Palulukonti

Serpents with crowns of feathers PALALUKONTI

Following the POWAMUI is a period of night dances. The town crier makes announcements when the ceremony will be held and what kind, the last one being the Home Dance or NIMAN in July. Each village is independent of one another. Each mesa has its own way of performing certain rituals and its own habits as to how early in the day, or evening or night, things will start to happen. Of course, the Living Spirits will come when they want and are ready. They cannot be regulated - even airlines are not always on schedule. On some occasions, there are “mystery plays” which evoke the significance and presentation of religious Medieval pageantry.

It is night. There is no moon, but stars. Arizona stars in the sky are so clear and close you feel they might sting your finger if you raised your hand. The village is asleep in the night quietness. I do not know what time it is: nine, midnight, or three. It is easy to lose track of conventional hours moving from village to village. The click of the wrist watch is disturbing even in the pocket. It is left now in the car and I feel relief and a sense of freedom.

The wind is cold, knife-dry. A shadow climbs the steps of a kiva, soon to disappear by the ladder; other shadows, the sounds of rattles and turtle shells, moving packages wrapped in blankets of unknown color, mysterious night. Another group, later in a narrow street, kachina silhouettes along the cliff, no words only rattles. 'This is the place. This is a Kiva, the underground temple, retreat most of the time for men. Not tonight. At first, looking down into the hatch, one sees nothing. Then the eyes grow accustomed to the weak light of kerosene lamps. An old wooden stove reflects an orange glow to the priest, gray hair loose on his back. To the left, above a foot high shelf, fireflies appear suspended, scarcely moving in the hot air; they are but the eyes of a dense crowd of women and children. “O-wee,” says the priest. “O-wee, yes, yunyaaï, come in,” says a lady uncovering the corner of a small bench. I thank her, “Kwakwai, lo-loma. Also replies the crowd, “Lo-loma.” Silence. Time. Silence. The old man smokes. There are no stars on the ceiling of the Kiva. The smoke that rises is the prayer of man: dense, gray, acrid. Suddenly a call from the outside; another, the shake of a rattle. At once small lamps are lit and the old old man repeats, “Anchai, O-wee.” It is impossible to tell the speed of the happening; impossible to describe such an opening in a window of the past. Feet appear on the rungs of the ladder; brown moccasins, black breechcloths, mud-like bodies, heavy, with heads like balls of clay. Eyes like doughnuts, topped by the white, translucence of eagle down. The Koyemsi! Mud Head ancestors: the people who ascended the Four Stages of Hopi time and life. In this overheated room, ren beings are seen only here and there in the vacillating highlights cast by the fires or lamps. Their large white drum, like a world in space, suddenly explodes with an eerie beat. It is answered by the fast crescendo of the Koyemsi song: fast, faster, as though the world were coming to an end. It does. All lights are covered with blankets. Then, exposed once more, they appear more brilliant in contrast to the preceding blackness. If by magic, a screen has appeared before us depicting rain clouds, lightning, snipes, cornstalks, disks, corn husks. In front of the unexpected mural, a field of three dimensional corn, young, green, promising life, “Hap piness-Givers” stuck into balls of clay. The impact is great. Two huge snakes explode out of their holes. Their black bodies projected far out and alive. They dare men. It shakes the world. Black bodies, long heads crowned with colorful feathers, red fangs, they are after the Koyemsi, after the cornfields, after the romise of life. Defensive, the Mud Heads struggle. Mounting beats of the drum shake the room. Abruptly the struggle is over. The struggle is all symbolical. Life alternates with destruc tion: to pick the crop (harvest), somewhat is to “take away.” Heavy ears break the corn stalk-abundance, meaning a loss as taught in legends. The price is life, happiness is paid by hardship, yet, lightning, blazing Power brings summer clouds with their long hair, falling rain, blessing, the essence of life or germination from men. Fluid is the answer. In two large sweeps, the cornfields are destroyed. Lights are out. There is silence. A silence that hurts the ears. Some shuffles, some rustles, a few seconds of nothing. The lights are on. Koyemsi makes presents to children, they climb the ladder... Alone the priest smokes. It is done.

