ANTENOR AND THE TARANTULA

ANTENOR AND THE TARANTULA
C 2011 JOJO

From 1945 to 1950, my family and I lived in Morro Velho, a gold mining town located in the State of Minas Gerais. The State’s name says it all – General Mines. It’s an area of Brazil that is fabulously rich in gold, silver, manganese, asbestos and just about every precious and semi precious stone you can imagine.

Morro Velho is located about 60 kms from Belo Horizonte, the capital of the State. It is extremely mountainous – everywhere we went, we were either walking UPhill, or DOWNhill, but rarely on any flat bits. What was worse, there was absolutely no public transportation – we had to walk everywhere! I swear this is why I hate walking to this day!

At that time, the gold mine was owned by an English Company named the St. John Del Rey Mining Company. All the pit bosses and superintendents were English – originating mostly from the counties of Cornwall and Durham in England. The actual miners who did the donkey work,were Brazilians.

Our house was situated at the top of a hill (of course) and it had truly beautiful gardens surrounding it. We hired a man named Antenor to take care of it for us.

Antenor was a character! I loved watching him working industriously in the garden every morning, his deft hands pulling out the weeds, or his muscles rippling as he turned the earth with a spade. Antenor worked three jobs – well he had to because every year his wife produced another offspring to the Antenor household. At the time he worked for us, she’d had twelve kids, with a thirteenth on the way. Antenor seemed to be happy with this arrangement – he felt he had a duty to mankind to produce as many progeny as possible. I somehow doubt Mrs. Antenor shared this sentiment!

I was fascinated by Antenor’s wonderful stories. He hailed from a distant village in the State located high in the mountains, where (according to him) everyone lived to a ripe old age! “My grandmother was the local midwife,” he told me, “But she had to give it up when she turned 95, in order to look after her mother!”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed. “If your grandmother is 95, how old is her mother?”

Antenor stopped digging, scratched his head and thought for a while. “She’s 115,” he replied “But she’s slowing down a bit these days.” I should think so!

One day stands out in my memories of Antenor. It was the Saturday before Easter Sunday. In Brazil this day is called “Holy Saturday.” Antenor was up to his elbows in weeds, while I sat perched on a nearby garden bench, watching him work, and chatting up a storm. Suddenly he let out a loud yell. Pulling his left hand violently from the weeds he flung a tarantula onto the garden pathway. Swearing volubly, he said “That bastard bit me.”

Well, I was concerned. Tarantulas are poisonous, and while their venom isn’t as powerful as that of many snakes, it’s still nasty.

“Antenor,” I said, “Hadn’t you better get yourself to the hospital and get an anti venon shot?”

Antenor threw his head backwards and laughed. “Goodness me child, I’ve been bitten by hundreds of tarantulas. It hurts, but that’s all it does.” He straightened up and came and sat next to me on the bench. “Besides, I’ve been bitten by much worse.”

“Really?” I gasped. “What?”

Antenor reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Lighting one he breathed in the smoke with pleasure and exhaled it.

“Well, Joaninha, one day I was walking in the woods, and I got bitten by a snake called Dourado (Golden). When you get bitten by a Dourado, it’s venom makes you go instantly blind.”

“Oh no!” I cried. “That’s terrible! So what did you DO?”

Antenor took another puff of his cigarette. “I was stumbling around in the woods, unable to see a thing. I don’t mind telling you, I thought I was going to die, and all I could think of was my wife and ten kids (that’s all we had at that time) and how on earth she was going to manage to feed them all. As I was stumbling around, desperately trying to find my way, I got bitten by ANOTHER snake, and the venom of this snake, counteracted the poison of the Dourado, and my eyesight came back. So then I went home.”

I was impressed. “What was the name of the second snake?” I asked.

“Damned if I know – I was blind at the time, remember?”

Antenor got up and went over to where the tarantula sat on the pathway. Hands on his hips, he stood and looked down at it, doing nothing. “Aren’t you going to kill it?” I asked anxiously.

“Can’t,” he replied. “Today is Holy Saturday and the priest at my Church (Antenor was a good Catholic) instructed us that we must not harm a living creature until the bell tolls in the Church tower at 11.00 a.m.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only 10.30, so I’ll have to wait. He sat down on the bench again, keeping close tabs on the tarantula.

And so we sat, Antenor and I, waiting for the church bells to toll at 11.00. In retrospect, we must’ve made an interesting tableau. Antenor, the gardener, with leathery skin burned brown due to constant exposure to the tropical sun, and me, an 8 year old platinum blond, blue eyed girl.

At 11.00, the Church bells tolled. Antenor threw down his cigarette stub, walked over to the tarantula and stomped on it. “Take THAT you s.o.b.!” he cried triumphantly.

Antenor was an integral, dearly loved part of my childhood, and I spent many happy hours listening to his wonderful stories. I suspect that he made some of them up on the spot for my entertainment, but what the hell, I loved the old guy and have wonderful memories of him I’ll always cherish.