The Havasupais

HAVASUPAI LIFE

MODERN-DAY MUSIC AND CONVENIENCES THREATEN THE OLD WAYS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GRAND CANYON

IN SUPAI, PAST IS PRESENT. THE OLD WAYS live in the giant cottonwoods, sunburned cliffs and travertine curtains of the waterfalls. They echo in the songs and dances of long ago. Despite the trappings of modern societysatellite dishes, headsets and reggae-the Old Ways still resonate. They are apparent, for example, in the dignified reserve of the people and the way they ride their horses through the village like sovereigns. In Supai, horses rule. The only other access is by foot or helicopter. For a decade, Havasupai Indian traditionalists like Roland Manakaja and Matthew Putesoy have struggled to preserve tribal culture through song, dance and education. They say that reverence for the Old Ways remains essential to spiritual survival. "It's an uphill battle," Manakaja says, "but I believe that in the end much of our culture will be revived." If that is so, a likely factor will be Supai's isolated location. No matter how many times you hike in, there is always a sense of discovery when first glimpsing this pastoral village of 670 souls nestled deep within the Grand Canyon. After traversing nearly 8 miles of parched Havasu Canyon, the trail surmounts a rise and, suddenly, there it is an oasis of meadows, cottages and grazing horses. Even in December, with the tall cottonwoods nearly bare, the mystique lingers in the scent of wood smoke and leaf-carpeted lanes. The muffled rush of Havasu Creek seems to carry time with it. When the Havasupais first tilled this soil, the Aztecs were constructing what would become Mexico City, and Chaucer was writing The Canterbury Tales. The group lived an ordered life, farming the canyon during the summer and hunting and gathering wild edibles on the plateau in winter. With the arrival of Anglo settlers in the 1880s, their aboriginal idyll ended, as they were forced off the plateau and down into the canyon permanently. Since then, the Havasupais have worked the land and cultivated a thriving tourist industry that now attracts up to 25,000 people a year. The visitors come for the towering red sandstone cliffs, pristine waterfalls and blue-green creek that remains 70 degrees year-round. They stop for snacks at the general store or a quick meal at the cafe before moving on to the campgrounds 2 miles beyond the village. Few come for the cultural enrichment. From Hualapai Hilltop, hikers descend 2,000 feet, starting with steep switchbacks and talus slopes that level out onto the rocky canyon floor. At the greening confluence of Havasu and Hualapai canyons, they pass the original site of Supai village. Ninety-two years ago, torrential rains and melting snow cascaded over the canyon walls, creating a wall of water and debris 10 feet high that swept away everything before it, including a stone schoolhouse. Closer to present-day Supai, the canyon widens to a half-mile. Two huge stone pillars atop the far canyon wall signal the presence of Wiigleeva, the guardian spirits of the

[LEFT] Navajo Falls is the first of a series of four canyon waterfalls that decorate Havasu Creek along its route to the Colorado River. Havasu Falls, Mooney Falls and Beaver Falls complete the chain of dramatic cascades in the heart of the canyon. [RIGHT] A sweat lodge reflects the persistence of tradition in the lives of the Havasupais. Stones, heated in an open fire, are brought into the lodge and combined with water to create the intense, purifying atmosphere of the lodge ritual.

Havasupais. Their legend has it that if the formations were to topple, the tribe would perish. The Wiigleeva are an integral part of the Havasupai belief system, a naturalistic tapestry woven of legends from the canyon, plateau and wildlife.

As they near the campgrounds, visitors pass Navajo Falls, which is almost hidden by riparian growth, and Havasu Falls, where the creek plunges a hundred feet into a translucent emerald pool ringed by travertine terraces.

During the summer, Havasupai children frolic here unsupervised. They live a carefree existence unfettered by rules. Child-rearing in Supai is a communal venture, and physical punishment is rare. According to the tribe's Old Ways, striking children can shrivel their souls.

In the evening, twilight quickly yields to darkness in the narrow canyon. Before long, a pale light touches the top of the west wall and steals downward and across the campgrounds. As the moon breeches the opposite wall, the light brightens to an otherworldly luminosity, which befits an area once used by the Havasupais to cremate their dead.

A mile downcanyon, Mooney, the most sacred of Havasupai waterfalls, plunges 200 feet into the night, solitary and unheard.

In the winter, TOURISM SLOWS TO A trickle and Supai is left to itself. The weather, seldom severe, registers 15 degrees warmer in the canyon than up above, but the threat of floods is always present. Some of the men go to work "up on top," while others stay home and pull maintenance on the trails, irrigation ditches and campgrounds. Roland Manakaja does neither. As natural resource director for the tribe, he boasts one of the few year-around jobs in Supai.

Manakaja, a burly, self-assured man in his mid-40s, descended from a chief. Like many Havasupai males, he wandered away from the fold as a young man, but he later returned. The Old Ways-belief in "sage, fire and sweat"-restored meaning to his life, he says.

