Side Dish: Taos Pueblo 4/7/13

If your life course has taken a turn into despair and indignity and you feel overwhelmed by the slings and arrows of misfortune, visit an Indian reservation. If you're down and out, depressed and exhausted, or damned and doomed, visit an Indian reservation. And if you wonder what life might be like if you reached your wit's - and financial - end, visit an Indian reservation. Such patches of woe exist all over the United States, but they reach their peak in the American Southwest, and after dipping your toe in this pool, you're never going to feel so good about your own lot again. I use 'peak' ironically, of course, because few soaring heights are reached, sought, or even desired in this part of the country. Indian land is where dreams go to die, sadness goes to holiday, and, above all, where all that is right and good and true stop off for a messy suicide and even hastier burial. And that brings us to Taos Pueblo, located (naturally) at the edge of hippie haven Taos, a community that never met a 60s cause it didn't continue to champion, like piss in the proverbial wind. It's a beautiful spot, needless to say; that is, until one drives through the densely packed "downtown", past the state's lone smoke-free casino (I lost $20 in 35 seconds, so fuck that place), and into the standard-issue oblivion.

What is the Taos Pueblo? Only the oldest continuously inhabited community in the United States (and a World Heritage Site as of 1992), a fact that seems less romantic the more one realizes this means complete cultural paralysis. Living as their ancestors did over 1,000 years ago, the people of the Taos Pueblo forego running water and electricity, preferring simplicity, tradition, and the occasional Dodge Ram to keep things honest. Yes, there are big hogs of automotive blight at every turn, which do a wee bit of damage to the whole "authenticity" thing. Shitting in a kiva pleases the gods of wind and sun, apparently, but muffler noise and spinning tires are somehow acceptable alternatives to the kinder, simpler way. I mean, when a man needs smokes at 3am, you don't expect him to walk, do you? Hypocrisy and selective enforcement aside, the presence of modernity interferes with the tourist trade, and we the people have a right to bitch when we're paying $10 a head to walk the grounds, along with an outrageous $6 per camera fee. You see, it's a "privilege" to snap photos of a dusty, poverty-stricken community. But those are their terms. From where I sit, they simply don't want to admit that they're sneaking in a guilt tax for the whitebreads who visit this place after getting bored with antique shopping.

The two main structures of the Pueblo are called Hlaauma and Hlaukkwima, which mean North and South House, but could just as easily mean "The Pueblo Strip Mall." While no casino or neon lights block out the sun, there are dozens of commercial pleas hung about; ancient, handwritten shingles plying the usual trades of jewelry, cold sodas, and assorted weaving. We saw few actual entrepreneurs about, though the smoke flying from the chimneys indicated that food was also available. There's also the San Geronimo Church (built in 1850), which itself is a National Historic Landmark. I'm always confused by the presence of Catholic imagery anywhere near Native land, as few did less for these people as a whole, but according to the brochure, 75% of the Taos Pueblo share in some Catholic practices. Here's hoping it begins and ends with the fondness for lighting candles.

Throughout the Pueblo, one will see hornos (outdoor adobe ovens), drying racks, the Red Willow Creek (the Pueblo's sole source of drinking water), and dozens of Canis Strayus, the ever-present stray dogs of the reservation. More than the adobe homes, wooden ladders, and ceremonial kivas, wandering pups define contemporary Indian life, and it never ceases to depress the hell out of us. It helps that the dogs are, without fail, sweet and kind and desperately seeking attention, but you're also bound to see dirty coats, hunger-induced rib cages, and the occasional mange. Of all the reservations we've visited, the dogs of the Taos Pueblo are the most "successful" by comparison, if only because they're tucked away in a community, rather than walking and dying roadside, as with any number of Navajo strongholds in Arizona. Leashes, bowls for food and water, and vet visits are apparently the white man's way, so short of stealing these sweethearts away in the night, what is left to be done? Hell, I'd pay $50 for a camera fee if I knew it might secure some shots now and again for the four-legged unfortunates.

So where does that leave the Taos Pueblo in our historical memory? On the one hand, Native peoples were in fact hunted down, marginalized, and exterminated by the American government, all for the betterment of the white ruling classes, but at the same time, where does tradition begin and utter stasis end? As Native languages and customs die out, or submit to widespread unemployment and alcoholism, is there an obligation to help these people make the transition from the past to a much better future? Can and should any outsider fight to help those who insist on the ways of the ancestors, when these very actions ensure economic instability for all? As it stands, the Taos Pueblo will join forces with the cash nexus to ensure its survival, but at what cost? As one walks about, one can't help think that despite the grandeur of history on display, we are treating living and breathing American citizens as museum pieces; musty relics to be displayed for our privileged amusement. Imagine a similar tourism in Detroit, Oakland, or the hills of West Virginia. Would there not be howls of racism, class exploitation, or at the very least, mean-spiritedness bordering on condescension? In the end, Taos Pueblo helps some remember that people lived here long before our pasty asses came aboard, but they also serve to remind us that if you're not moving forward, you're being left behind. It's a sad legacy, even with all the reminders of an unshakable pride.