CULTURE SHOCK

Navajo woman herding sheep on the Navajo Reservation. New Mexico.

“Ya'at'eeh.”

    The first Navajo family I met was the Begay family. “Ya'at'eeh.”  “O, ya'at'eeh" seemed to be the greeting. Elder Harward conversed in a mixture of Navajo and English. Their handshakes were not a firm, tight squeeze like I was used to, but felt more hesitant and limp.

The Begay family. Lake Valley, NM.

       This sounds a bit rude, but after stepping over the threshold and into their rock house I wanted to back out and run. The mixed smells of fried mutton, dogs, goats, wet wool, and cedar smoke stuck in my throat. Baby goats were hopping about on the furniture, mutts were everywhere, each one mangier than the next. The Begays seemed to have more dogs than sheep or goats. And the flies. They were everywhere! Hordes, no legions of them, all vying for the most annoying place to land. And in the middle of all this, sat Alfred’s wife with one bare breast exposed, serenely nursing a suckling child. Strange, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed.

      The Begays had been a stalwart, faithful family in the Lake Valley Branch for years. As time passed and I began to see beyond first impressions, I was drawn in by their genuine kindness, loving hospitality, and gentle natures. Someone was indeed changing, and I don't think it was the Begays!

NAVAJO FUNERAL

       Our next stop was the Tsaya Trading Post in Lake Valley. I would live there nine months and never see a lake (maybe it had existed in prehistoric times). The trading post was a great stop over for cold pop and a friendly face. Since there were no phones, it also served as the post office and message center for the community. Kay Ashcroft, the trader, handed us a note with a hand drawn map requesting us to dedicate a grave the upcoming Saturday somewhere out in the Badlands.

Tsaya Trading Post. Lake Valley, NM. 2012.

        Saturday came and we were off following the map and driving over some of the worst roads imaginable before finally reaching our destination. Situated in a small valley was a well-organized camp. You could tell immediately they took pride in keeping things looking neat and orderly.

Well kept Navajo sheep camp on the reservation. New Mexico.

        On a sandy hillside above the camp about thirty family members were gathered, most wearing traditional clothing. The men wore crisp cowboy wear and the women were dressed in colorful velvet tops with silver buttons and full length skirts. Their skirts were held up with a wide woven tie or a silver Concho belt. They were all decked out beautifully in their family’s collection of turquoise and silver jewelry. Most of the women and some of the elderly men wore their hair tied up with handspun wool, in a traditional bun called bi'tsiyeel. Standing next to a fresh grave they waited in quiet dignity.

Navajo woman in her tradition dress and jewelry with her hair tied in a bi'tsiyeel.

Navajo man in his western wear and traditional jewelry.

        We were greeted warmly and ushered close to where the casket lay open, the body gently draped with a beautiful Pendleton blanket. Reverently relatives would approach the modest pinewood casket and deposit expensive items next to the deceased. There were new clothes: hat, shirt, pants, and boots. Then came the jewelry: turquoise and silver bolo, squash blossom necklace, rings, bracelets and a very expensive Concho belt. The coffin was then securely nailed shut and covered with an exquisite Two Gray Hills rug, handwoven just for this sacred occasion. Riding tack was then placed on top: a new saddle, bridle and saddle blanket.

Traditional Navajo jewelry.

Two Gray Hills Navajo rug.

 
       Just as it appeared to be about time to dedicate the grave, a young man leading a shiny black horse stopped close by, retrieved a hand gun from a leather holster strapped to his leg, placed it to the side of the horse’s head and pulled the trigger. The blast rang loudly through the still air. The horse stood momentarily stunned, then crumpled lifeless to the ground. Elder Harward and I seemed to be the only ones totally bewildered by what had just taken place. Talk about culture shock!

Shiny black horse on the Navajo Reservation.

        We were reminded it was time to dedicate the grave. Then the casket was carefully lowered by sturdy ropes into the grave dug in the sandy side of the hill. Later on we asked a younger member of the group if she could explain what we had just witnessed. It turned out that the new clothes, expensive jewelry, riding gear, and the shooting of his horse were all part of an old tradition meant to honor well respected clan leaders. He and his horse would be wearing their finest as their spirits rode proudly into the afterlife.

      Who would have thought? Things were getting more and more interesting day by day!