Di Ne

In Navajo, 'Di Ne' means 'the people' and this past week has given me such a profound awareness of this beautiful tribe. I didn't realise just how much they had affected me until I walked away from the school on my last day. The children screamed my name until I was no longer in sight and I hugged Mrs Begay, the teacher I have been helping. She thanked me for everything and handed me a gift. "I remember that you told me you and your family are of the medicine way," she said as she gave me these beautiful handmade medicine pouches, decorated with turquoise - the stone of Di Ne. A medicine pouch is a sacred item, usually stuffed with herbs and carried by healers.

The children spent the morning drawing me Native pictures; Mrs Begay said it was something else to remember them by. I couldn't ever possibly forget them.


This week has been Native American Awareness Week and how lucky I was to have been here on the reservation for it. Some of the children have been dressing in traditional dress and have been learning Navajo songs, I've tried to sing a long with them but I need to study my Navajo to get the words right! I even got to learn a Navajo 'womanhood' ceremony and taste some traditional food. On Thursday, the comedians, James & Ernie came to school and did some stand-up. They are from the reservation and have become big stars in the Native community; they were absolutely hilarious and I was so pleased to have been able to watch them. After the show I went over to meet them; they were being bombarded with autograph requests.

My evenings have been jam-packed with activities and on Wednesday I got to rub shoulders with yet another Navajo celebrity, James Bilagody.


James is a musician/storyteller and is involved in numerous projects. He plays guitar in a rock band from Phoenix, he tells Native stories to children in schools and has even been in a movie called Blue Gap Boys which I actually watched before he arrived. So when he swaggered into the house wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a guitar, I instantly knew that I was going to really like him.

James is extremely talented and wise. We talked for nearly an hour and a half about spirituality, life and death, family, language and history. Like me, James loves language and of course, music so I talked about my family's heritage and the Creole language. I told him how much of an influence music has been to my writing, so just for me he played an Elvis Presley song on his guitar. For those of you who know me very well, he was my childhood love. I absolutely adored Elvis Presley's music and movies from the age of about six. And not the chubby 70's lamb-chop sideburns Elvis, I was besotted with the beautiful, young, perfectly coiffed 50's Elvis whose voice to me was like warm caramel.

James played me some traditional songs and some of his own which he could translate into Spanish and English. They all had a message and each note or chord represented something, like the rhythm of a horse running or the sweetness of a woman's voice.

I gained new perspectives from our deep conversation and his music had completely lifted my spirits - I will definitely be keeping in touch with him as he said he would love to read my writing.

On Thursday night, Sina and I went to a sweatlodge run by a man called David Peshlakai. A sweat ceremony is a very old purification ceremony which involves sitting in a cave that's built into the earth and enduring the steam from hot coals that are placed into a pit in the center. The cave itself is dome-shaped and represents the womb. Everything down to the drum, the pipe, the fire and the pitch-fork involved in the ceremony, represents what the Natives call their 'Grandmothers' and 'Grandfathers'. David was an incredibly interesting man to talk to. He has gone through numerous intiations to become a 'seer', one who supervises these ceremonies and has visions for those who seek healing or purification.

The initations he has gone through include vision quests and sundances. Vision quests go back to the beginning of Native tradition. It involves sitting alone up in the mountain the whole night with no food and water and waiting for a message or a 'vision' that one should be able to find in nothing but the oneness that they experience with nature during that night. A sundance is a much harsher initiation and quite frankly, I don't know how any of these men have survived it. In a sundance, the man is pierced in the chest by tree branches and must dance the whole day before the sun and cannot stop - brutal, eh? But this is a test of true strength and bravery - the man is made a warrior, a survivor and David's piercing scars proved that.

I was blown away by the sweat ceremony. It is far too hard to describe the feeling - and even saying that seems like too a weak statement. There were just four of us in the sweat, including David. He stuffed the sacred pipe with cedar and passed it around. We all smoked it and blessed ourselves with it. He then gave us the cedar itself for us to chew. He then began putting the hot coal in the pit - the sweat started to pour! Once the door is closed, water is thrown onto the rocks and an overwhelming gush of steam fills the 'womb' where everyone begins to say prayers and thanks to Mother Earth, Father Sky and send love and healing to everyone they know, including those that are in the sweat as well.

