The Rain Dance

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John, a local silversmith I met, told me of an upcoming dance happening at the Zuni Pueblo (town). I have been the region for a month and had hardly glimpsed the native cultures that abound here, and my curiosity was sparked, partly by ignorance and partly by John who has an intimate connection with the Zunis, as he has lived there years ago.

I arrived on a pretty nice day, considering my climate, to Zuni Pueblo. The largest solely Native American town in the country. There were clouds which is a great relief, from the irascible sun, and even some wind to keep the biting gnats. My first impression was pretty faint as I was on the main strip and had my eyes taken up by the mobile fruit and jerky stand on hand. After filling my apricot quota, I began searching the town for any sign of life, first walking through the old village area. It soon dawned on me that this was a very, incredibly poor area. Many of the streets were packed dust, the houses often made of cinder blocks and stones were often in disrepair, and for the most part I was not getting any glimpse of unique culture. Young people washing theirs cars, blaring rap, or children just bicycling around. I discovered there was a procession that evening, and the dances would occur much later.

Knowing I had a great deal of time, a good book, and a long night ahead of me, I walked to the nearest natural looking area. A dry riverbed sectioning the middle of town, with some trails winding around it. After finding a tree to lay under far enough from the sounds of cars. I tried reading and resting, only to find that an invasive species of green and black spiky caterpillars were enjoying the tree more than I. The grass around was poking and prickling my lightly as the wind blew, but suddenly a bolt of pain shot through my shoulder. Thinking it was just the grass somehow, I was surprised to see a little thin red rash backing me, and the pain persisted. My usual overlooking of my environment led me to not notice the 100s of caterpillars walking about until one tried crawling up my shirt. Freaking out quickly I threw as many as I could off me, and often leaving green blood stains on my pants, as if I was bleeding chlorophyll. It took another sting to my other shoulder to signal that I wasn't welcome here. And so with the clouds dissipating, the afternoon heat assured me of its presence as I roamed around the dusty trails of Zuni Pueblo, trying to mind my own business.

I learned as the day wore on that this day was the end of a week long pilgrimage and a very holy day for the Zunis. The Kachinas(medicine people) of the village, wearing the same garments they wore 3 centuries, started walking the same trail I was on in the dry riverbed. Bare feet, and under the endless sun, they trekked 48 miles following the dead stream to reach a mountain range in Arizona, where the source of the water to come later in the season was found. What happens there? I don't think I'll be finding out soon, but for the Zuni people this how their culture is able to survive, and therefore the place symbolizes Heaven for them, it's mysterious peaks said to always be shrouded in fog.

While the Kachina men are off on their journey, the town of Zuni comes to standstill for a week, many of the non-tourists businesses closing down, and a good portion of the town fasts for some days in preperation for the holiday to come. As I strolled the streets, I was forced to the fact of all the smoke being blown about. Almost every household was out by their mud brick oven lighting up a storm and preparing endless amounts of food for the next day when the fast would be broken. Old women wearing aprons stood by with lengthy trays in their hands of bread waiting to be baked. Children playing around awaiting for members of their clans or families to return, dust and smoke blowing about them, no hint that they notice it even.

I didn't realize the pilgrimage was returning that evening, and missed it, but spent time on the outskirts of town biding my time until the dances would begin, which I was told happens anytime in the vicinity of midnight. As evening brought in more moderate temperatures, I was goaded by the beautiful mesas around the area, and almost started walking towards one, but met once more a faithful and steadfast tree which provided a reading lounge once more, though the natural world unleashed fury this time via mosquitoes at my ankles. Darkness approaching, I went back into town, and after a whole day of wandering I met a local by just wandering around. Noland, a young heavyset Zuni pulled up and asked me if I had an ID. For some reason (being Iowan and often on the defensive from the coppers), I took him for law enforcement. It turned out he just wanted me to buy him some beer, as he had no ID, and the dry reservation made it quite hard to obtain what I would call the bane of the natives, and even nature itself which is littered with American beer more than any other item by far. I told him I didn't really feel like doing that as I didn't know him, but he was very congenial and invited me to 'cruise' with him. I hopped in and we smoozed a while as he drove around the crowded and narrow streets. He was part of the Turkey and Tobacco clan, meaning not much to me, though I discovered it an important factor as a Zuni must know his clans in order to take part in the ceremonies.

