10:30 – Old Oraibi

I don't know a whole lot about Oraibi, except that it's a running Hopi village and has been for the past 900-plus years, making it the oldest continuously inhabited village in North America (although the Acoma Indians claim the same distinction for a pueblo of their own). You can't look at the ground, I hear, without finding busted bits of 100+ year-old pottery.

 

We drive past a sign that reads "no photography beyond this point" and the pavement becomes dust. It's a small place—you could fit the whole pueblo on a football field, I think. The buildings I see--squat, gray, cement--are ugly, but not ancient, and there is not a single patch of grass. It occurs to me that we are visiting someone's home, as a spectacle, and I feel awkward. But not enough to leave or say anything to the others. Besides, there's a gift-shop, which means that, at least from a monetary perspective, the Hopi don't mind us poking about their ancient town. We park in front of a sign that says, "KATSINAS SILVER JEWELRY AUTHENTIC HOPI CRAFTS--ENTER THIS WAY" with a large arrow directing us to the back of the building.

 

The owner of the shop, a 30-year-old Hopi woman, gives us a cursory overview of the pueblo. She doesn't seem very interested in talking to us; probably because we're college kids. I work in a gift shop and feel the same way about college-aged patrons. College kids just don't throw down a whole lot of money on authentic Katsina dolls and hand-crafted silver overlay jewelry. But the woman is nice enough and answers our questions willingly.

 

A small display cabinet contains two huge ollas—water jars. They're big, larger than beach balls. For a pot made without mechanical aid, potter's wheel or otherwise, that's huge. Long cracks span their width, large holes gape near the rim, and they're permanently darkened with dirt.

 

"Where did these come from?" I ask.

 

"We found those in the floor when we dug it up for the foundation," replies the woman.

 

I suppose most of the houses in Oraibi are like that, squat cement houses resting atop a millennium of busted pottery and chipped flint and broken tools.  

 

Because I like bookmarks and because I feel guilty browsing through small gift shops without buying anything, I ask about a selection of bookmarks on the counter. The one I like has a flashy blue and red border framing a stylized cornstalk on a yellow background. I can't tell if it was painted or drawn with magic markers; it's a laminated copy, either way. The lady informs me an 83-year-old man made it. Cheerfully swallowing the added sentiment, I hand her three dollars and she hands me my new, colorful bookmark in a very small brown bag.