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In Search of the Seris

The center of the universe is 230 miles southeast of the mouth of the Colorado River. It is a small place, a desert island set in the Sea of Cortes, only 20 miles wide by 30 miles long. It was formed millions of years ago by fault

blocking and volcanic action creating two rugged mountain ranges of pink granite, basalt dikes, and domes of andesite that rise 2,000 feet above the water.

At the center of the universe, perhaps five inches of rain fall in a year. Fresh water is rare, and summer heat bakes the land from June through September. Temperatures climb past 110° Fahrenheit, day after day. During the winter, November through February, a cold bitter wind blows out of the northwest.

To the people who migrated to its rocky shores perhaps 2,000 years ago, paddling 30-foot-long reed rafts from the Baja California Peninsula, it has always been called Tahojc. Visitors today know it by its Spanish name: Isla Tiburon (Shark Island). To those Seri Indians (or Comcaac, in their language) who have fished from its shores, hunted in its mountains, and drunk from its water holes since before the birth of Christ, it is home.

I first saw Tiburon Island in the fall of 1968. An old friend, Dave Yetman, and I had wanted to travel south to visit the Mayo Indians in Sonora, but a violent thunderstorm washed out the bridges between Guaymas and Ciudad Obregon.

So, instead, we drove west from Hermosillo to Kino Bay where, just a few months before, Dave had visited a ragged group of Indians who spoke an odd language and lived in isolated camps along the Sonoran shore. Our first encounter with the Seris occurred at a fruit stand in Kino Bay. We discovered immediately they were noth-ing like the quiet and unassuming inland Indians: the Yaquis, Mayos, or Tarahumaras. Tall and slender-almost delicate in appearance-they did not try to blend into the background. They laughed openly as they boldly looked us up and down. And when they spoke, their guttural voices full of life, we listened. We wanted to know more about them. Up the coast from Kino Bay, we found the Seri village of Punta Chueca, located on a sweeping sandy beach that curves out into the turquoise-blue waters of the Canal de Infiernillo (Channel of Little Hell). Just across that mile-wide strait rested Tiburon Island, bathed in the afternoon sun.

In just a few short hours, we had found the Seris and their homeland. But it was to take years of trading with them as a buyer of their ironwood carvings and coiled baskets before I would truly "find" these people.

Respect is an underlying characteristic of traditional Seri behavior. I have been told by Seri men and women to be careful when walking in the desert or going out on the water. "Everything has a spirit, some e good, some bad; and until you know the differences, keep a low profile and try to learn some spirit songs," Jesus (pronounced hay-soos) told me years ago. "Never speak bad things about people when walking by a palo blanco tree on the island," Chapo had said; "it will hear your voice and later tell them when they walk by."

Rosa instructed me in the importance of never killing a coyote or dog, because they were once people. "Don't let your daughter touch the pink flower of the Melochia (dove flower)," Amalia said in a serious tone, "or she will become promiscuous."

"Watching the sun set is very dangerous as it falls towards Baja California, the Land of the Giants, the side of the world where pain and hardship reside," Fernando said. Always sing a song when leaving the land in a boat and never throw rocks into the water while on San Esteban Island, or the giant coral snake hidden under the sea between San Esteban and Tiburon islands will create a terrible current to suck you under. A boojum tree is dangerous and that is why we don't touch them, Roberto told me; always sing a song when you get up in the morning and feel the north wind, hai ano moca, strike your face....

In the spring of 1976, photographer Jay Dusard and I knew little of these important things when we made a photographic expedition to the south end of Tiburon

In Search of the Seris

Island. Solorio Martinez and his younger cousin Armando Moreno were our guides and boatmen. Our destination was Sauzal, an ancestral camp of “the Rock People,” an extinct band of Seris who once lived on San Esteban and the south end of Tiburon. Sauzal also is known for its freshwater “Lake,” about one-fourth the size of the average Scottsdale swimming pool. It lies inland about six miles in a dry, sun-blasted place swarming with tiny biting gnats. This pond also maintains the only large stand of reeds in the area, once used to build traditional Seri “balsas” or rafts.

Our open 20-foot fiberglass boat made the trip in four hours, despite its heavy load of bed rolls, ice chests, folding table, tarps, blankets, gasoline, and drinking water.

Three days passed quickly, despite the heat and the infernal insects. We explored the coastline around Sauzal, went to the inland pond, and climbed several mountain peaks. Late on the fourth day, we returned to shore from an inland hike and found Solorio ready to leave for Punta Chueca.

“The south wind, xnae, is shifting, and we don't have much time before xnacoj [a hurricane-like wind] hits.” After Solorio described the severity of these winds, we had the boat loaded in less than 15 minutes, leaving behind everything we thought was unnecessary.

A mile out to sea, the motor died. This didn't bother me. Seri outboard motors frequently stop and are always Explore spectacular Lake Powell and its high-country neighbors in this hour-long videotape. Highlighted are Lake Powell's scenic beauty and recreation, with trips to the Grand Canyon's North Rim, Monument Valley, Navajo National Monument, and Zion and Bryce Canyon national parks. Narrated by William Shatner, it's packed with adventure for the entire family. VHS or Beta format: $34.95. VHS Pal European format: $37.95. Please add shipping and handling charges.

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Santos and Sea Creatures

by David Burckhalter The Seri Indians of Sonora are best known in the Southwest for their highly polished ironwood sculptures of sea and desert creatures. Unlike Seri basketry, face painting, and santo making, the carving of these distinctive ironwood animals goes back only to 1961, when Jose Astorga of Desemboque first mastered the craft.

