“Mail me a permit to the El Tovar, Grand Cañon, where I will meet
my wife and see if she wants to come.”
“Are moving pictures permitted, and if not, why not?”
“What are the rates at the Hopi hotels?”
“Is it good form to carry an umbrella in the Desert?”
“A Hopi woman sold me a loaf of bread in 1895. I want some of that
bread this trip.”
“Please reserve me a room and bath; I will arrive on the
eighteenth.”
All these should be answered, to the effect that the date of the dance
will be given to the press as soon as known; that permits are issued
when the permittee arrives; that there are no hotels; that the Agent
can reserve nothing; that tourists should provide themselves with
camping equipment and come prepared for rain. Does not the Snake Dance
produce rain? The thunder mutters and the rain-clouds lower ominously,
if no rain falls. There will be a drencher in the fortnight of the
Snake Dance, one may be sure; and it often occurs so shortly thereafter
as to cause one to wonder how the priests dope it out. In 1911 the
storm broke just at the close of the ceremony. It broke immediately
over me, as I perched on top of the Dance Plaza rock. That is an
excellent place for an unobstructed view of the whole show, but it has
an enormous—and unforeseen by me—disadvantage, in that one may wish to
get down at a specific moment, as I did. And at that moment, the
tribe’s collection of snakes, scores of them, hissing, writhing,
entangled, were thrown into the sacred-meal circle just below my
dangling feet. I did not get down. I sat there in the rain, and soaked.
A slicker, or oiled-coat such as fishermen wear, is an important part
of a desert outfit. It does not weigh much, it may prove useful in
covering the hood of the engine when bucking flooded washes, and it
will certainly protect its owner after the Hopi prayer for rain. Pack
one in from the railroad towns; for while the desert traders carry
them, the demand is often heavy enough to exhaust stocks. Like the
Texan’s gun, it may not be needed; but if needed, it will be “wanted
damn bad.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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