Returning now to the terrace below, common to both Mashonganavi and Shipauluvi, the trail is descended to Shungopavi. A deep canyon separates the mesa upon which this village is built from the one upon which the two former are located. Near the foot of the trail the government has established a schoolhouse, and close by are the springs and pools of water. It is a sandy ride or walk, and on a hot day—"a-tu-u-u"—wearisome and exhausting. For half a dollar or so one may hire a burro and his owner as guide, and it is much easier to go burro-back over the yielding sand than to walk. There are straggling peach trees on the way, and a trail, rocky and steep, to ascend ere we see Shungopavi.
The wagons may be driven to the village (as mine were), but it is a long way around. The road to Oraibi across the mesa is taken, and when about half-way across a crude road is followed which runs out upon the "finger tip" where Shungopavi stands. Here the governor in 1901 was Lo-ma-win-i, and he and I became very good friends. Knowing my interest in the Snake Dance, he sent for the chief priests of the Snake and Antelope Clans (Kai-wan-i-wi-ya-ŭ-má and Lo-ma-ho-in-i-wa), and from them I received a cordial invitation to be present and participate in the secret ceremonials of the kiva at their next celebration. I have been privileged to be present, but was never invited before.
The governor is an expert silversmith, the necklace he wears being a specimen of his own art. It is wonderful how, with their crude materials and tools, such excellent work can be produced. Mexican dollars are melted in a tiny home-made crucible, rude moulds are carved out of sand—or other stone into which the melted metal is poured, and then hand manipulation, hammering, and brazing complete the work. Their silver articles of adornment are finger rings, bracelets, and necklaces.
Oraibi is the most western and conservative of the Hopi villages. It is by far the largest, having perhaps a third of the whole population. It is divided into two factions, the so-called hostiles and friendlies, the former being the conservative element, determined not to forsake "the ways of the old," the ways of their ancestors; and the latter being generally willing to obey orders ostensibly issued by "Wasintonia"—as they call the mysterious Indian Department. These divisions are a source of great sorrow to the former leaders of the village. In the introduction to "The Oraibi Soyal Ceremony" by Professor George A. Dorsey, of the Field Columbian Museum, and Rev. H. R. Voth, his assistant, and formerly a Mennonite missionary at Oraibi, this dissension is spoken of as follows: "During the year 1891 representatives of the Indian Department made strenuous efforts to secure pupils for the government school located at Keam's Canyon, about forty miles from Oraibi. This effort on the part of the government was bitterly resented by a certain faction of the people of Oraibi, who seceded from Lolúlomai, the village chief, and soon after began to recognize Lomahungyoma as leader. The feeling on the part of this faction against the party under Lolúlomai was further intensified by the friendly attitude the Liberals took toward other undertakings of the government, such as allotment of land in severalty, the building of dwelling-houses at the foot of the mesa, the gratuitous distribution of American clothing, agricultural implements, etc. The division thus created manifested itself not only in the everyday life of the people, but also in their religious ceremonies. Inasmuch as the altars and their accessories are the chief elements in these ceremonies, they soon became the special object of controversy, each party contending for their possession; and so it came about that the altars remained to that faction to which the chief priests and those who had them in charge belonged, the members of the opposing faction, as a rule, withdrawing from further participation in the celebration of the ceremony."
The dance plaza is on the western side of the village, and there the dances and other outdoor ceremonies take place.
