by Joe Hayes
Compay Mono followed the advice of his comadre. All night he stood at the eastern end of his little farm, carefully watching over the pumpkin patch to make sure no one entered. But the next morning when Compay Mono inspected the whole farm, he discovered that while he was guarding the pumpkins in the east someone had entered the western end and stolen his yuca.
Compay Mono told Comay Jicotea what had happened.
“You must have fallen asleep,” his comadre told him. “Tonight let me guard your farm. The thief will probably enter the southern field this time. I’ll stand guard there so that no one can steal your ñames.”
Compay Mono agreed, and that night while Comay Jicotea guarded the yams in the southern field, someone stole the boniatos in the northern field.
The next day Compay Mono told the turtle what had happened. Of course, she was very surprised and sympathetic. “How could that be?” she said shaking her head. “I never closed my eyes all night long. This must be a very clever thief.”
Compay Mono was beginning to get suspicious. He knew that Comay Jicotea had a reputation for being tricky. But monkeys can be tricky too, and Compay Mono thought of a way to find out what was going on.
“Yes,” the monkey said to his comadre, “there must be a very clever and dangerous thief in these parts. The next thing you know they’ll come into my house and steal my money. I know what I’d better do. I’m going to hide all my money up in the loft. No one would ever think of looking for it up there.”
That night Compay Mono lay awake in bed listening. Late in the night he heard someone tugging at the door. Slowly it opened and then in came the humped-back form of Comay Jicotea. She headed straight toward the barbacoa and began climbing the ladder.
Compay Mono jumped out of bed and grabbed her. “You’re the thief!” he shouted. “You’re the one who stole my pumpkins and my yams and my yuca. And you thought you’d steal all my money too. I ought to throw you into the fire!”
Comay Jicotea looked very ashamed. “You’re right,” she said. “I deserve to be punished. But it won’t help to throw me into the fire. My shell won’t burn and I’ll never learn a lesson from that. You should throw me into the river. I’m terrified of the cold water, but I know it’s just what I deserve.”
As everyone knows, monkeys are afraid of water, and so what that crafty Jicotea said made sense to Compay Mono. He picked up the turtle and ran to the river with her. He threw her as far out into the water as he could, and, of course, the tricky little Comay Jicotea swam away laughing to herself.
To this day, Comay Jicotea sometimes comes out to sun herself on the bank of the river, but she spends most of her time in the water. She knows Compay Mono still wants to catch her and punish her, but she knows that if she just jumps into the river, the monkey will never dive in after her.
Compay and comay: short for compadre and comadre. If a man is godfather to your child, he is your compadre. A woman who is godmother to your child is your comadre. Since people usually choose good friends to be their child’s godparent, compadre and comadre often just mean good friend.
COMPAY MONO Y COMAY JICOTEA
COMPAY MONO y Comay Jicotea eran vecinos, y al parecer muy buenos amigos. Compay Mono era muy trabajador. Tenía un buen terrenito donde cultivaba toda clase de hortalizas. En el este, sembró calabazas y en el oeste, yuca. En el norte sembró boniatos y en el sur, ñames. Todos los días Compay Mono visitaba cada parte de su tierra para arrancar las malas hierbas y asegurarse de que sus cultivos no sufrieran ningún daño. Esperaba una buena cosecha.
Poco antes de que las calabazas estuvieran listas para cosechar, Compay Mono se dio cuenta de que alguien había entrado al campo y le había robado algunas. Por lo menos, faltaban diez. Compay Mono se preocupó, y un poco más tarde le contó a su vecina Comay Jicotea lo del robo.
—Es mejor que que no duermas esta noche y cuides tu campo—le dijo la tortuga—. Ponte ahí en esa lomita al este de tu tierra—le aconsejó—. Desde ahí puedes vigilar las calabazas y ver si alguien entra en el campo.
Compay Mono siguió el consejo de su comadre. Pasó la noche entera en el extremo este de su granja, vigilando su sembrado de calabaza con empeño, para asegurarse de que nadie entrara. Pero a la mañana siguiente, cuando Compay Mono registró todo su terreno, se encontró con que mientras cuidaba sus calabazas en el este, alguien había entrado en la parte oeste, para robarle la yuca.
