Tales from Argentina - The River as Legend (Part 2 of 2)

Link to "The River" Part 1:  Click HERE

http://www.free-extras.com/images/puma_jumping-8690.htm

A strange bond formed between the female and the Spanish woman over the next few days.   The puma merely tolerated her at first, but as the woman never tried to get any closer, clearly found her presence comforting.  Game was plentiful in the area and it was too soon for the cubs to need this sort of sustenance, so the animal would allow La Maldonado to finish whatever meat she didn’t want. 

http://www.bradspictures.com/animals/2485/puma.html

One day a small group of natives passed by the other side of the stream and were awed to see a white woman accompanied by a puma and two cubs across the stretch of water.  They were filled with respect for this woman who did not fear wild animals.

However she was not as lucky on the next occasion when a larger group of natives appeared and scared off the pumas, taking her captive. 

She was held prisoner at their camp for many months.  There are several documented stories of Europeans being held captive by native populations in that part of the country, and the life was brutal and harsh, with few opportunities to escape, particularly for women. 

This was the fate of La Maldonado, until one day when she was out collecting firewood and she came upon a troop of Spanish soldiers who were out foraging for food. 

She was taken back to the fort, but her relief at being back with her own people was short-lived.  She was put on trial for having gone beyond the boundaries of the fort months before, and worse, had gone to live with ‘savages’.  The punishment imposed upon her was terrible:  she was tied to a tree by the river and left for the pumas to devour her, or to die from hunger and thirst. 

The evening brought relief from the hot sun, but in a haze she saw that there were pumas approaching to drink from the river, and that they had spotted her.  One of them roared, and as she had done many times before, she prepared herself for the end; then as if in a dream she saw in the twilight the shadow of another one attacking it and scaring it off.  Three shadows approached her as she sagged half-fainting against her tethers – she saw the fiery eyes looking at her, she smelt their breath.  What she felt next was not their teeth and claws upon her body, but the sensation of a rough, warm tongue licking her feet. 
.Photo by Charles Blair

Three days later the Spanish soldiers returned to the river, and they found the woman barely alive still tied to the tree, and around her three pumas were lying quietly, one female and two younger animals. 

The older creature went for the soldiers as they approached, for they were clearly guarding the woman.  Shots fired into the air made them flee, and the men untied La Maldonado.  Sadly by this time she was so near death that she expired in the arms of one of the soldiers.  As they rode back to the fort with her body, in the distance they heard the lament of the pumas for their brave benefactress.

She was given a Christian burial and pardoned posthumously because it was judged that she had served her punishment by having tamed the wild animals around her, and it was decreed that henceforth the river would be named the Maldonado.

The river flowed on, and as the population increased so did the disasters when it habitually burst its banks.  It became a repository for rubbish and frequented by very large rats; during periods of heavy rainfall a large, dirty lake would form, making it unhealthy and dangerous, all of which seriously devalued the area. 

A local recalled that when the Maldonado flooded they would hear the sound of police- men’s whistles, and the fire brigade would arrive with boats.  People would have to climb on to the roofs of their homes because the water would rise by 2 metres – and this happened many times a year.  The renown Argentine writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges lived as a child in Palermo, a prosperous suburb near this river, and in his stories he mentions the undesirable characters that operated at the water’s edge and the brothels that proliferated there.  Its colour was described as grey.

The flooding problem was finally tackled by the government during the late 1920’s and by the mid 1930’s the stretch of river that flowed through the centre of the city had been enclosed in a culvert, and a road built over the top.  This did not solve the problem altogether however, and in the 1990’s its capacity was augmented by the construction of two supplementary tunnels on either side of the main riverbed and 15 metres beneath it, and this work is still unfinished.

Pumas no longer frequent these areas so close to population; these days they are normally to be found in Patagonia and other lonelier mountainous areas of the country.

-oOo-

Photo Finish

from Lonicera's non-digital archive

Flora & Fauna

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Tales from Argentina – The River as Legend (Part 1 of 2)

When I was investigating another story I came across this legend, and wondered if you would find it as moving and interesting as I did.  The pictures I've used to illustrate the story are all taken in Argentina as far as I know, and are from Google.

Argentina’s capital Buenos Aires was founded in February 1536 by Spanish conquistador Don Pedro de Mendoza. 

It failed because he and the members of his expedition ill-treated the local native population, the Querandíes,

who, having initially been friendly and shared their meagre supplies of food, as a result of the mal- treatment by the Spaniards turned against them and attacked the fort over and over again until it had to be abandoned because the starving inhabitants could bear it no longer. 

Mendoza set sail for Spain the following year but died of syphilis en route.  Buenos Aires was not settled successfully for another 44 years.

