Our first stop was the historic Walpi village on the top of First Mesa. It's one of the oldest villages in North America, and without running water or electricity (by choice), it hasn't changed much over the last few centuries. (The oldest village in North America is Oraibi, on Third Mesa, but it has retained less of its original form.) There were probably 12-15 homes in the village, all passed from mother to child in Hopi's matrilineal society. In fact, all property on the reservation is "owned" by a family, and is not eligible for purchase or sale. The practice dates back to the early days of Hopi community ownership. Individual property rights are a uniquely European import, and were completely unheard of in North America before Cortez and Columbus.
There are no photos allowed of Hopi cultural sites or ceremonies (so you'll just have to visit!), but I did find one taken before visitors actually respected that request. This is Walpi, and surprisingly little has changed since this photo was taken in 1920.
Our guide for the day was the mother of a friend of mine (Sam, if you remember the volleyball photo). The Hopi people are extremely hospitable, and when I told people that my family was coming, I had more food offerings and tour guides than I knew what to do with.
Sam's mom, Pam, is a warm Hopi woman in her 50s, and shared some wonderful insights into what its like to grow up Hopi. She had a very unique perspective, since her adoptive parents were one of the first Hopi Baptist converts, and were exiled from living on top of the mesas. Like many Hopi Christians, Pam lives in a small residential community along the base of the mesas. However, she married a traditional Hopi, and seems to be re-exploring her ancestral religion.
Pam explained to us that most Hopis survive off of a meager income (mostly from craft sales), although they don't consider financial poverty equal to spiritual poverty. They don't have much money (another European import), but they do live fulfilling lives near their family and their homeland. That's an important thing to remember when you drive through the neighborhoods and see bare dirt floors in many of the homes. It's a different type of lifestyle than many of us are used to, but I'll bet that the average Hopi has no interest in our sympathy. On the other hand, I feel compelled to point out that there is a wide variety of lifestyles on the reservation. For every Hopi that lives a traditional life of home grown food and mud-walled homes, there are two or three with college degrees and high-level jobs. And that's even before you consider all of the Hopis living modern lives in Phoenix or Flagstaff. Generalizations rarely hold up in most settings, and that's especially true on the rez.
After we toured Walpi, Pam invited us into her home for a few cups of traditional Hopi tea and a great conversation. My mom--never one to shy away from a good question--asked about birth control on the reservation (Pam: "Not enough...the kids don't want to talk about it"), and Hopi children forsaking their traditional culture ("Playstation is more attractive to them right now, but most come back").
Pam had invited one of her family members over to her house to give us a Kachina carving demonstration. The carver was extremely talented, and showed us how he turns the root of the Cottonwood tree into a detailed representation of a Hopi spirit. We fulfilled our role as visiting tourists, and purchased one of his works. Everybody wins.
The final stop of the tour was over to Pam's neighbor's house for a pottery demonstration. Calling the potter "nuts" is tempting, but it would be a serious misrepresentation. Yes, this guy was a bit on the surreal side, but he was far closer to a prophet than a loon. What words we could make out from his rapid fire, barely intelligible speech left us all struck by his poignancy. To set the tone for you all, the first words out of his mouth were, "I see things. People seek answers from me. Ask me anything you like. I don't talk about death." I knew it was going to be a fun visit.
After the initial knee-jerk reaction of, "Holy crap, what is this guy talking about?! And where are all of his teeth?!", we came to realize that the potter was Wise. Very wise. He had spent his life learning pottery techniques from the pueblos of New Mexico and Arizona, and used clay formation as a metaphor for everything else in this world. His pearls of wisdom included, "When you make pottery, clear your mind of all negative thoughts. Like children, pots hold on to the energy of their creators." And then there was, "Do you know what this is on my shirt?" (Silence) "The mayan calendar. We don't think that the world is going to end in 2012; that's just how far the Mayans could see, the rest is up to us. Things are changing. Mama (pointing to the ground) needs a facelift." Of course, he was spinning his pottery wheel, and adding clay to his growing pot during all of this. I won't forget that guy anytime soon.
For dinner, we drove to Winslow, and ate at La Posada, a historic railway hotel. The food was great, and it was nice to spend some quality time with my family. But that story is far less interesting than the potter, so I think I'll just end with that!
-M