Compay Mono le refirió a Comay Jicotea lo sucedido.
—Te habrás dormido—le dijo la comadre—. Esta noche deja que yo vigile tu terreno. Es probable que el ladrón entre en el sur esta vez. Yo hago guardia allá para que nadie te robe los ñames.
Compay Mono estuvo de acuerdo, y esa noche mientras Comay Jicotea cuidaba los ñames en la parte sur, alguien se robó los boniatos en el norte.
Al otro día Compay Mono le contó lo sucedido a la tortuga, y por supuesto ella se mostró muy sorprendida y compasiva.
—¿Cómo puede ser?—dijo, moviendo la cabeza—. En toda la noche no pegué ojo. Se tratará de un ladrón muy astuto.
Compay Mono empezaba a desconfiar. Sabía que Comay Jicotea tenía fama de tramposa. Pero los monos pueden tender trampas también, y Compay Mono pensó en una manera de aclarar el asunto.
—Sí—dijo el mono a su comadre—. Ha de haber un ladrón muy diestro y peligroso en estas partes. Lo más probable es que quiera entrar en mi propia casa y robarme el dinero. Sé lo que voy a hacer. Esconderé mi dinero en la barbacoa. ¿A quién se le ocurrirá buscarlo allí?
Aquella noche Compay Mono estuvo vigilando en la cama, mirando y escuchando. Muy entrada la noche, oyó que alguien halaba la puerta. Lentamente la puerta se abrió y la forma jorobada de Comay Jicotea entró. Fue directamente a la barbacoa y empezó a subir la escalera.
Compay Mono saltó de la cama y la agarró.
—¡El ladrón eres tú!—gritó—. Tú eres la que me robó las calabazas y los ñames y la yuca. Y pensabas robarme el dinero también. Me dan ganas de echarte a la candela.
Comay Jicotea se mostró muy arrepentida:—Tienes razón—confesó—. Me corresponde un castigo. Pero echarme a la candela no servirá, pues mi carapacho no se va a quemar, eso no será un escarmiento. Es mejor que me tires al río. El agua fría me aterroriza, pero sé que me lo merezco.
Como todo el mundo sabe, los monos le temen al agua, y Compay Mono creyó lo que decía la tramposa de Jicotea. La levantó y la llevó corriendo al río. La tiró lo más lejos de la orilla que pudo, y por supuesto, la astuta Jicotea se fue nadando, riéndose por dentro.
Todavía hoy, aunque Comay Jicotea sale del río a veces para tomar sol en la orilla, pasa casi todo el tiempo dentro del agua. Sabe que Compay Mono todavía quiere atraparla y castigarla, pero sabe que sólo tiene que tirarse al río y Compay Mono no se va a meter en el agua para seguirla.
YOU CAN’T DANCE
LONG AGO, at the beginning of time, all the animals were tormented by a family of devils. There was el papá diablo. He was as mean as poison. There was la mamá diabla. She was as mean as vinegar. And there was el niñito diablito chiquitito, the little bitty baby devil. He was mischievous and full of tricks.
The devils drove everyone crazy. They didn’t let any animal family live in peace. They managed to turn every dinnertime conversation into an argument. They found a way to make every animal dance or party end up in a fight. The only time those devils weren’t tormenting the animals was when they were dancing—because as mean and mischievous as they were, they did love to dance.
One day all the animals gathered together to figure out a way to rid the land of the devil family. Every animal had a different plan and none of them sounded like it would work. Then the leader of the guanajos, the turkeys, stood up to offer his idea. The other animals all snickered. They didn’t think the guanajos were very bright at all and couldn’t imagine that their leader would have a good idea. But they liked what they heard.
The lead guanajo suggested they have a dance, but not one where you could dance the way most animals or peop
le dance. It would be a turkey dance. To show what he meant, he started clapping his hands and singing like this:
You can’t dance, you can’t dance.
If you have a head, you can’t dance.
All the other turkeys tucked their heads under their wings and danced. It really looked as though they didn’t have heads. Then the leader of the turkeys explained how they could use the dance to get rid of the devils.
