Day 10: Passing Through

Day Ten: Passing Through

6/16/11:

If this were a confessional, I’d tell you that I’m a bit of a misanthrope.

So it was, languishing in my loner ways, that I came to be sitting outside the Havasupai Elementary with Perdido Street Station, watching this little world from behind the school’s wrought iron fence. Moments earlier, six mules had thundered along down the main road, nipped at the hooves by a low-bellied dog; a couple minutes after, a straggler had clipped by, snuffling apologetically. Two girls (I almost specified them as ‘American,’ was this really still the States?) in spandex and bikini tops had huffed along on their way to the falls, brown hair straightened, makeup unmoved by sweat. Later, I watched a little boy carry an equally little puppy down the road. Not really thinking much of it, I had called him over through the fence and scratched the pup’s ears.

Very suddenly, this scene became strange. Here I was, the outsider in this boy’s village, meeting him from behind bars. I had taken a strange sort of pride, coming to Havasu not, like the hundreds of tourists who pass by weekly, to simply swim in the falls; I was here to get involved with the Havasupai, to meet these people.

But honestly, was this boy going to look at the blonde-haired and blue-eyed girl hemmed in behind a fence, as anything besides the other?

The Havasu live both an isolated and integrated life, which is a contradiction and an assertion I’m definitely not qualified to make. It’s just that, in order to leave Havasu, they’ve got to pursue one of two options: hike the ten miles out or hitch a ride in the helicopter (for a reduced fee). And yet, just because they aren’t doing a lot of moving, doesn’t mean the Havasupai aren’t getting swept up in the 21^st century. These Native Americans make their living off tourism to the falls; they use their mules as pack animals, run a restaurant, lodge, and convenience store, charge hikers to pass through the village.

And hikers do pass through the village. They pass through in droves, obnoxious-looking bro types with their board shorts and fake-baked blondes in their tube tops. Of course, that’s an exaggeration, and not all the people hiking to the falls are like that. There are plenty of granola types and every other type beside.

Still though, we were all just passing through. Sure, we might feel a little sting of something at the visible poverty, maybe we’d even forget this was America, looking as it did to my eyes, a lot like Mexico.

But could you imagine living in a community where the one thing that kept you viable—tourists— were the very same people that tramped by everyday with, if not disrespect, at least indifference to you and your culture?

Yelena and I had taken a walk in the morning, and after helping Sami collect some branches for her fire safety program, we had encountered an elderly Havasupai man. He asked us why we were in his village, and after he learned that we were interning with an archaeologist, he told us in a rather matter of fact way that we were desecrating the land. He claimed that because of this desecration, because we were digging up things that should be left in the ground, disease would settle in our lungs, stirred up by the dust and the spirits.

Later, it was Yelena who pointed out that Neil had had lung troubles which developed from breathing in a certain dust, that many archaeologists tend to have lung diseases.

Somewhere during this day of thought, Erin presented her archaeology program and Sami wooed the kids with fire safety comic books and Smokey.

Yes, that is correct, Smokey the Bear did indeed make an appearance.

I had aggressively passed on Smokey duty to Yelena the instant it was discovered that one of us was expected to inhabit the bear costume. Taking it in stride, Yelena was suited up, Smokey’s head was slapped on (albeit crookedly), and out she went to the jubilation of the crowd.

The scene that unfolded mirrored that of a strung-out audience welcoming a favorite musician into its enamored arms. Tiny little kid bodies adhered themselves to Smokey with almost disturbingly earnest proclamations of love. Yelena claimed to have never felt so special in all of her life, and I had to begin to reconsider my hasty decision of earlier.

Following the Smokey love fest, we returned once again to the water of the falls. I spent hours sitting in the pools, letting the gentle current brush against my legs. I explored nearby, clambered up some trees, took a nap on a hot rock like a sunning lizard.

On our way back to the elementary school (we were camping on the cafeteria floor), we were overtaken by Roland, the former Head Chairman of the Havasu Council. The current Animal Control officer, Roland’s project of late was to curb the dog population. Roland seemed like a person who didn’t mind talking, so I asked him about Havasu and the young people. He told me that after elementary, the youth have to leave Havasu to attend school, and that a lot of them either joined gangs or didn’t come back. When he talked about the loss of the young community, about the loss of tradition and old Havasupai costumes, he saddened but never lost his hope that he could change things.

And then, before I was able to ask him anything else, a boy called him over with a shout: “Roland, there’s something dead in the water!” And he was off. 


Photos: 1. Main road through Havasu 2. Inside the Havasupai Elementary School 3. 100-Foot Falls 4. Smokey the Bear 5. Yelena and I in the water at 100-Foot Falls