Tasaf Yebitchai

The fast tempo comes from the east

Shipaulovi - June, 1967 The small court of Shipaulovi was filled with Kachinam - five rows of five Corn dancers with four feathers crossing and elegantly curving out of the top of their heads. Along these rows were the “side” dancers, wearing very large fans of turkey feathers, and holding a ring in their left hands and a long pole in their right. There is a game among many tribes where one person propels a small circle which the other or others try to pin down with an arrow or a spear. In some cases this has a “germination” symbolism.

At the four corners of the dancing crowd were four Navaho Yei and on the Southeast end, twenty-two Koyemsi, one a drummer, were singing. Others were prancing in front of the choir; the motion was extremely rapid and the pattern of the dance changed completely. It was interesting to see a middle-age man, in a modern yellow shirt, go along the rows of the Kachinam and dance in front of a very short Kachina. Toward the end of the day, even though the few clouds of the morning had disappeared, there was an unexpected shower that lasted half an hour. Fantastic, surprising and happy, it fell over everyone and was so variegated for it rained onions, carrots, candy bars, oranges, apples, grapefruit and little plastic bags of popcorn! The showers kept on coming from the rooftops and the people were thankful for such generosity.

mer, were singing. Others were prancing in front of the choir; the motion was extremely rapid and the pattern of the dance changed completely. It was interesting to see a middle-age man, in a modern yellow shirt, go along the rows of the Kachinam and dance in front of a very short Kachina. Toward the end of the day, even though the few clouds of the morning had disappeared, there was an unexpected shower that lasted half an hour. Fantastic, surprising and happy, it fell over everyone and was so variegated for it rained onions, carrots, candy bars, oranges, apples, grapefruit and little plastic bags of popcorn! The showers kept on coming from the rooftops and the people were thankful for such generosity.

The dance has ended. Way at the back of the village the Kachinam lined up by the Kiva. Many villagers blessed the messengers with the usual pollen. Women came with Hopi pottery containing it. Men had pouches: sometimes just flour bags, sometimes especially made sacks of brilliant colors, even buckskin. Then in a long file (after they have been smoked upon and the short pipe has gone to several priests) one could see for a long time the vibrating feathers flamboyant in the last rays of the sunset, going down the mesa, to disappear beyond the cliff, leaving in the mind a feeling of contentment of unhurried peace, a vision of total beauty.

Mane... Rain

I have been thinking about Kachinam.

I am not prepared to talk about them, although there is enough to say. There are so many memories a potent resin and I haven't yet touched a catalyst. I am high in the moun-tains, looking North where there is snow. Behind me are only evergreens and rocks. This high, deep north snow will not melt.

A few thousand feet below is a modern city with a new freeway which bypasses it. The city has an old section and a new section. In the old section are ruins: wooden shacks of pioneers. In the nearby canyon are prehistoric ruins; stone remains of the Indians. In the meadows a few miles away are antelopes and coyotes. On the Peaks are everlasting snow and ice, because there live the Kachinam.

I talked to them. They do not speak human words. They talk with kindness: their words are the beat of rain. They talk with power, with the clashing of male thunder, with the solar energy of lightning. They are not from outer space. They are not down-to-earth. They are not gods. They are Messengers. Multi-faced, colorfully-dressed, highly-painted, crowned with symbols and vibrating feathers, over those faces that do not talk!

I spoke to the Kachinam, with the radio of my heart, with the long waves to the Superior Power. There is so much to say which is said in silence.

I followed the departure of the Kachinam, going northeast through this desert they have painted. I can see their everchanging steps over the steppes of Northern Arizona: purple shadows of magic clouds. Kachina faces molded by cumuli, barred by strati; males, females, life pouring down in the blessing of the unfolded hair, mane, rain.

Kisonvi: in the heart of the Hopi sanctuary, Shungopovi. People from every mesa and many clans are congregated and amalgamated from the four Directions of the World. The fifth and sixth directions are for the gods. The Kachinam are coming.

