Indian Time

Here it is the last day of June, and I spent an hour sitting in Walgreens doing nothing. Wasting time? Maybe. I prefer to think I was spending Indian Time.

I was reminded of those hot afternoons sitting in a folding aluminum chair, my feet in the sand beside the plaza at Cochiti Pueblo. Manuel and I went to feast days at all the pueblos in New Mexico. The Indians “danced” on the hard sand of the plaza all day, in winter the buffalo dance, in summer the corn dance. Not social dances, as we think of them, but religious ceremonies. The buffalo dance was to appease the animals before hunting; the corn dance was to bring rain to produce a good harvest.

Each pueblo (the word means “village” in Spanish) has two groups. A person belongs to his/her mother’s “side”, either “turquoise” or “squash.” Manny told me proudly that he was a turquoise.

On feast days the dances begin early in the morning. The “sides” take turns until each has performed eight times. The ceremony begins with the sound of drums throbbing in the distance. Then the procession enters the plaza with banners waving and two long lines of people, moving with dance steps to the rhythm of the drum, old men first, followed by their wives, then couples in descending age down to three and four-year-olds at the end.

The men, faces painted and with bandoliers of shells across their bare chests, wear white deerskin kilts (once I glimpsed pink boxer shorts underneath). They shake gourds filled with pebbles, imitating the sound of rain. Their feet are protected by “moccasins”. Not the loafers we call moccasins, but short boots made of untanned leather.

The women, in one-shouldered black wool dresses called “mantas”, dance on the hot sand with bare feet. I pitied the sore, blistered feet of young women who the next day would put on “town clothes” and high heels and go to work in offices and shops in Santa Fe or Albuquerque.

Each “dance” takes approximately 30 to 45 minutes. The drum stops abruptly. The dancers walk out of the plaza as casually as an audience leaving the theater after a movie.

Then we wait.

All around the plaza, on lawn chairs and wooden benches, and standing on the roofs of the adobe houses, a large crowd waits silently. Visitors come from Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and other pueblos. We sit under the brilliant blue sky burning in the desert sun. No one moves.

At times we sit for another 45 minutes before the “other side” is ready to begin.

On those hot New Mexico afternoons I learned patience. I learned to observe. The adobe houses around the plaza, which all looked the same at first, now I saw in a range of earth tones, grays and beiges, from light yellow to dark brown.

I also cleared my mind. I asked myself, “What am I doing here? What is more important that I should be doing now?” Then I realized, “Nothing!” After a nanosecond I was asking myself, “What do I want to do with the time I have left in my life?”

Pueblo Indians preserve ancient traditions, yet on ordinary days blend into our modern society. I knew a fireman, an electrician, several teachers, and a man who worked at Sandia Labs. They are successful in their careers. New Mexicans joke about “Indian time.” The Pueblos do things when “everything is ready.” Call an Indian plumber. He may show up tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock, or he may come in two weeks. Whenever he comes, he’ll be ready to do a good job.

This morning I sat in Walgreens waiting for film to be developed. It took less than an hour. But it was an hour spent thinking. I spend too much time fussing about yet accomplishing nothing. I don’t have much time left. I need to take more Indian Time, thinking and getting ready to do what is important.