Riding around with Noland sure beat walking which I had been doing since sunrise. He was also informing me a great deal about Zuni culture, the holiday, and a million facts I can hardly remember which were far too interesting. After meeting some of his friends, more smoozing, and midnight approaching, we passed the old town where I saw a distinct group of 3 people who were no Zuni. Recognizing John, Whitney, and Mark who I saw earlier that day at the Farmer's Market, I bid Adieu to my local connection and passed back to being on foot almost regrettably.

John, who took these occasions very seriously, and knowing how easy it would be to offend during the ceremonies was always very cautious about our movements as he guided us around and often spoke far too quietly out of respect. He was a grand tour guide and he knew it, pointing out the different Kiva(clan) halls, explaining what some of the crowds of women were cooking, explaining aspects of Zuni myth; all the while keeping his voice down and staying out of the way of locals. We eventually were pretty wore down, and decided to sit in Whitney's car until we knew when things got rolling. John got out to go look around after sometime, and returned very excited declaring the dancing had started. Getting out of the cramped car gladly, and finally hearing noises over the buildings of movement and chants.

Standing back amongst a very young and small crowd of Zunis we watched through the large windows of a Kiva Hall. The preachers, men in normal outfits of white with a sort of bandanna around their heads were sitting along the wall by the windows were bellowing chants unhindered and all together possibly 20 or 30 of them. In the the rest of the long thin hall possibly 50 or more of the Kachinas who had just finished their pilgrimage that day were crowded together and hopping rhythmically from foot to foot. They were gorgeous, and I never saw the face of one of them. Wearing these gigantic wigs made of black horse hair that coursed not just only down their backs, but as well down their chests, the only sign of a face was a thin rectangular mask that went across their eyes, black and white, and as I will quote John from now on, "The horse hair beards represent the rain to come, and the black and white masks are the milky way where the rain comes from." There were two types of Kachinas in the room, the majority were the male or masculine Kachinas, whose torsos were exposed, white feathers trail down the back of their wigs symbolizing "the clouds of the sky, and also the vital breath upon which their prayers are sent forth. Their singing as well stressed the importance of breath and as you listen you'll hear the Kachinas often give out a rhythmic high pitch yelp, which is partly encouragement for them to dance but is also very breathy and is part of the prayer." There were also the feminine Kachines (men it seemed) under large white garments who carried sprigs of Douglas Fir as they danced, a holy branch for the Zunis which is only found in the high mountains. Bedecking the heads of the females a very long red feather pointed to the heavens and bounced as they danced. All the men were carrying sort of sambas, little gourds possibly filled with corn, the shaking of it made the sound of the rain they hoped to bring.

The music was fantastic, I have a weakness for indigenous music as it is so simply itself and needs no artificial sources to create it. And as John was always noting, "it's all connected, the way they dress, the rituals. Look as they finish now, they're walking out now, the priests are blessing them with cornmeal. This is one a rain dance, but vicariously, it is also a fertility dance for the corn." The Kachinas now, after 20 minutes or more of dancing and chanting walked out, in single file, some limping from the week of walking, and then went to another Kiva hall down the road to dance once more.

The night rolled on like this for some time with the Kachinas going back and forth, and eventually they went into a very private home near the Kiva and some rested, while apparently the more fit (only about 5 or 6) Kachinas went into Kiva once more, and did a much more active dance where they flowed around the room in a circle. The female Kachinas in their full costume eerily glided back and forth as they hopped from foot to foot their wigs flowing beautifully with them, and the flits in their mask seemed to cut through all and peer into my soul. My favorite image of the night by far. I should mention photography ain't allowed at Zuni religious events, which is why I take these labors to write so much. It was fantastic event, and John's constant commentary (though we did waved at to be quiet once by an observer) really made the night whole. We left after a very unique dance involving a few Kachinas, a sort of fire and corn god figure, and the Zuni's living boggymans: the mud-heads.

It was 4AM, so we decided we had our fill. Driving the 40 miles back to Zuni Mountain Sanctuary where I am staying currently, I slipped from consciousness a few times, glimpses of the sleeping world I longed for broken by the feeling of my heart beating strong. The energy that night is not easily come by.

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