As I thought about my loved ones and gave gratitude to everything that is, David beat the drum and sang purification songs. The drum represented the beating from the mother's heart that a baby hears from the womb. There were four rounds of this and when the ceremony had finished, we all crawled out, shook hands with each other and walked once around the campfire.

The cool air kissing my skin after all of that heat was exhilirating - I felt refreshed and truly grateful to Sina, to David, to Di Ne and the universe for every single experience I have had.

To conclude this lengthy blog, I just thought I'd also let you know that I tried riding a horse for the first time!


This is me and Shortch or Shorch (the spelling is as ambiguous as the reason behind his name!) the family's gentle, loveable pet horse.

Crossing the Line

We drove out to Monument Valley on Sunday to see some incredible megalith like rocks. This site is famous for its amazing red hues and crazy natural shapes...


It looks like something out of a Western movie, doesn't it? And you probably will recognise this place if you've ever watched any John Wayne films...there is plenty of his merchandise in the gift shop!

To get here, was about an hours' drive and we had to cross the state line into Utah - another one to cross of my list. As we went through the toll booth, John told me to pretend to be Navajo to get in for free. It worked, I "blended in like a good weave".

It's funny how when one is accepted into a particular community or family, it is ok to joke with them about their culture. If you haven't reached that level or built that rapor, you could very quickly be considered a racist or anything you may say in jest might be taken as derrogatory. So as I browsed the shop at Monument Valley, I kept comments about Cowboys and Indians to myself...the stereotypes were incredibly blatant! The John Wayne items were clearly for the 'white American' or the tourists that were from other countries (I think I caught some French and German chatter).

Whenever these siteseers walked past, they made a very dramatic point of saying hello to us as if saying to themselves 'Look! Real life Indians!' but also somewhat dissapointed that Sina and John weren't adorned with feathers and war paint...

John drove us down the dirt trail so we could get closer to these magnificent rocks. He made jokes about spotting John Wayne behind a cactus somewhere, all crisp from being left out in the sun. Again, I couldn't get the stereotypes out of my head but as we drove deeper down the trail, they appeared to exist purely for tourism - foreigners were being led out by Navajos on horses, kitted out in cowboy hats, boots, the works.

I couldn't stop laughing when John joked that he should put a wig on, take his t-shirt off and come running out from behind the rocks with arrowheads to make the 'white folk' jump. I guess when such a culture has been discriminated against, misjudged or completely stereotyped, it's ok for them to play with it a little bit.


The three of us enjoyed a lot of banter on this little road trip across the border - I felt like I had been considered part of the family.

Crystals, Mountains and the Blazing Sun.

Well. What a jam-packed week it has been and now I have a cold. It was bound to happen, what with all that air con. When you walk into a building you get blasted with cold air, when you step outside it's like walking into the fire of Hades...

Wednesday was half-day at school so I had a bit of a butchers round the Navajo Culture Museum.

This is called a Hogan. A traditional Native house - the floor is made out of sand and usually there is a fire pit in the middle for cooking and rituals.

I got talking to the man who runs the museum and turns out he's an artist and will be displaying his paintings at Highgate Gallery in London next June! His name is Troy Whitethorne and he is incredibly talented so I shall be checking out his exhibition and initiating him into the craziness that is London -the poor guy rocks up right in the middle of the Olympics...deary me. I don't think any of us are prepared for that.

I watched a video in the museum about the Navajos during the second world war. After Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese, plenty of Natives signed up to fight. Apparantly the Japanese could understand English perfectly and could therefore decode commands on the radio. The US army decided to use the Navajo language as a code as it is incredibly complex. They called these Navajos The Codetalkers...


Although, no matter where you are, war promotion is always dissapointing to see. This poster was quite out of place in a Navajo museum...and quite frankly, it is distasteful to be pinned up anywhere in my opinion.

Keith was not impressed.

Aside from Native history, I have been learning how to perform a Navajo smoking ritual and how to weave a rug! I even helped John feed the cows and horses. He said that if we have time, he'll saddle up a horse for me to try and ride.