Twelve variegated Koyemsis arrive: one with a fat drum below his fat belly, a tall telescopic eye; the other a telescopic mouth. Some with white moustaches, the others earthclean. Young ones, thin, funny, fast. Two or three with old ladies' mantas down from one shoulder. All have black scarves which eventually will turn around the neck still holding their sacklike heads. Then come fifty Kachinam and the "Fathers" and the "Uncles."

mouth. Some with white moustaches, the others earthclean. Young ones, thin, funny, fast. Two or three with old ladies' mantas down from one shoulder. All have black scarves which eventually will turn around the neck still holding their sacklike heads. Then come fifty Kachinam and the "Fathers" and the "Uncles."

This is the most magnificent hour of all. Cattails, stalks of corn laden with Kachina tihu dolls, bows and arrows of vivid colors, rattles, plaques are deposited on the center of the plaza and make a bas-relief between the Koyemsis and the half-circle of dancers. With them are wicker baskets with pyramids of fruit, dominated by the crescent of bananas, topped with scarlet boiled eggs, slices of watermelon green, pink, juicy boxes of Ivory soap, graham crackers, and Black Label. The Kachina bread, blue, yellow and pink piki, contrasting with canned goods, bags of flour, supermarket frosted cakes, all neighbors of one Pillsbury "homemade," loner in an aluminum tray. Roast corn, in large plastic garbage cans, peanuts, candies (to be given in handsful to the youngsters), oranges, grapefruit, apples, carrots, green onions to be cast in all directions, The first song, the last move of the Kachinam. Now they give away their treasures. Silence of the children, silence of teenagers, of the mothers, grandfathers expectation for all. The Kachinam are here. Are they here? Now?... Yes! They become real, strong, powerful, wet! The rain falls: A deluge of blessing beads the crowd. Beautiful! Bahanas run away for shelter. The Kachinam dance; the Kachinam sing. In the center of the Kisonvi, a sea of purple (or red, or green) washes away from the dolls, drips from the bows and arrows. All rejoice for the powerful presence of the Kachinam. Mane, rain blessing over the faces with washed-away color over their bare chests, soaking the cotton kilts with psychedelic patterns. Blessing the Mother Earth, the fields, the bushes, the trees, for the joy of all; returning the gods' answer to the need of Mankind, from where the Kachinam will always come.

And you hear the turtle shells

Mishongovi has three levels: The upper one is the oldest and more sacred; the lower, a spillout, is more accessible and practical; there used to be a third one by the Corn Rock near the road. Here on the foot of the first step a tent has been pitched for us. Cots, blankets, kerosene lamps, a bucket of water are quickly brought in to make us feel comfortable now that we have arrived. The dirt road makes a big loop to climb to the ceremonial plaza. In the dusk there is a constant motion of people, of pickups. The excitement shows in the behavior of the children and the numerous dogs, as they do not understand such a change in tempo. It is dark now. We have improvised a dinner. Still on the mesa side, continuous action. We can see many big fires now preparing the overnight baking of mush or sweet corn pudding (pikami). By ten o'clock the normal calm returns. No more traffic. Children have gone to bed. Some teenagers sitting on rocks are still holding hands and giggling. The moon climbs up behind menacing clouds. A few heavy drops beat the drum of our tent canvas. I am about to sleep in spite of the packs of dogs howling at the moon, when one of my close Hopi friends whispers in my ear. "Be up at five-thirty. Yes, get up at fivethirty so as not to miss the first visit of thirty-seven Hemis Kachinam and eight Manas."

In the quietness, voices carry a long way, then, finally, silence an unexpected last car a desperate barking. Silence, sleep.

As in a dream, I become conscious of a world around me. There is a humming, as if the rocks were whispering to the moon, "The Living Spirits of the gods have arrived the blessings are here happiness is ours, for the year to come."