But to go back to their first days, it is thought that when he set foot on the shores of the River Plate in late 1535

the view that confronted Don Pedro de Mendoza must have been a vast plain crossed by streams and small rivers, among which was the river subject of this story.  Some 24 km in length and flowing southeast into the River Plate basin and thereafter the Atlantic, its peculiar characteristic was that it would suddenly swell to many times its size after a heavy rainfall, and burst its banks turning the surrounding countryside into a floodplain.

Thus it was destined in the future to mark the northern boundary of the city of Buenos Aires for generations to come, and bullock carts forced to cross it would have to do so by travelling great distances to one of the few bridges, or by fording it at a reasonable location. 

The Maldonado got its name as the result of a sad and extraordinary alleged series of events which took place at its banks. La Maldonado was a Spanish woman who had travelled with the Mendoza expedition.  At first she lived in the fort erected by the Spaniards, around which a mud wall had been built to provide a measure of protection against native incursions. 

Its effectiveness was limited by the heavy rainfalls which partly melted the wall each time, but the authorities forbade the inhabitants to cross the boundary, meting out severe punishment to all those who infringed the rule. 

However, as the food stores eventually dwindled, La Maldonado and the other women were starving and in despair, for there was no prospect of the situation improving or being able to return home to Spain.  With her companions starting to die one by one, La Maldonado decided that she preferred to die fighting. 

She defied the order and at nightfall climbed over the wall and escaped onto the plain.  She walked for many hours until she came to a large stream, and after slaking her thirst noticed a cave nearby, where she sought refuge.  She crawled in, fainting with hunger and exhaustion, and fell into a deep sleep.

Two powerful factors made her wake suddenly in the night: the fierce roar of a puma and the smell of raw meat nearby.  She started up with fear and saw a female puma lying watching her from a corner of the cave,

http://www.olivewhite.com/shop/category/animals-and-wildlife/mammals/pumas/

and not far from where La Maldonado was lying, a piece of meat.  Hunger overcame every other instinct, and moving cautiously she took the meat and ate ravenously.  Exhaustion overcame her and she fell asleep once more.  Some time later she was awakened again by the roar of the puma, except that this time it was the sound of an animal in pain. The animal had left the cave and was lying outside, clearly in the midst of a difficult labour. 

La Maldonado had on many occasions assisted the women at the fort to give birth, and realising what the problem was, quietly approached the puma.  The female was too preoccupied to offer any resistance, and after a struggle with the woman’s help her two cubs were born and she placed them gently by their mother’s body where they could suckle.  The roars of pain had by this time given way to gentle mewing as she licked her new cubs, and keeping absolutely still the woman watched this moving scene.

http://animals.timduru.org/dirlist/puma%20cougar/

In a few days I'll post Part 2, telling about the ordeals La Maldonado had yet to face.

-oOo-

Photo Finish:

from Lonicera's non-digital archives

Clevedon & Portishead, Somerset

Clevedon Pier

Link to The River, Part 2 of 2:  Click HERE

Link back to most current post:  Click HERE

-oOo-

Tales from Argentina – The Headmistress

Mum died four years ago today.   She was 84 and like most people she was grateful for the good times and endured the hard, and she had plenty of both.   I think of her every day – I don’t need anniversaries – and today particularly I’ve been reviewing my lighter memories of her.  This is one of them.

I hope to recount more stories about her in the future on this blog, and about other subjects too.  Sometimes they’ve been told to me, or I’ve remembered them from younger days; and there will be others which I have found on Spanish language websites under the general heading of what I think of as Tales from Argentina.  So it’s fair to say that I’ll generally be re-telling someone else’s story in my own words, with acknowledgments at the end where applicable.  Not in this case though: this is from my own memory.

My mother was headmistress of the bilingual private school I attended between 1967 and 1971, St Andrews Scots School for Girls, Buenos Aires. As with most bilingual schools in Argentina, the day was divided squarely in half – in the morning all subjects were covered in the Spanish language, leading to a final baccalaureate in a dozen subjects; in the afternoon the studies in English led to O’levels.


To attempt to deliver a truly bilingual education the split in languages was enforced as strictly as possible. Woe betide anyone caught by any of the teachers, or – worse – by the Dragon herself, speaking Spanish in the afternoon. Order marks and conduct marks would be dished out like sweets.

Mum on the right, middle row

Me on the left, front row.

(The only one with non-skinny legs!)

(Sandy has pointed out in a comment that we're the only ones

not smiling... I'd never noticed!!)

Mum occupied this post for some 20 years or so, and unusually for Argentina, being fully qualified in both languages she headed both the morning and afternoon sessions.  When duties allowed she therefore haunted the corridors, keeping an eye on discipline and bringing someone up short for speaking Spanish when they shouldn’t, not having their long hair tied back properly or – gasp – wearing makeup.