Red feathers from the south PARROT KACHINA DANCE

A century-old square of hard-beaten, sunbaked dirt is where the Kachinam will dance. It is still early, only a few people are sitting along the walls or peering through the windows. Some children play, a few dogs move about. In this quietness, everything is ochre, golden dust, clean as the air except when the sand blasts through the streets. Slowly some boys and men have appeared above the rooftops and a few ladies with children are settling on the stone benches in front of their houses. Others will bring folding chairs or very low, small wood benches used for watching dances in all Pueblos. Old men take their places, here and there but many sit in one corner near a small room in ruins.

Slowly some boys and men have appeared above the rooftops and a few ladies with children are settling on the stone benches in front of their houses. Others will bring folding chairs or very low, small wood benches used for watching dances in all Pueblos. Old men take their places, here and there but many sit in one corner near a small room in ruins.

Color now is appearing in the village. Women are draped in flowery shawls, red and green mostly; here and there, bright blue or yellow. Some will open small umbrellas of any hue. This is a very silent place, not like any other in these United States. Today the dry air of the 6,000-foot altitude makes things feel different. Occasionally the distant trail of a jet plane contrasts to the impressive quietness. Because of the massive structure of the houses, the narrow passage ways of some opening toward the cliff, one cannot hear, back of us, the arrival of pickups and cars. So here we are, as if in church, respectful, meditating, expecting, remembering, and for some of us, not able to imagine, what we came to see. It is a strange feeling: all those people, and for a long time, a nearly complete immobility.

There is no announcement, but somehow everyone feels an immediacy. There is a small opening between houses sheltered by a heavy roof. Suddenly, calm, but determined, a man walks in, carrying a cotton bag in his left hand. His grey hair is loose, past his shoulders. An eagle breast tied on the top of his head shows that he was initiated. He wears a clean shirt outside his Levis and terra cotta mocassins. He makes a trail by sprinkling cornmeal. On this trail walk the Messengers of the Gods, Living Spirits of the mysterious Forces of Nature: Kachinam. Then one by one, they comel One by one they bring magic. Some small, some tall, some slim, some heavy. All alike in their dissemblance. Yes, they do wear the same kilt of white cotton. All their bodies are painted red and yellow.

Black and yellow faces, with thin red ears standing out above necks lost in heavy wreaths of evergreen, have parrot beaks and snow designs on each cheek above long, mysterious, geometrical eyes. On top of the head dominating all is another parrot beak from which projects a mass of colorful feathers and a trail of flame: the tail feathers of the macaw. They are all alike with their turquoise ceremonial moccasins; two rings of sleigh bells tied around the calves; greenery in the left hand, gold rattle in the other. A large necklace of loose hair, red as rain in sunset. All alike and yet none are. The hues vary slightly, even the designs on the headgear and, above all, the arrangement of the feathers, the jewels and the heavy bow guard on the left wrist. Color is spilling everywhere as they keep on coming, crowding the court until they line up in single file, immobile now, therefore silent.

An imperative, powerful talk is given by the Fathers. Their voices explode, drag, then reach a powerful climax. They thank the Messengers who have come. They talk in the name of the peaceful people. He, a priest, is a humble delegate of the village. Some clans are blessed by his mission of asking and offering blessings to all. Then the Mother Earth trembles; the Song leader in the center has shaken his rattle, opening his arm like a wing. In this manner he says, "Yes, we will do as the People ask. We have come, we shall dance and take back their messages." That is what is meant and that is why he hit the ground with his foot; and the dynamic motion vibrates all over, giving life and meaningfulness with the gods to pulse in the heart of the village.

