One of my biggest apprehensions as a tourist is—being viewed as a tourist. Not that there is anything I can do about it. You kind of stick out, so to speak, whether it’s the backpack, camera, REI clothes, synthetic zippered-khaki pants, even shorts in certain parts of the world, anything that pegs you as being different from the locals. Economically speaking, many people rely on tourism for their livelihood. It’s the classic dichotomy: you are the income and the intruder, a necessary evil.
And so it was that my wife and I went to visit a Hopi village, one of the oldest pueblos in the Southwest, a community of people living high atop a mesa in a remote part of northern Arizona. Many families still live there in modest homes. The drive to the top was over a dirt road. Rather than just roaming around unescorted, guided tours are provided that can be arranged at the community center.
We went on a guided tour of Sichomovi and Walpi, the latter one of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the United States and where there is no electricity or water. Besides a rehearsed explanation of Hopi culture and life, one that sounded like it had been given many times before, there were stops at tables where artists were selling kachina dolls and pottery, most of them exquisite—and beyond our means. So here we were, tourists, upon whom the artists’ livelihood depended. We felt guilty each time we were invited to look at an artist’s wares, only to decline a purchase after each was gracious enough to talk about the symbolism of his/her artwork.
After the tour, we were free to walk around. On our way to the car, a grandmotherly woman was standing outside her home and invited us in. I knew we were in trouble. She showed us her crafts for sale. It took all our will power to thank her and not buy anything.
The sun was intense at this high altitude, even though the temperature was only about 80 degrees. I’m not sure how I felt about the visit. This was our first visit to a pueblo, and it was informative. The guilt-trip that was gnawing at me was self-imposed, of course. Was it better not to have come at all? No, of course not.
No photography is allowed in this (and many other) Indian pueblos, so there are no pictures I can share.
Down below the mesa, we had a Hopi lunch at the Hopi Cultural Center, a lamb stew and a pinto bean stew, each with hominy, served with blue corn frybread.