On Friday, Sina and I took the afternoon off from work and went to the flea market they have here once a week. I bought a Cedar seed bracelet. The Cedar tree is considered sacred; they say their prayers to it. We then drove about an hour out of the reservation to a place called Sedona. It was my first time driving up a mountain...the views were stunning. Unfortunately, I couldn't get any pictures from the moving car.


Sedona is like the Glastonbury of Arizona. It supposedly sits on top of ley lines and is a vortex of energy. It's full of crystal shops, art galleries and Yoga centres. I was in my element. A hippy town built in the mountains? My kind of place.

After Sedona, we drove over to another town called Williams where Sina's son, Wilson was playing an away game at Williams High School. American football that is. It was fun to watch although I'm not keen on all that stopping and starting. If you blink you miss the tackle and then they huddle up again. I say the word 'soccer' through gritted teeth when they ask me what it's like over there. It's football and that's that. There are no hands involved.

But in exchange for all this culture soaking, I have been making tea for the family. I managed to find some PG tips -result! Although, it's not me usual cup of cha. They don't have kettles over here so you have to heat it up the water in the microwave, a bit of a fail but Talisha, Sina's 8 year old is hooked on it. She makes about three cups a day. Yesterday morning I made pancakes for breakfast, Shrove Tuesday style, with lemon, sugar an' all. Tonight I'm cooking Cottage Pie for dinner...we shall see how that goes down.

On the radio the other night, London Calling by The Clash came on...nostalgia hit me hard.

"The Kids are Alright"

Those of you who are familiar with The Who, will instantly get the title of this blog and those of you who know about my travel buddy, Keith Spoon, will get the link even more...

I was given Keith as a 'loser prize' at an Anixter pub quiz, although at the time, he was just a wooden spoon. With a bit of black marker and a brainstorm session for his name, he gained his own profile and I was given a mission by my team to get him in as many photos as possible on my trip - who's the loser now, Anixter?!

He was going to get his own blog, but can you believe that 'Keith Spoon' on blogspot is taken?! Outrageous...if you google it, you get what seems to be an abandoned blog about absolute nothing. What a waste. So I will just have to post his photos here:



Keith went to meet some of the host family's pets in the backyard. He wanted to get a little closer but the cows started to moo in alarm. Best kept at a safe distance, I think.

And so back to the kids. The eight year old kids that The Tuba City Boarding school have entrusted me to assist...Stephanie, the teacher. Strange. What's even stranger? Stephanie doing great with children! Who knew?

It's hard to not find these Navajo little'ns adorable. When their teacher announced that I had come across the ocean from London, they all lit up with pure amazement as if someone had just told them that unicorns live on Jupiter. Gasps and a chorus of 'woooooooow' broke out as I nodded in confirmation. It is true, I have traversed oceans and battled beasts to be with you today, children. May it not be in vain.

At somepoint I'm supposed to do a lesson on London for them and I've got a few stereotypes on the list, but I want to try and stay away from the usual rubbish like 'fish and chips' and 'cor blimey'...hmm...real London. How do I do this without scaring the kids?

But in true arrogant English style, I can't help but scoff every morning when class begins with 'The Pledge of Allegiance' and the American national anthem. On the outside, I am making the effort. On the inside, I'm ruthlessly mocking it - it's what we do, isn't it?

By the way, does anyone know the words to ours....?

Orientation

I met Sina and John on Saturday morning in my hotel lobby; my host family had come to pick me up. Once I'd heaved my luggage into the back of their 4x4 and flopped into the back seat, I fell into total relaxation. This lovely couple were going to take care of me.

Sina works as a kindergarten teacher at the school that I'm volunteering at and John is her partner of four years. John isn't a man of many words but once he found out I loved music and wanted to learn Navajo, he happily turned the radio dial to Classic Rock and taught me a few words on the scenic drive to the Grand Canyon.

Sina handed me my itinerary for the week - I beamed when I saw 'Traditional Navajo songs' booked in for Wednesday evening! The landscapes that floated by on the way to the Canyons went from pine trees, heavy woods and mountains to wide, arrid and red rocky land. I saw my first deer nibbling at a tree, a cactus and some elk. No, there wasn't any tumbleweed...