The humming becomes a definite low chant. You hear turtle shells, voices of Kachinam Fathers, encouragement reaching us from above. A dog barks again. The village sleeps. Children are dreaming of the gifts from Kachinam. Shadows are strong with the almost overhead full moon. It is 2:45 A.Μ.

Already 5 A.M. The disappearing moon glow changes color as it moves further west. A boy who slept on a rooftop in the upper village stands up, lets his blanket fall to the ground, and stretches. Now a pale glow comes from the East-Northeast. Lights at some windows. The warm coffee from the thermos gets us started. When we walk up, the early dawn colors our trail. A few people are there. It is still cold. A hobbled horse divides our small group, waiting. Toward the East the village ends in a long, rocky slope. At this moment it is a solid dark mass against the pale horizon. A few Hopis have joined us now. There are many children, all silent, all respectful. And then there are a few minutes of an incredible appearance that will linger in our memory forever: On the hilltop, seemingly, ants have appeared. They are now crawling everywhere in the distance. They change now into walking flowers, with their fuzzy yellow pistils lit by the first ray of Tawa, the Sun God. As they walk toward us, they change into a moving forest of greens. Then you can hear the turtle shells. You can see, at a few hundred feet, the ceremonial Father's bare torso and bare feet, with a traditional white kilt, the bag of corn meal, the turquoise stick with the four Huiksi (the eagle down). We discover the Kachinam, with their terraced tablitas in cloud shapes, their chests painted black with Nakwach, sign of kinship, friendship, and peace. Dominating their silhouettes as a vibrant arrow: the orange macaw feather aflame with the light of dawn. The corn they all carry green corn stalks brings joy because the crop is in. In the dance court, the Kisonvi, a crowd awaits, half-awake children, fully awake dogs. On the village square lie the stalks and in baskets ears of corn. The Kachinam are now a wall of sacred bodies contrasting with their heavy robes of spruce branches that cover their kilts; then again around their neck more green, symbol of the eternity of Life. Quietly, the priests see that the row is perfect, that each end curves in gently as a wing. The manas stand in line in front of the center. There is a complete hush. A dog might go and explore, also in silence. Now the priests' singing, loud harangue their demands, their supplications, their happiness, their gratitude in the name of their Clans, and for the Hopi people and everything which is alive everywhere in the cosmos. The blessing with the corn meal; and finally the Song Leader answers by shaking his rattle. This means, "Yes, we shall dance, we shall carry your messages." He then hits the ground hard, with the right foot, shaking the turtle shell and immediately all the Kachinam fall in step, one at a time turning on themselves until the whole row faces the opposite direction. The song has started. A litany that sounds mysterious filters from their hearts. They will dance for a long time before they stop to rest. It is not that Spirits could get tired but there is a ritual pattern of how many times they will return as each "visit" is related to a part of the cosmos. When they come again, they will face also three different sides of the plaza. Each time the manas will kneel on blankets, and as the song changes, they will grind rasps as an accompaniment like the resonance of the tide, the whisper of the wind.

While the Kachinam have gone to their secret place, many people have left the kisonvi. A few old ones will exchange memories. A few mothers will visit with friends from other villages or eastern pueblos. Children might play or run out to the cliff edge. Patiently, wherever they are, the people are waiting or preparing their own duties, as those of all ages have responsibilities. Teenagers on rooftops watch others on rooftops, as well as observing the dance. They will change places with their friends and there is always much smiling and laughter. Boys will notice girls as the wind plays with their shiny long hair. At several places tethered eagles have received colorful bows and arrows.

Some white people have come to the plaza. Some school teachers or doctors, some traders or friends. And of course, tourists. One family has just walked in during the lull.