All the animals agreed to the plan and they went right to work. First the elephants pounded down the ground to make a dance floor. The monkeys brought sticks to fence off the area where the dance would be held. The musicians went home and got their instruments. The goat brought his guitar and the parrot brought his tres. The lion brought his cencerro, and the bull his bongó. There were güiros and maracas; there were claves and chéqueres—everything you need for wild dance music. That evening all the animals gathered at the dance ground and the musicians started to play. The other animals clapped and sang:
You can’t dance, you can’t dance.
If you have a head, you can’t dance.
The turkeys began to dance with their heads hidden under their wings. The music grew wilder and louder, until it filled the forest. El papá diablo woke up and heard it. He went to investigate. By the time he got to the dance, the papa devil’s feet were already dancing.
El papá diablo stood at the gate looking into the dance, his feet moving to the rhythm of the music. He said to the gorilla, who was the doorkeeper, “What’s this?”
“What does it look like?” the gorilla said. “It’s a headless dance. Can’t you hear the song?”
The papa devil paid attention to the words of the song for the first time. He heard all the animals singing:
You can’t dance, you can’t dance.
If you have a head, you can’t dance.
“That’s a good song,” the papa devil said. “And I really like the music. Can I go in?”
“Not if you have a head,” the gorilla told him. “But if you really want to dance, the hyena has a good sharp machete. He’d be happy to cut your head off for you.”
“Cut my head off?” stuttered the devil. “But how will I get it back on?”
“Talk to the rat. He has some good strong glue. He’ll glue your head back on when the dance is over and you’re ready to go home.”
The papa devil hesitated, scratching his head. But the music was so lively and tempting, and he couldn’t keep his feet from dancing. Finally he ran over to where the hyena was waiting beside a tree stump. He laid his head on the stump and the hyena raised his machete. CHOP!
One devil was gone!
The drummers picked up the pace of the music and the other musicians followed along. All the animals clapped and sang even louder.
You can’t dance, you can’t dance.
If you have a head, you can’t dance.
Soon the mama devil began to wonder what her husband was up to. She followed the sound of the music. By the time she reached the fiesta she was swinging her hips and rolling her eyes.
“I love that music,” she said to the gorilla. “What kind of party is this?”
“Headless dance,” the gorilla said without turning his head toward her.
“What’s that?”
“A headless dance, just like the song says,” the gorilla told her. “If you want to go in, you have to take off your head.”
“But my head’s not removable,” the mama devil said.
The gorilla gestured over his shoulder and said, “That’s where the hyena can help. His machete is sharp. He’ll chop it off for you.”
“Chop it off?” the mama devil asked. “And who’ll put it back on?”
“Rat has the glue,” the gorilla said.
The mama devil was seduced by the music. Down came the hyena’s machete. CHOP!
Another devil was gone.
The musicians played so fast and the animals sang so loud that the trees of the forest began to tremble.
You can’t dance, you can’t dance.
If you have a head, you can’t dance.
The bitty baby devil jumped out of his bed. “Who’s making all that noise?” he shouted. Then he noticed the beat of the music. “Oh! That’s nice,” he said. He went dancing out of the house and dancing through the forest until he reached the party.
“That’s some good music you animals are playing,” he said to the gorilla. “I think I’ll go on in and join the dance.”
“You can’t,” the gorilla answered, shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“You have a head. Can’t you hear the song? Can’t you see the dancers? This party is reserved for headless dancers. If you want to go in, talk to the hyena. He’ll be happy to cut your head off for you.”
The little bitty devil’s eyes grew wide. “Cut my head off?” he asked.
“Sure,” the gorilla told him. “Rat will glue it back on when you’re tired of dancing.”
El niñito diablito thought it over. Then he said, “I don’t understand this very well. Maybe you can show me how this works.”
“Me?” said the gorilla. “I’m no dancer. Even with my head cut off, I couldn’t dance.”
“I’m not so sure I could either,” said the little bitty devil. “I’ll just stand out here and listen to the music for a while. Maybe when I’m older, I’ll go to a headless dance.”
No matter how fast the musicians played or how loudly the animals sang or how wildly the guanajos danced, they couldn’t entice el niñito diablito into the dance. When the sun came up, they all went home. The little bitty devil went home too.
Things were a lot better in the forest with the mean mama and papa devil gone. Most of the time, life went on without a problem. Because the animals weren’t able to trick the little bitty devil, though, he’s still around and still manages to cause a little trouble now and then. But then, without troubles there wouldn’t be any stories for us to tell.