Manakaja believes he is destined to be the spiritual leader of the tribe. As such, he incorporates many of the Old Ways into his life. For example, he grows much of his own food, particularly those vegetables historically linked with Supai - squash, melons, corn and pumpkins. "The only people who grow their own food are traditionalists and the needy," Manakaja says. "I have a job, but I like to keep the culture going. My kids love food grown at home."

Manakaja estimates half the people in Supai remain traditionalists, while the rest are Protestants, Catholics, Mormons and secularists. Many do not own land-Supai barely tops 500 acres-but rent instead. "Not everyone does the rituals and ceremonies anymore," Manakaja says, "yet they are taught to respect the old beliefs." In tribute to the Old Ways, many Havasupais start the day by facing the sun.

A tangible link to the Old Ways is the tó olva, or "sweat lodge," located just off thetrail to the campgrounds. By combining hot rocks with water, intense heat is generated in its cramped interior. Inside, perspiring participants meditate or chant songs as they seek purification. According to Manakaja, outsiders are occasionally allowed to share in the experience."

"It's pretty tough in there," says Chris Barnard, former general manager of Havasupai Tribal Enterprises. "It's pitch-black and very hot. You sweat for four or five minutes, then go into the creek. You're in and out maybe seven times. It's a healing technique, and it works."

Visitors who hang out in the cafe long enough will hear the pulsating beat of reggae, especially the songs of Bob Marley, whose socially conscious lyrics captured the Havasupai imagination. The late Rastafarian enjoys cultural icon status in Supai. "Hisfamily has been down two or three times," Manakaja says. "We're hoping Ziggy [Marley's son] will come down, too."

Manakaja plays rhythm guitar in a Supai band that performs rock, country and reggae music. "We don't do anything original, like writing songs, yet," he says, "but I would like to see that happen-maybe songs about our struggles with uranium mining and overflights of the Grand Canyon."

In A SUPAI CLEARING, THE BIG CHINOOK helicopters touch down gingerly, churning up furious dust storms. Half the village has turned out, including Matthew Putesoy, for the annual Toys for Tots drop, which is sponsored by the U.S. Marines. The Marines have also brought groceries and building materials. The festive atmosphere complements the Havasupai communal tradition. According to the Old Ways, if you do not share, you cannot be a good person.

Later that afternoon, Putesoy sits in his studio, a windowless blockhouse where he makes silkscreened T-shirts. A strapping man in his early 30s with a waist-length ponytail and flip-down sunglasses, he talks haltingly about the Old Ways at first but soon warms to the subject. "We have people who hunt," he says, explaining the Havasupai attitude about sharing. "If they kill a deer on the plateau, they must give thanks to it for the meat. They have to share it with others, too. If they don't, they might not be so lucky next time."

Putesoy remembers as a young boy "going to [village] social gatherings all the time. Everyone attended, down to the children. We had dinners and played bingo and other games.

In those days, Putesoy and his friends roamed Havasu Canyon and played traditional games with sticks and rocks. By the '90s, all that had changed.

"Once TV came," he says, "people spent most of their time at home." Alarmed by the cultural apathy, Havasupai elders called on younger tribal members to do something. "They let me know that we can't stop carrying on the tradition," Putesoy says.

In response, Putesoy, Manakaja and others formed Guardians of the Grand Canyon, a dance group inspired by the majestic bighorn sheep living in the area. With the help of Putesoy's grandmother and two other elders, they carefully reconstructed the dances and songs that nourish the Havasupai spirit.

"We started working with Supai's fifthand sixth-graders in 1991," Putesoy says. "To see children singing and dancing the Snake Dance, it really opened my eyes."

Perhaps the most moving ritual is the Bird Dance, which Putesoy calls a "send-off for the dead." It incorporates an elaborate and lengthy chant recapitulating the life of the deceased and providing a guide to the afterlife. The dead are given food and water for this four-day trip. They are instructed to walk straight down the trail toward waiting ancestors. If they turn back, they are doomed to wander the Earth eternally.

As an added precaution, survivors often burn property belonging to the dead on the theory that giving it to someone else will anger the deceased and cause their spirits to return. "When my dad died, they burned everything," says Putesoy. "They burned his chaps, his saddle, his favorite rifle-even his singing gourds."

In the old days, the Havasupais also had a ritual for the beginning of life. Manakaja plans to perform the ritual with his seven children. In offering hope for his offspring, it offers hope for the Old Ways. The ritual calls for Manakaja to grind up the dried umbilical cords of his children and mix them with the rich red ocher of Supai. He will then use the mixture to paint a vertical stripe on each child, extending from the groin to the top of the head and down the back.

"It reconnects individuals with their umbilical cords," Manakaja says. "It helps them to walk a straight path in life."

In her 1956 memoirs, People of the Blue Water, teacher Flora Iliff recalled thinking, as a young turn-of-the-century Anglo woman, that the religious proselytizing of white society would soon reduce Wiigleeva to "mere pillars of stone."

Yet four decades later, Wiigleeva still stand, facing the future and preserving the past. AH Dave Eskes of Phoenix is interested in Arizona history and grueling hikes-even if they lead to a defibrillator. Blue about leaving and green with envy of those who live there is how Phoenix resident David Elms Jr. felt after spending a week in Havasu Canyon.