The Canyon looks like a painting, it didn't seem real where I was standing either. And while tourists pay the equivalent of about £18 to get in, we just drove on into the park because if you're Navajo, you get in for free.

We got back to the house in the evening where I met Sina's children and the horses and cows they have out back. How awesome it was to wake up to horses galloping around the house, having their morning run. I had gotten up really early again but I think I'm just about over my jet lag now. I hit the sack pretty early Saturday night. Sina's shoulder had been hurting her all day so they called a medicine man over to the house.

I fell asleep quite happily to the sound of a Navajo healer, chanting and singing his ancient prayers.

Good Morning Arizona...

Flagstaff looked so different first thing this morning when I woke up at a silly hour (for America or England) but I had finally got my eight hours rest after one mega trip. Three planes, which got smaller in size as I went along and I don't know how many hours in total, but I made it.

I missed my flight to Phoenix, although I knew it would happen and I even said so to the check-in clerk back in Heathrow: "I've only got an hour to catch that flight from LA, are you sure I'm going to make it?" to which her response was: "We don't make up the rules," which clearly meant that she had about three automated replies to any question at the desk and wouldn't even break down the inquiry to work out what I was asking. And so, despite a lovely lady from New Zealand getting immigration to push me through the queue, my flight to Phoenix left without me. My tiredness and stress soon dissolved when the charming young check-in clerk at US airways booked me onto the next one and didn't even charge me. He even put me in a seat at the front so I could "get off and run" as he put it.

Do you remember that sketch in The Fast Show where that family are just running and running but you never actually see them get anywhere? The dad screaming "come on!" to the kids, out of breath and bags flailing. Well that's what I felt like trying to make my connecting flights. Clips of British comedy got me through disconcerting moments as I had to make myself laugh somehow. Even more funny when I got to my Flagstaff plane which was more like a people carrier with wings. That Michael McIntyre skit came to mind when he describes those flimsy little planes where the pilot turns around in his seat and says: "everybody ready?"

Unfortunately, these jokes couldn't be shared. But I was lucky enough to have two very chatty Americans who managed to distract me from the rattling and whizzing of the aircraft. They said that my accent was charming and that everyone here would love it - I found myself getting a little bit more posh after this.

And so, I alighted into pitch-black mountain darkness and noticed that the taxi bay was empty. But thanks to the generosity of one of the passengers, I got a ride to my hotel with him and his family.

It's a shame that I couldn't see straight or stand up anymore by this point because downstairs in the hotel club, a party was happening and according to my plane buddy, this was a University town and the "kids get wild". But bed was calling...

I opened my curtains to a beautiful sunny day, wide clean streets and I even saw two Harley Davidsons, three locals drinking coffee and reading the paper and the American flag was waving proudly at me from the across the street.

So long...farewell...

Aside from frantically packing for my three and a half month stint across the globe, I am also reflecting on the last year. I am still perplexed as to how I have come to this incredible shift in my life.

A year ago I didn't even have the confidence to say that I wanted to travel around the world alone, let alone get to the point of booking the tickets and quiting my job. But here I am, soon to get on a plane which I haven't done in three years and it is taking me to the Navajo community where my journey truly begins.

Ever since I was a small child, I was fascinated by Native Americans; their tribes, their languages and their stunning beauty always lifted my heart. I loved their ancient tales, their medicine and their songs made the hairs on the back of my neck rise - I even collected feathers.

So when I started planning this trip, I knew it had to begin with them. I found the Navajo reservation in Arizona and contacted them instantly. I enthusiastically enrolled as a volunteer to give my services to their community.

In just a few days, I will be sharing that desert land with those that are most connected to the earth, those that listen to it and adopt its wisdom. And from then, I will carry that wisdom with me to San Francisco, Singapore, Bali and Nepal.

I can assure you that I won't be that traveller that gawks at every landmark listed in the guide book and meanders down busy streets with a map permanently in their grip...no, no. It's the simplicity I want and the humbleness I aim to feel. With an open mind and peace in my heart, I go on.

As the Native American war leader, Crazy Horse once said:

"A very great vision is needed and the man who has it must follow it as the eagle seeks the deepest blue of the sky".