Tres: An instrument similar to a guitar, with three pairs of strings.
Cencerro: A cowbell.
Bongó: A set of bongo drums.
Güiro: A large gourd with a hole cut in one side and ridges carved in the other.
A stick drawn across the ridges creates a rasping rhythm.
Maracas: Hand-held rattles.
Claves: Two hardwood sticks held in the hands and tapped together.
Chéquere: A gourd covered by a net with beads woven into it that is shaken to create rhythm.
NO BAILA
Mucho tiempo atrás, en el principio del mundo, todos los animales fueron atormentados por una familia de diablos. Había un papá diablo que era tan malo como el veneno, una mamá diabla, que era tan mala como el vinagre y un niñito diablito que era travieso y bien tramposo.
Los diablos tenían locos a todo el mundo. No dejaban que ninguna familia de animales viviera en paz. Se las arreglaban para que cada conversación a la hora de la comida se convertiera en una disputa. Encontraban la manera de hacer que cualquier baile o fiesta de los animales terminara en pelea. El único momento en que los diablos no atormentaban a los animales era cuando estaban bailando, pues a pesar de ser tan malvados y enredadores, les encantaba bailar.
Un día todos los animales se reunieron para buscar la manera de quitarse de encima a esa familia de diablos. Cada animal proponía un plan distinto y ninguno parecía bueno. Luego el jefe de los guanajos, los pavos, se paró para ofrecer su idea. Los otros animales se rieron de él. No creían que los guanajos fueran listos y no se imaginaban que su jefe pudiera proponer nada inteligente. Pero les gustó lo que oyeron.
El jefe de los guanajos sugirió que hicieran un baile, pero no uno en que se pudiera bailar como los animales y la gente solían hacer. Iba a ser un baile al estilo guanajo. Para demostrar lo que quería decir, se puso a dar palmadas y a cantar así:
No baila, no baila.
El que tiene cabeza no baila.
Todos los guanajos se metieron la cabeza debajo de un ala y bailaro
n. Parecía que de verdad los guanajos no tenían cabezas. Luego el jefe de los guanajos explicó cómo podrían valerse de tal baile para acabar con los diablos.
Todos los animales se pusieron de acuerdo y entraron en acción enseguida. Primero, los elefantes apisonaron la tierra para hacer una pista de baile. Los monos trajeron palos para cercar el área donde se celebraría la fiesta. Los músicos se fueron a casa para traer sus instrumentos. El chivo trajo su guitarra y el loro su tres. El león trajo su cencerro y el toro su bongó. Había güiros y maracas, claves y chéqueres… todo lo necesario para tocar música alegre para bailar. Al anochecer todos los animales se reunieron en el lugar del baile y los músicos comenzaron a tocar. Los otros animales dieron palmadas y cantaron:
No baila, no baila.
El que tiene cabeza no baila.
Los guanajos comenzaron a bailar con la cabeza metida debajo de un ala. La música era cada vez más fuerte y alegre, hasta que el bosque se llenó del sonido. El papá diablo se despertó y oyó la música. Enseguida se fue a investigar. Cuando el papá diablo llegó al baile su pies ya bailaban.
El papá diablo se paró en la puerta, mirando el baile, moviendo los pies al compás de la música. Le preguntó al gorila, que era el portero:—¿Qué es esto?
—¿Qué te parece a ti?—le respondió el gorila—. Es un baile sin cabeza. ¿Qué, no oyes la canción?
El papá diablo se fijó en la letra de la canción por primera vez. Oyó que los animales cantaban:
No baila, no baila.
El que tiene cabeza no baila.
—Es una buena canción—dijo el papá diablo—. Y me encanta la música. ¿Puedo entrar?
—No con cabeza—le dijo el gorila—. Pero si de veras quieres bailar, la hiena tiene un machete afilado. De buena gana te cortaría la cabeza.
—¿Qué me cortaría la cabeza?—balbuceó el diablo—. ¿Pero, cómo la voy a recuperar?
—Habla con la rata, ella tiene un pegamento muy fuerte. Te la puede pegar cuando termine el baile y quieras regresar a casa.