Using hatchets and machetes, Seri wood-carvers begin by roughing out figures from sawed blocks of dense ironwood, then shape with rasps and refine the forms with knives and chisels. Nearly finished carvings are passed to other family members for sanding, polishing (two coats of shoe polish), and buffing. Such master carvers as Armando Torres, Rosa Montano, Alejandro Diaz, and Francisco Morales are now sought for their exceptional work.

Seri basketry was a functional craft that evolved into an art form in the deft hands of such weavers as Aurelia Molina, Maria Elena Romero, Ana Berta Molina, and Angelita Torres. They create traditional dish-shaped baskets or basajaa from the branches of the plant called baat or torote. The branches are stripped lengthwise, and the coarsest strands are bunched to form a foundation around which the finest strands are coiled. Stitching is done by passing each new coil through an opening pierced in an underlying coil by a deer-bone awl. The Seris are said to be the last tribe in North America to use this ancient instrument. Designs are created by coiling the dyed torote fibers into the baskets.

In addition to dish-shaped baskets, Seris now weave olla shapes called haat banoobco, and rarely the traditional giant ceremonial basket called sapim, the creation of which is celebrated with a four-day fiesta.

Face painting, the loveliest Seri art, was formerly practiced daily as a cosmetic procedure, especially by unmarried girls. Now face painting typically takes place during the basket fiesta and the four-day celebration held for the capture, adornment, and release of the rare leatherback sea turtle, a central figure in the Seri creation myth.

Seri santos, painted wooden saints or fetishes, were traditionally carved by shamans from the wood of the red elephant tree. The santos were commonly worn as curative amulets during vision quests or were hung from dwel lings for protection against evil. Today santos are most often carved to resemble robed priests.

In Search of the Seris

Continued from page 41 Difficult to start. Solorio patiently pulled the motor cover off and peered into the depths. He adjusted the carburetor, closed the cover, and pulled the starter cord. With a puff of white smoke, the motor once more roared into life, and we continued east along the south shore. Three, maybe four minutes passed before the motor quit again. This time no amount of coaxing worked.

Solorio and his cousin were quick to guess the problem: since no water had been gushing out of the upper cooling ducts, something must be wrong with the cooling system. “The pump is broken,” Solorio said after a few minutes of tinkering.

Silently he and Armando picked up paddles, and we slowly made for the island. We came ashore on a pebble beach, where the men hunkered down to talk about the problem. After 25 minutes, Jay and I felt a trifle concerned.

Dark clouds were building in the south and churning our way. Sunset was moments off when I realized we were low on water. In our haste to escape the island, I had left a five-gallon jerrycan of water on the beach.

“According to our map,” I said to Jay, pointing northwest toward a range of low hills, “I could hike in that direction, intersect Sauzal Creek, and from there it’s an easy walk to the water hole.” A cry from the boat interrupted us. “Santiago,” Solorio called me by my Spanish name, “give us a hand carrying this motor ashore.” We set the engine on some smooth rocks as Solorio approached with his tools. Ye gods, I thought. He’s going to take it apart. Not that I didn’t trust the Seris, but not long ago they were considered the most primitive people in North America. Only in the 1950s did they first encounter motors. And this was a modern 48horsepower outboard that Solorio had owned just six months.

He pulled his tools out of the canvas bag: a pair of pliers rusted shut, a large screwdriver with part of the tip broken off, and a metal hatchet with only its hammerhead intact. Again I began to study the map.

Another 25 minutes passed before Solorio and his cousin removed the motor’s lower housing and exposed the water pump. The rubber impeller had sheared loose from its brass housing and was spinning freely on the drive shaft.

The two Seri men took a deep breath in unison, found some smooth rocks to lie back on, and resumed talking. This time they seemed to be joking about the predicament. Every now and then, they would burst out laughing. Jay and I weren’t mechanics, but we knew four things: this was’t funny, there was no way to fix the impeller, the storm was getting closer, and it would soon be dark. When the boatmen finished their conversation, Armando asked if we had a piece of wire. He hoped to lash the rubber impeller onto the brass bushing. “It won’t work,” I snapped. “I’d better go for water now,” I said to Solorio, “before it gets too dark to see anything.” But he ignored me. There were more important things to think about.

When next I turned to Solorio, he was gone. He had climbed the embankment and was now walking away along the shore. Minutes passed. When he returned, he was holding a live duck over his head and grinning as it quacked and flapped its wings in an effort to escape.

In spite of our seemingly hopeless situation, we all roared with laughter as Solorio ran along the beach with the duck desperately flapping its wings over his head as he pretended to let it carry him home through the air.

It was a brilliant distraction and lifted the tension immediately. Soon the men were back at work. With a small nail retrieved from a piece of scrap wood in the boat, Armando started punching holes in the rubber impeller, “so it could be tied to the bushing” with some wire Jay had in his camera bag. Solorio watched intently, humming a song under his breath.

Six hours later, with waves breaking over the boat’s side and every one of us soaked and freezing, we saw the lights of Punta Chueca through the nighttime mist and knew we would make it home. To this day, I do not understand why the brass bushing didn’t cut the wire as it turned on the drive shaft, or how the Seri men even knew to try such a thing. All I know is what I saw. And it worked. But the incident also let me understand something about the Seri Indians and their desert place.

Living as they do at the center of the universe, they are never afraid to experiment with the absurd, nor do they let preconceived notions limit their invention. They know intuitively that to make the best of a bad situation requires humor, which gives them the courage to try and try again.

I realized something else: when the Seris move from a water hole in the mountains to a mangrove estuary on the coast, they do it with the same sense of security and feeling of oneness as you and I might know in walking from the living room to the kitchen.

Tiburon Island is their home, their castle, rising out of the water in bright sun or ocean mist, reminding them every day of who they are, where they came from, and how their spirit is rooted. That is their essential identity and remains immutable.