One of my earliest visits to Oraibi was made in the congenial company of Major Constant Williams, who was then the United States Indian Agent, at Fort Defiance, for the Navahoes and Hopis. We had driven across the Navaho Reservation from Fort Defiance to Keam's Canyon, and then visited the mesas in succession. We drove to the summit of the Oraibi mesa in his buckboard, a new conveyance which he had had made to order at Durango, Colo. The road was the same one up which the soldiers had helped the horses drag the Gatling gun at the time of the arrest of the so-called "hostiles," who were sent to Alcatraz for their refusal to forsake their Oraibi ways and follow the "Washington way." It was a steep, ugly road, rough, rocky, and dangerous. The Major's horses, however, were strong, intelligent, and willing, so we made the ascent with comparative ease. The return, however, was different. There were so many things of interest at Oraibi that I found it hard to tear myself away, and the "shades of night were falling fast"—far too fast for the Major's peace of mind—ere I returned to the buckboard. By the time we had traversed the summit of the mesa to the head of the "trail" part of the descent, it was dark enough to make the cold tremors perambulate up and down one's spine. But I had every confidence in the Major's driving, his horses, and his knowledge of that fearfully precipitous and dangerous road. Slowly we descended, the brake scraping and often entirely holding the wheels. We could see and feel the dark abysses, first on one side and then on the other, or feel the overshadowing of the mighty rock walls which towered above us. I was congratulating myself that we had passed all the dangerous places, and in a few moments should be on the drifted sand, which, though steep, was perfectly safe, when we came to the last "drop off." This can best be imagined by calling it what it was, a steep, rocky stairway, of two or three steps, with a precipice on one side, and a towering wall on the other. Hugging the wall, the upper step extended like a shelf for eight or ten feet, and the nigh horse, disliking to make the abrupt descent of the step, clung close to the wall and walked along the shelf. The off horse dropped down. The result can be imagined. One horse's feet were up at about the level of the other's back. The wheels followed their respective horses. The nigh wheels stayed on the shelf, the off wheels came down the step. The Major and I decided, very suddenly, to leave the buckboard. We were rudely toppled out, down the precipice on the left,—I at the bottom of the heap. Down came camera cases, tripods, boxes of plates, and all the packages of odds and ends I had bought from the Indians, bouncing about our ears. Like a flash the two horses took fright and started off, dragging that overturned buckboard after them. They did not swirl around to the left down the sandy road, but to the right upon a terrace of the rocky mesa, and we saw the sparks fly as the ironwork of the wagon struck and restruck the rocks. The noise and roar and clatter were terrific. Great rocks were started to rolling, and the echoes were enough to awaken the dead. Suddenly there was a louder crash than ever, and then all was silent. We felt our hearts thumping against our ribs, and the only sounds we could hear were their fierce beatings and our own hard breathing. Fortunately, we had landed on a narrow shelf some seven feet down, covered deep with sand, so neither of us was seriously hurt except in our feelings; but imagine the dismay that swept aside all thoughts of thankfulness for our narrow escape when that crash and dread silence came. No doubt horses and buckboard were precipitated over one of the cliffs and had all gone to "eternal smash." My conscience made me feel especially culpable, for had I not detained the Major we should have left the mesa long before it was so dark. I had caused the disaster! It was nothing that I had been "spilt out," that doubtless my cameras were smashed, and the plates I had exposed with so much care and in spite of the opposition of the Hopis were in tiny pieces—for I had clearly heard that peculiar "smash" that spoke of broken glass as I myself landed on the top of my head. Think of that span of fine horses, and the Major's new buckboard! The thought about completed the work of mental and physical paralysis the shock of falling had begun. I was suddenly awakened, not by the Major's voice, for neither of us had yet spoken a word,—and indeed, I didn't know but that he was dead,—but by the scratching of a match. Then he was alive! That was cause for thankfulness. Setting fire to a dried cactus, the Major, after thoroughly picking himself up and shaking himself together, proceeded to gather up the photographic débris. Silently I aided him. Still silently we piled it all together, as much under the shelter of the rocks as possible, and then, still without a word, we climbed back upon the road and started to walk to the house of Mr. Voth, the missionary, where we were stopping. For half a mile or more we trudged on wearily through the deep and yielding sand. Still never a word. We both breathed heavily, for the sand was dreadfully soft. I was wondering what I could say. My conscience so overpowered me that I dared not speak. I was humbling myself, inwardly, into the very dust for having been the unconscious and innocent, yet nevertheless actual cause of this disaster. I simply couldn't break the silence. To offer to pay for the horses and buckboard was easy (though that would be a serious matter to my slender purse) compared with appeasing the sturdy Major for the shock to his mental and physical system. Then, too, how he must feel! At the very thought the cold sweat started on my brow and I could feel it trickling down my chest and back.
An Oraibi Basket Weaver.