A man whose daughter wears shorts asks loudly of an old man, "Is there going to be something here?" A Hopi teenager answers for him, "There is a dance." They sit down on a stone bench; but the girl remarks, "It's more comfortable there." And they invade a central seat covered with blankets. Soon ladies with red shawls over their shoulders and holding umbrellas come back and very politely claim their seats. The unhappy tourists question again, "What time does the dance start?" "We don't know," whisper the ladies with a smile. "Hey, you!" the man now addresses some children, "What time does the dance start?" "We don't know," they also answer. "Gosh, it sure isn't organized here," the man remarks. "It's too hot," says his wife. "And it's too dusty," says the girl. "There doesn't even seem to be a bar. Well, let's go! I really don't see why I left the highway; there's nothing to see here." "Well they have a nice view," says the lightly clad girl, "but that stupid sign says you can't even take pictures!" As they go, Hopi boys follow them, laughing, "Bahanas! Bahanas!"

Then you hear the turtle shells in the narrow passage between two old houses, the leader appears, leaving a trail of blessings: the Kachinam are here.

Of the variety of beautiful ceremonies seen anywhere I believe the Niman (with its close-to-the-Earth quality) is among the best. The afternoon after the second dance, when they carry cattails, cornstalks and gifts, is like a church ritual that moves one Of the variety of beautiful ceremonies seen anywhere I believe the Niman (with its close-to-the-Earth quality) is among the best. The afternoon after the second dance, when they carry cattails, cornstalks and gifts, is like a church ritual that moves onedeeply. The procession enters your heart a collection of achievements so intimate, a garden animated with peaceful yet flamboyant grandeur. It is kingly. The Spirits of the gods carefully walk in a style not to be forgotten. The motion of their heads swinging, then stopping, is like curious birds. One Kachina turns its head and investigates the crowd; he searches for a special little one to present with a gift. Then the body turns, arms loaded with greenery and spotted with tihü (dolls), plaques, rattles, wood lightning, or bows and arrows. The face slowly looks up toward the rooftop and pauses. Youngsters in the direction of his look now try to guess who is to be blessed with a gift. As the cattail is raised and pointing, two or three boys are tapping their chests. "For me?" Silently they signal. Finally the Kachina nods and the boy disappears into the crowd to come down. Unhurried, the Niman waits and the beaming boy has now reached the Kisonvi. Proudly he goes to his mother and joyously displays his gift. For a few weeks, boys will run all over, shooting with their new bows and arrows at grocery cartons or whatever would make a target. They may also shoot straight up in the air to see who can reach the clouds. A young friend of mine sits near me. "I shot two," he said, "two deer, then winks, smiles and admits "mouse size." Indeed, the most fantastic distribution is the giving of dolls. Each carving is perfect. The size varies from one hand to two feet in height. All have cotton string around the neck and are carried that way when released from the cattail. One can imagine what goes through the minds of hundreds of girls looking at hundreds of dolls as the tihüs are placed all over the center of the dance ground! The girls are wondering, "Is there one for me?" "Which one?" "More than one?" "Last year I got three." "Will the call come from the same Kachina?" "Or shall I get one at the next visit?"

Shungopovi July 26, 1969 The sun is going down, painting gold the vastness of Hopi Land. Corn Rock, across the valley, stands out against Mishongovi and Shipaulovi villages. The moment has arrived for the last dance of the cycle the eighth one the last of the day.. the last of the year. For this is saying farewell to the Kachinam until the Sun, having gone backward in the winter, will be asked to stop and start forward again. Then the Living Spirits of the Kachinam may come back again from the San Francisco Peaks.

The end of the Kachinam cycle comes in July. Many urban Hopis, or some that live far away, will choose this time to be blessed by the Kachinam. More than ever the people will, in great reverence, mentally participate and listen to the songs. Not all the villages have the same Kachinam coming for this occasion. Long hair or Navaho are sometimes the visitors. There could be visits of Kachinam at different villages the same day. Some people will travel from one end of the Reservation road to the other. This ceremony on the main dance day starts at sunrise and ends at sunset. The public visit of Kachinam is only a small part of the rituals. At Zuni, the Shalako rituals practically last all year.

When the Kachinam have returned to the San Francisco Peaks, there still will be Social Dances and Women's Rituals on the open courts until the fall. Those are not Kachina ceremonies; nor are the Snake and Flute dances in August.