Of course, some people said that the Blue Flute, or the Grey, or is it both, have a parrot painted on their altar. This old man remembered what his grandfather used to say about the old days when Hopi traders traveled to Old Mexico, where there used to be a very large center for any kind of trade. Pottery was exchanged as well as ideas and techniques, shells from the oceans, weaving, but not moccasins because they did not exist until the "Castille" came with their heelless boots. They wore sandals then. There was the richness of all kinds of feathers and especially the macaw. But Arizona was green and yellow with its own parrots, many of them in his grandfather's time. Now the "Nature-Killer" has destroyed them. Some of the clan people kept the birds alive in their homes. Now the "NatureKiller" has made laws. Parrots and feathers cannot come into our Indian Land from our "uncle" in Mexico. They also make laws about the eagles, in spite of our religion, but the "Hopi Way" will go on strong, for the parrots come to bless their clans and all of us. Now the Parrot Kachinam are dancing; the people, their heads erect, their eyes watching the perfection of it all, feel good, feel goodness, feel sanctified because the beautiful, wonderful Kayzo have come from the south to Kyas nyam, their Clan.

You run to save your hair RACERS AND WHIPPERS

It is very cold dusty, windy. Many children circle around us asking for more hand tricks that I had shown during last summer's visits. Without any signal people come out at the same time, as always, taking their seats on the plaza and “things” will happen immediately.

The Wawarus or racers are a very special type of Kachinam. They are not as spectacular as the regular “visitors.” Each has an attribute and possibly a tool or a trick; nearly twenty of them race men or young boys, who will accept their challenge a hundred feet of speed and laughter.

Now they come: No ceremonial regalias, nor moccasins; no kilt, jewels, greenery or rattles. Two have scissors in their right hand, one has mud or dung, or whipping leaves (yucca). Those are whippers, some are Koyemsi or Mud Heads; one is the goddess Kokopoli mana. As thoroughbreds out of the stalls, they prance, checking the grounds and the people.

Three “Fathers” have laid blankets, holding them with rocks. They arrange prizes for the racing males that the Wawarus cannot catch: grocery boxes full of doughnuts, dried peaches, piki, oranges, apples, colored cookies. The punishment will be something else.

Here playing with a ball of mud is Chökapölö, with his yellowish loose skull. Or, warrior in spirit, the Scorpion carrying a rabbit stick, a boomerang with no return, for hunting.

Then the “greasy one,” a whipper, therefore many times a disciplinarian, or officer of order and labor. He is somber with long ears and all black as the black Crow who also controls some events.

The leaders in their special style of harangue (ending sentences in long dragging call as the Cha'akmongwi or “town crier” does from the rooftop) makes announcements, gives advice and meaning.

“Race, you men, race you youngsters, so tomorrow comes to us; guide the powers to activate the growth of corn, may you race to us, too, you clouds, may you race up from Mother Earth, all of you, brothers that grow green and nourishing. Kwakwai, thank you!” Of course children admire the elegance of Sikyataka, the yellow fox, even though he also has yucca leaves for punishment as has chipmunk Kona. The Dragon Fly carries a container of corn smut, which is black to be smeared on the loser's face. This brings happiness, is good for the skin and washes off easily!

“I'll challenge you, Letotovi.” Haliksai that's the way it is. Ta'ayoutekew! Let's go! A boy stands ready, he signals to a Koyemsi and they are gone, quickly around and back. So fast was the boy on his bare feet that he outdid the heavy clown for the joy of the yapping crowd. Another youngster swiftly starts but is caught in the turn and Hömsona catches him by the hair and cuts a lock off, storing it at once in his belt.

Much laughter, joy, excitement when a heavy-set old man is challenged by the Kokopoli mana, so small but always so determined. Her arms extended, she is after him and she almost reaches his shoulders; women are screaming, men laughing full of a definite expectation No! he slides from her grasp, returns safe, standing, with no dust on his back.

The wind is worsening in the late hours, sand blasts all but the Kachinam. Of course, they are not human. But the Hopi men, themselves, do not feel the cold. No reaction from even young boy in Levis and T-shirt. He was caught. He stops in front of a participating lady, bends his head and she pours over his shoulder half a gallon of icy water. He laughs and takes off his shirt, he does not seem to mind “Kwakwai! Thank you for the blessing.” Rugged men, healthy bodies, quick in actions and exploding with joy in the unison of laughter. They run, and get here an apple or a shower, doughnuts or two strokes of yucca leaves. They offer their backs with a smile of pride. Again and again they come back to the starting line, over and over; for nature herself races now toward spring.

