We set out before dawn yesterday. We threw the last of our gear and some snacks for the road into the Jeep (a.k.a. Berta, a.k.a. the ExPatriot), filled up the gas tank, bade farewell to my parents, and didn’t look back. We hadn’t slept much. Chalk it up to last-minute preparations, launching the crowdfunding campaign, and well, some share of nerves. I don’t know how much coffee I’ve been drinking lately, but it would be more easily measured in pots than cups.
As we took the 10 freeway east from Los Angeles into the desert, thoughts passed like mile markers through my mind – That I’d never seen the desert so green. That I didn’t know when I’d set foot back in California again, or see my family or friends, or receive a paycheck. I could only wonder what the road had in store for us. The miles ahead beckoned us, but we carried our personal concerns with us, as any traveler does.
I am not afraid of the road. In fact, I feel more at home with an open horizon ahead of me than I do with the known factors of rent, bills, steady work and a routine. Yet the nature of this journey is a new one to me – at least in scope.
There’s no AC in the ExPatriot – we put our dollars into reliability and economy rather than comfort when choosing our vehicle – so we had our windows rolled all down, and the hot, dry desert air whipped at us as the sun climbed higher and we crossed into Arizona. Ela fell asleep as I sought through the dial for a strong signal, settling in on a radio play dramatizing the plight of Benito Juarez during the Mexican Civil War, figuring it was as good a time as any to brush up on my Spanish. The voice acting was excellent.
As we traversed the expanse of desert, the mesas and cacti, shrubbery and puffy white clouds blended as watercolors into the backdrop of my mind. The vibration of the motor through my body, the taste of bottled water on my tongue, and the light cooking of the sun on my cheeks all faded from recognition as being distinctly other than me… the motion itself became my awareness…
Rousing from my reverie as Ela did from her nap, I noticed the smell of pine as we climbed into the cool mountain air, coming to rest at the town of Prescott; twice the seat of government for the territory of Arizona, now a postcard western community which seemed to me upon first glance, rather bourgeois. Hundreds of families had assembled for a bluegrass concert on the bright green lawn of the Yavapai County Courthouse. Men of retiring age wore western costumes. Women walked toy dogs they had dressed in clothing for the purpose of… cuteness I assume.
On the stone walkway leading to the imposing pillars of the courthouse, flanked by Arizona state flags, there is an engraved history of Prescott dating back to the late 1500s, where the first Spanish explorers discovered silver in the area. A wistful mood passed over me as I considered the fate of the people who once roamed these hills, now sequestered in reservations and numbering just a fraction of what had once been thriving nations of people. Traditions left to history books. Languages maintained dutifully by only a few.
I became aware also of my own tendency to idealize what I have only heard stories of – romantic notions of a harmonious people terrorized by invading imperialists, thirsty only for profits and souls. I shook these (at best oversimplified and naive, at worst… possibly racist) notions from my head and we got back on the road to the Hopi reservation, where we had been kindly invited through friends.
I awoke from my nap as Ela informed me that I had just missed a rain shower. Past Flagstaff, we got off the highway. Instructed by our hosts not to trust ‘our smarty-pants phones’, we followed the old-style directions through the ‘rez’:
‘Take the first paved road past the river and follow it for about 48 miles, then turn right, follow it to the top of the mesa… if you get to the water tower, you’ve gone too far…’
The grandeur and mystery of this land cannot be captured by any lens, or though any turn of phrase. Though we found ourselves stopping again and again in earnest attempt. Ela pointed her camera to the vastness of the land and sky, and I smoked too many cigarettes, pondering the movements of people and the tides of history.
We were received as weary travelers by our hosts, Joe and Janice at Tsakurshovi in Songoopavi, and fed a traditional Hopi dinner. They are delightful hosts, and their shop is full of treasures. We nestled into our bedding surrounded by ancient stones, and, our bellies full of fry-bread and patuvsuki slept beneath the brilliant milky way.
This morning, we saw the dawn over the pueblo of Supawlovi here on Second Mesa. The Hopi prefer us not to shoot photographs of their sacred and ancient homes, and so, respectfully, we keep the cameras stowed. It would be difficult to see them from a distance at any rate. These stone dwellings seem to grow up from the plateau, and these naturally camouflaged settlements make up the most ancient continuously inhabited villages in the whole of North America. These people have lived here for over a thousand years… we can leave our iphones in the car.
At the village of Munqapi, we had the honor to observe the sacred dance of the katsinas- spirits involved with nearly every aspect of Hopi life. The dancers and singers send up the prayers and positive wishes of all the people in their ceremonial dance, and the clowns demonstrate how not to live. We were given gifts of fruit, corn, carrots, cookies, popcorn, and Ela got a little box of fruit loops.
It has been difficult to get an interview here, but this small detour was anything but a waste of time. Again we are imbued with respect for this land and its natural peoples. Again we are humbled by these histories, and charged to remember them.
Tomorrow, at last, we will begin the long journey south.