VIEW ALL BROADCAST'S BLOG ENTRIES
At a swap meet in the small Navajo town of Window Rock on April Fools Day, I was the butt end of the joke. A bunch of dudes in their pickup truck stopped—literally on my left foot—and the driver pointed over my shoulder: "Hey, are those your keys over there?" I had my keys in my left hand, but I went along with it, and congratulated the dudes on pranking the only outsider in town. I saw a nice t-shirt that reads: "Just move it - Navajo Nation - T'áá hwó' ají t'éego" and asked how much it was. "Fifty cents," was the reply. I got a tamale for a $1.50, added a donation to the high school fund for the graduating class trip to Universal Studios. We talked about their trip to California, and the April Fools joke: "I'm the only tourist around; the joke has to be on me," I said. The only other non-Navajo was a Caribbean guy selling Bob Marley t-shirts. From South America to the Himalayas, Marley is the voice of the oppressed. "Buffalo Soldier" was playing on his boom box. I proceeded on to the historic Hubbell Trading Post and Canyon de Chelly.
When the pressure builds up, New Yorkers need to get out of town, and remote places like the Navajo Nation remind us of how good we have it here. The first billboard I saw entering Window Rock read: "His friends got him hooked on Meth... where are they now?" It depicts a bunch of guys in orange prison jumpsuits being put behind bars. The gang graffiti seen sprayed on a number of the sad-looking housing compounds here and in Chinle and Fort Defiance reminded me that the myriad problems facing the Navajo Nation sometimes seem insurmountable. Fetal-alcohol syndrome, public intoxication, gambling and other crimes are endemic here, and multiple signs I saw for Sunday bingo games within the Canyon de Chelly national monument underscored how tough it can be to make a dollar in this remote area. Tourists pass through daily with their huge SUVs and fat wallets, eager to bargain with the locals for jewelry and reproduced artifacts. We focus on the gorgeous scenery, and generally prefer to look askance when confronted by the glaring poverty.
So after the obligatory photo session at Spider Rock Overlook, elevation 6871 feet, I returned to the Sliding House Overlook, where I saw the same elderly lady half-hidden in a juniper bush with her thumb stuck out an hour earlier. The sun was searing, and something compelled me to stop. I'd been to the edge of the canyon, and stared down hundreds of feet. This landscape was alternately stunning, unforgiving, cruel and hypnotizing. First off, I asked her the question that was always asked of me the countless times I'd hitchhiked overseas: Where are you going? She said she was going to the Visitor Center. She was incredibly thirsty, and I gave her a bottle of water. (How thirsty had I been when hitchhiking!) We had a very friendly chat. She had left home to sell some things at the Sliding House Overlook, and having had no luck, she was going home. She was going to Chinle town. Then it seemed she was going home. The exact details didn't really matter; we chatted about local foods, her grandchildren, the weather, and the bingo games. She doesn't play bingo, although she boasted she could play 15 cards at once. She has ten grandchildren, or maybe twelve, depending on how you count the extended family relations. The kids really love her fry bread. Would she make fry bread for Easter? "Not sure," was her reply.
We got closer to the Visitor Center, and she blurted out: "Go that way!" taking us away from the Visitor Center and on to the North Rim Drive. Then we took a rocky dirty road in one direction, then another. "You'll find your way back, I'm sure," she said. I assured her it would be no problem. Suddenly, I remembered all those signs at the Visitor Center exhorting the wary traveler to lock the car and leave no valuables behind. Why all these warnings? I decided to ask this grandmother when she had left home: was it yesterday or today? "Two days ago," she replied. Then I realized: It was meth. Not only was she drunk, but what had given her the strength to wander so far afield and stay awake was meth. She pointed out the nearby hogans belonging to various relatives. Their were lots of pick-up trucks. I asked if anyone still rode a horse. "My son does," she said. But he didn't have enough money for a new saddle. Saddles are very expensive, I noted, having checked some out in Gallup, just over the border in New Mexico. Seems no one rides on a blanket any more, and anyhow trucks are much easier to transport tourists around the canyon floor than horses. We then approached her hogan—or at least she said it was hers—and I dropped her off near several junked cars. "Maybe someone is home," she meekly said. She then added: "You'll find your way back." It was time to go. I told her it was a pleasure meeting her, and we shook hands. "My name is Pearl," she said in parting. "That's my grandmother's name," I replied. I didn't mention she died 30 years ago next month.
So this 45-minute detour left me feeling uneasy. I was merely the catalyst, carrying her from Point A to B. Was that so bad? Did she really live there? Would anyone notice she had been gone? She had a teardrop tattoo under her left eye—a typical prison tattoo. I made my way back to Junction Overlook, where a number of ladies were selling jewelry out of their SUVs. I asked if anyone knew a grandmother named Pearl and gave a few details. One of them knew of her. I then told my story, asking if it was so bad that I gave her a ride. She exclaimed: "You're on the Rez; you don't give anyone a ride!" But I replied that I was from New York, and I'd experienced so much in my own city that I didn't even think twice about giving her a ride. She shook her head in disbelief. I added, "Well, at least you've got a good story to tell at home about the idiot from New York who gave Pearl a ride to her hogan."
I made my way to the Massacre Cave Overlook, where there were no other tourists to be seen. Business was bad, though it would pick up after Easter, I was told by the jewelry lady there. Her son and daughter were selling rock carvings nearby under a magnificent and gnarled juniper. After wandering around the canyon rim for a half-hour, I returned to my car. "You guys like cookies?" I asked, and we divided up my box of biscuits. Then some other tourists arrived, signaling that it was again time for me to go.
Tags:
canyon de chelly, hogan, navajo nation
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 4/3/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Send to Friend
