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National Geographic : 1919 Oct
Contents
THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE him. He, too, took a puff and passed the cigar on to the next; it finally disappeared in the crowd. But Juan held tight to the box. "What kind of a man is that?" de manded the Chief, pointing to a negro sailor in our party. "Es Americano, tambien," I explained. "Ie's not," insisted the Indian. "I've seen Americans before. They come here to hunt. They are not like that man." But he did not pursue the subject or show any further interest in the black man. After some parley, the Chief agreed to lead us to the Seri village. It lay down the beach half a mile, toward the Sonora side. But when we got there it was not a pueblo at all, as other Indian pueblos usually are. It was little more than a place in the sand where the Seris ate and slept-just rude, flimsy shelters of mesquite and tules, or palo verde brush piled in circles about holes in the sand. Here and there a few big turtle shells were worked in or laid on the brush. No typical Indian huts, no tepees-not even the primitive but substantial "ramadah" of the Pimas; in fact, the abiding place of the Seri is no more of a shelter than the pigs and calves of Iowa find on the lee side of straw-stacks. The Seri women, carrying bundles on their heads and chattering excitedly, fled up a canyon as we approached their vil lage. But after a few minutes they be gan venturing back, timidly, curiously. A CONCERT ON THE SANDS To add to the gaiety of the occasion, we brought from our ship a sailor who played the mandolin. It was incongru ous, ridiculous-a mandolin tinkling off "Casey Jones" on this lonely shore. But our music failed to soothe these particu lar savages; on the contrary, it made the men dance and the women giggle. Then one sturdy, long-haired Seri dashed into the brush and emerged with-well, a fid dle, for lack of a better word; just a square of dried hide, a stick with notches in it, and a "bow"-merely a dried reed. He squatted down, stood the piece of hide on edge, laid one end of the notched stick on the ground and the other end on the upper edge of the hide, and fiddled away-and sang. It was not unmusical, nor was it music, as our ears know it. "Sounds like filing a saw," grunted one of our sailors. "I'll say he's sho got some jazz in it," ventured George, the negro. One buck volunteered to dance. He got a dried deerskin and laid it, hair down, on the sand. Leaping onto this improvised platform, with swaying body and waving arms the Seri scraped and patted the dried hide with his bare, cal loused feet, keeping time to the whining fiddle. Then, one by one, a small group of women ventured out from the brush and formed a half circle about the dancer and began to sing. They were a sad-looking chorus, to say the least-ragged, un speakably filthy, their faces and limbs hideously tattooed with some blue color ing matter, and their foreheads daubed with white bird-guano. In a worn canvas envelope, suspended on a string about his neck, the Chief car ries an old letter signed by the Prefect at Hermosillo, acknowledging Juan Tomas as Jefe of the Seris and holding him re sponsible for their good behavior. POVERTY AND DEGRADATION UNEXAMPLED Years ago these Indians inhabited a part of the Sonora coast and went trad ing to Hermosillo and Guaymas. But their thieving, lawless habits kept them so much in conflict with the Mexican au thorities that eventually they were driven back to Tiburon Island. For some months previous to our visit the Indians had not been to the mainland, by reason of a little affair wherein the tribe had murdered certain Mexican fish ermen from Guaymas and burned their boat. Their poverty and degradation are per haps the most absolute among human be ings anywhere. No housekeeping, no gardens, no animals, no fowls to care for, no tools-just to fish, to kill a deer or a burro, or spear a turtle! (While we were with them bucks brought in a deer; it was eaten raw.) They had no utensils at all except clay ollas. One old squaw, ignoring us ut terly, went on with her work making an 324
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