By no coincidence, this was also the weekend that Aimee and my aunt were coming up to the reservation. They arrived Saturday afternoon, and we walked right over to the health center. We were going to explore the area north of the reservation for most of the weekend, but I wanted them to see the hospital first. Dinner was at the Hopi Cultural Center, which the tribe runs to help preserve and display their cultural history. The Cultural Center is made up of a small museum, an attached hotel, and a little restaurant that features Hopi cuisine. But since it's one of the only restuarants on the reservation, it's also frequented by Hopis looking for a nice dinner out. And since they don't need people to cook tradtional Hopi food for them, the other half of the menu consists of the usual fare that you would expect to see at any other rest stop along Route 66. So when you look around, you see white people eating Hopi food, and Hopi people eating white food. It's a little surreal, but the food is tasty. Besides, after five weeks of cooking my own bowls of cereal, I would have eaten anywhere.
We had a nice treat in store for Sunday morning. Denise, one of the clerks in the Emergency Department, had invited us to her village (Hotevilla) to see a traditional dance. Traditional Hopi dances are a cultural spectacle, and they're normally closed to outsiders. Needless to say, it was a huge honor, and we were all looking forward to witnessing it.
Hotevilla is about 30 minutes west of the health center, and we pulled into the village around lunch time. There is one major road that runs across the entire reservation, and most of the roads leading off of it degrade into various stages of Jeep trail. But it wasn't too hard to follow the line of cars from the "modern" village center to the historic village center where the dance was. The "modern" center in most Hopi villages is usually a Bureau of Indian Affairs building that acts as a recreation center, event venue, and municipal headquarters. But the villages also have a historic gathering space that is just an open town square in the center of densely built stone and brick houses. Some houses were made of historic adobe, and others were pieced together with cinder blocks and 2x4s.
Hotevilla's simplicity was reminiscent of the Nicaraguan village that Aimee lived in during her time in the Peace Corps. But it wasn't run-down by any stretch of the imagination. The homes were simple, and there were no roads or other symbols of modernity, but you could tell that the people that lived there took pride in their community and it worked well for them.
The town square was barely fifty feet across, but it was packed with shirtless men chanting and dancing in a circle. The Hopi have never been a warrior tribe, so these dances weren't intended to intimidate or rally anybody. They evolved for several reasons (this particular one was to bring the summer rains), but it seems like their alternate purpose is to bring the village together for a common celebration. And that's probably why the dances have survived relatively unchanged from their ancient origins. That function is timeless. Children ran around and played in front of houses, adults drove in from their jobs in Flagstaff (and Tucson, we overheard), and the elders sat back and let us other suckers bring them water and snacks.
Speaking of suckers, I had been carrying around a large fruit pastry that Aimee and my aunt picked up on their way to the reservation. We were going to give it to Denise's family to thank them for their hospitality. But we had arrived before Denise, so I wandered around (essentially door to door) looking for her family. I had forgotten her last name, so all I could ask was "Does Denise live here?"
Everyone was very friendly, but most people looked at me with the amusement that the situation warranted. But I was very sensitive about not wanting to stand out. I don't know if I thought they'ed think I was the Great White Hopi if I could just blend in, but the giant tart that I was carrying around the village didn't help my cause.
I finally found someone who seemed to know who Denise was. He suggested "Denise Namingha?", and that sounded right. Of course, Namingha is a very popular name on the reservation, so it really didn't narrow things down much. But he pointed me towards a house and said, "I think her Grandmother lives there." I was so anxious to lose the tart that I wasn't going to ask many questions.
I walked up to the house that I assumed was the right one, and asked if Denise lived there. The person that answered the door was just a neighbor, but he pointed to a few elders sitting around a table and said that he thought that one of them was her grandma. Elder Hopis (like most Native American elders) don't speak much English, and really don't speak much at all. But I asked her if "Denise from the health center" lived here. She nodded and smiled. I said that we were early, but she would be meeting us. She nodded and smiled. I asked if I should leave the tart on the counter. She nodded and smiled. We thanked them and said that we would be right outside, watching the dance. I think my aunt said "Gracias." We were a mess.
A few minutes later, Denise found us watching the dance. She was as friendly as ever, and we told her that there was a pastry waiting for her at her grandmother's house. She looked confused, and said that she had just come from her grandmother's house on the other side of the village. Oh boy.
So I'm still not sure what transpired in that house, but I'm pretty sure the elderly woman heard something along the lines of: "Hello, I am a well-dressed white person. Can I walk into your home and leave this delicious-looking pastry on your counter?" I would have nodded and smiled, too.
This is not the culturally-sensitive anecdote that I will be submitting to the State Department if I ever decide to work there.
But the dance was really a treat to see, and we were very lucky to witness it. We stayed for about an hour, before succumbing to the heat. We also had to make it up to Utah by nightfall.
As we walked out, we came across a family selling Sno-cones. Ice and syrup had never tasted so refreshing.
Since there are no photos allowed of the dance (or inside the village) this was the only one I took that afternoon. But it sums things up nicely.
We fit right in.