Many of the schoolchildren who passed through the gates on her watch told me after her  death how this approach to discipline had helped them retain their knowledge of English; they remembered her ethics and her enforcement of respect towards their teachers and each other, and were at pains to tell me that they had passed these principles on to their own children.  I knew what they meant, and was comforted.

But Mum wasn’t averse to using unusual methods to achieve what she wanted, and on one occasion she used graphology – the study of handwriting. 

This quote from Wikipedia is how graphology is viewed today:

“Graphology has been controversial for more than a century. Although supporters point to the anecdotal evidence of thousands of positive testimonials as a reason to use it for personality evaluation, most empirical studies fail to show the validity claimed by its supporters.”

I don’t doubt that at the very least some characteristics must be detectable - my sister studied graphology at an evening class for a time and submitted samples of my left and right-handed handwriting, which look very different ...  (right hand top, left hand bottom)

...but the teacher saw through this straight away and announced this was the same person who had written it. 

The case in question was different.  The senior school was going through a phase of pilfering; pupils’ more interesting belongings were disappearing from their padlocked lockers in the mornings, and no amount of hectoring by the Head at morning assembly made the slightest difference.  As the irate parents beating a path to the headmistress’s door became a steady trickle, it prompted her to take action. 

Tía Susana was an aunt by marriage, a kindly, very wise old lady who had an unnervingly shrewd way of looking you up and down when you went to visit her.  It was done in a nice way, but was nevertheless a sharp appraisal.  She had studied graphology as a young woman, and had often been called upon to analyse handwriting.  On this occasion she offered to perform the service for free, so a project was set up whereby the 80 or so senior pupils were asked to write a couple of paragraphs about their views on the new dining-room.  They were not told why they were doing this (an important detail, according to Tía Susana) and to preserve anonymity they were given numbers, Mum being the only person who could match them up with the names.

Tía Susana produced a brief thumbnail sketch of a few words about each pupil – all positive - but highlighted on a separate list for Mum’s eyes only those who possibly had a latent instinct which could lead to such misdemeanours as pilfering.  Mum then handed out to each participant the slips of paper with their individual thumbnail sketches, explaining that she had been trying out a new idea.  There was much animated discussion at break-time on how accurate the graphologist had been, and I myself was pleased that she had said I was musical and that I had a well-developed instinct for communicating in the right way with a variety of people…

Of the 80 pupils, Mum was left with a shortlist of 6 names, from which she knew she could eliminate three because they were English–only speakers who did not attend school in the morning.  The remaining three were summoned one by one to her office for a lengthy chat.  She never told me what transpired at these meetings, but one of the three tearfully owned up.  Of wealthy parents, the child felt very left out because they gave her no pocket money, so she preferred to help herself (and no doubt there were other issues in the background we didn’t know about).  She did not know how to pick padlocks, but waited until someone had not put it back on properly.  She would snap the lock securely shut when she had taken what she wanted, so the pupil never knew that she had unwittingly assisted the thief.

A lucky strike?  Maybe this is just the “positive testimonial” referred to by Wikipedia above, or maybe there’s something to graphology.  It still remains to be proven either way.

This picture was with my mothers photographs,

and it says in my handwriting on the back

"This was after the limerick!"

-oOo-

Photo Finish:
from Lonicera's non-digital archives

Chiva and Valencia in winter

The log fire at my parents' home

An orange grove at Christmas time

Valencia clock tower - one of many

Toy windmills on the sea front

A shop front - you could buy pictures,

shawls and mantillas

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Anyone heard of Anchor butter?

Another of John's poems, and his explanatory note.  He's got a thing about Anchor butter, which I love but am not allowed to buy.  Goodness knows what flavour he picks up.  By the way, no offence to any New Zealander I hope!

The very likeable tea lady of advanced years who used to bring me my lunch when I was in the office had a nice sense of humour and I don’t think she minded my plea about my pet hate – Anchor Butter.

To Doris

by Roland Butter, pp John Humphreys

20/02/1981

Please pardon a humble suggestion

Which I hope will be read without rancour:

For the sake of my ageing digestion

Could our butter be other than “Anchor”?

I’m not for a moment ungrateful;

You’ve served up whatever I’ve fancied –

With goodies galore by the plateful,

Yet with butter that always seems rancid.

Your bananas are curved to perfection,

The Ryvita a crisp golden-brown,

I’m thrilled with the sild and the salads you build

- And your tongue is the talk of the town!

So don’t think me churlish, I pray,

Nor raise an indignant commotion;

But the place for an Anchor, I’d say,

Is deep in the bed of an ocean.

-oOo-

Photo Finish -

From Lonicera's archives

Studies

The Pianist

The Singer

The Sheep Farmer

The Goat Farmer

The Poet

The Kids

The Ruler of the Roost

The Grandaughter

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