day they began their ordeal the tired and bedraggled bunch of Borucans arrived at the bustling market town of San Marcos with 11 pigs. All that remained for Carmelita to sell was 12 kilos (25 pounds) of corn, and that only because of the loss of the two pigs that would have eaten it.

Carmela received five centimos for her corn, one-twentieth of a colon. Her father let her spend it all. “You carried the corn, the money’s yours.” San Marcos was a fascinating place with so much to see and buy. Finally she decided to spend her ¢0.05 on two kilos of salt and some candies for her mother and a necklace of pretty stones for herself. The group of Boruca Indians left San Marcos three days later with all the merchandise they could carry. They had driven a hard bargain on the pigs and finally settled on a price of ¢1.25 for each one. Salt, machetes and other iron tools were their primary purchases.

Carmela Morales reached home again 47 days from the day she had left Boruca on that grand adventure. She passed away in Boruca 84 years later in 1993. None of her friends or family can remember ever hearing her complain about anything during the entire 93 years of her life.

{Author’s Note: The bulk of this history was recounted to me by Marina and Margarita Morales, granddaughters of the late Carmela Morales Morales. The basic facts are accurate, and the people are real, but a few of the details, such as thoughts and conversation which were included for the purpose of making the story more readable, are products of my imagination.

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