Goggle eyes and unexpected visitors A HOOTE KACHINAM

When you climb to the top of Second Mesa on the main highway, you make a hairpin turn towards Shungopovi. There is a fascinating moment of romantic apprehension of what will be discovered in a few minutes when arriving, when walking into the Kisonvi. Has the dance started? Or are they just about to end? Is it the rest period? No it is not. There are too many people on the house tops. Each dance repeated eight times has a period where the Kachinam disappear to their secret and sacred place. If clowns have arrived (not all the ceremonies have clowns), they will occupy the plaza the balance of the day. We arrived during the last phase, before lunch. I did not say noon because all depends not so much at what time the dance started but on the length of the songs which are new for each ceremony.

The first impression when entering the dance place is seeing the top of the headgear towering above the crowd, the latter over-towered by the people sitting and standing on rooftops.

This gathering is sacred as if we were at church. One looks now to see if there is a preferable place in the shade where one could be tolerated. Each clan and families have their reserved places. The stone benches sit always the same people and we, Bahanas, should always remember this: The Hopi families deserve the best places.

This was to be a powerful and especially colorful day. After one has seen dances for thirty-six years, one realizes how fantastically different each one is yet some people will think after one hour that it is monotonous. This is because we have an in-born distortion of time. Our modern time is speed. Movies and television condense events and people's lives to one-and-ahalf hours. We follow the story made of thirty to one hundred seconds of camera shots. So to see “actual life” is slow. The visit of Kachinam is truly life in more than one way. The one today was strength and excitement; the gigantic yellow bodies, the head black, with blue and black horns, goggled eyes and snouts, over the forehead and a V-shape of all colors, signs of friendship or the moon and stars over the night background. Then the eagle feathers lying flat and backwards on top, the long skirt, making the presence of the dancer even fuller. Beautiful shells in their prehistorical sameness hanging on their backs on the side. In contrast the “uncle” was white and carrying bow and arrows. The drummer was a Koyemsi sitting in a popular restaurant-like chair.

From the empty window of an abandoned room came a long plank of wood. The five yellow clowns tried to slide down like children in a school playground. Of course, they tried in impossible ways to help the first ones, putting them in awful positions. The leader has stuck in his back a rag doll with a plastic head and a mana hair-do. He soon deposited it in the shrine. They played “gentlemen manners” and introduced themselves loudly to the waiting Kachinam and gave strange names. “I'm Pepper” said one, “my name is Pepper.” The other was “Chix's number 5.” Another shocked some Bahana in giving his name. Soon they invited some boys to play games, relay races, and an extraordinary “hockey on ice” which was done on the dirt by hitting a grocery box with brooms, which led to broom fights and landing and smashing the box. They also put “mini” boys in “mini” oil barrels and rolled them. The boys got out dizzy, yet happy. At that point, two warrior Koyemsi with dark wing feathers, very strange faces and headgear, wearing Levis, and each carrying two cottonwood branches, ran all around the clowns with war whoops. As the dance was to be repeated the next day, it meant that a large group of strange Kachinam might attack the clowns. Then more visitors came, including a Hano clown with green in his face, wearing an old white man's coat, wine collar, the remains of Levis almost white and raggedly cut below the knees and the brightest red socks and even brighter blue tennis shoes. Then the Kachinam danced again and there were more gifts. At the end of the day the Kachinam were blessed by the clan's leaders, everyone went home with joy and expectation because “tomorrow they would do it again.” Of course, sometimes, the sound comes to you first: rattles, turtle shells, the songs, the calls of the “Fathers” or the laughter, even the shrieks of the villagers if the clowns are performing. No one ever forgets that first contact by sound or sight of a first trip to a Ceremony.

Now we found our way to the crowd, looking for friends, for interesting visitors, for friendly understanding white people, or the few sometimes obnoxious tourists. Here and there are Hopis, mostly middle aged with their hair shoulder length, terraced as rain clouds or tied in the back in a homsona, the Hopi way. Those wearing red bandanas show that they are on duty and seeing that everything is fine and that visitors behave: Cameras, tape recorders, note taking or sketching are never allowed.