Major Morales' foot alternated from the fully depressed accelerator pedal to full brake pressure as he negotiated the Magdalena jungle road. The rain forest arched over the winding strip of cleared path allowing only occasional shafts of sunlight to penetrate through the trees onto the oiled roadway. Rounding huge trees curve after curve, the Major's foot continued back and forth-full speed, full brake. Skidding around a cinchona tree, its flowers of luminous purple catching the sun's rays that fell through an opening in the canopy above-we saw it. It was sunning itself, absorbing the warmth of both the sun and the road. The Major saw it as a hatband, a belt, and a wallet. I saw a snake, a big snake.
Feeling the vibration from the approaching pickup the bushmaster coiled as it elevated its head two or three feet above the ground. The Major jammed down full on the accelerator, and then, full down on the brake as the wheels struck the reptile. Our seats jarred violently as if we had hit a log on the path. I saw its head dart forward as it struck the wheel with its inches long fangs, gashing the tires, splattering venomous milk across the fender and grill. It coiled again as the Major shoved the transmission into reverse, accelerated, stopped, then forward. I felt another thud as the "crotalinae" absorbed the killing shock from the charging pickup. We jumped from the cab believing the battle over, only to find the bushmaster positioning itself to attack. Fearing for my life, I swung my machete with all the adrenaline soaked muscle power of my being. I did not see, I only felt, the two and a half foot steel blade hesitate as it slashed through the outstretched body, severing its head about two inches behind the neck. Though my actions may have saved the Majors' life, most certainly my own, he was furious with me for dismembering his trophy.
The fight was over, but the beheaded "culebra" slithered and squirmed for another half-hour before we could lift the battered remains into the bed of the little truck. Its headless body lay forward against the back of the cab; stretching the full length of the eight foot bed and across the open tailgate, its nubby tail dangled several inches past the end of the gate. The light brown skin with its large black blotches was torn and ripped showing the death scars of the combat. The Major was ecstatic over his prize, less thrilled with me for disfiguring it. All he could talk about was, his snake. His only concern was the extent of the damage to the skin. Surveying the mangled remains, he believed there would be at least enough skin for a hatband for his Sunday sombrero, a belt, wallet and perhaps enough for a purse for his wife.
Later that year I prepared to depart for Barranquilla. Standing by the plane, I said goodbye to the Major. He was proudly wearing his snake skin belt and hat. A new scabbard made of matching skin was slung from the belt, holding his machete. We embraced and slapped each other on the back. I requested that he give my best to his wife, and asked how she liked her new purse. He rolled his eyes and said, "now she wants a matching pair of shoes." |
