head to toe in beads, pelts, buckskin and ornate displays of turkey fans and eagle feathers. They shook gourds and banged small drums. They shuffled forward, adding sporadic high kicks that threw dust into the air, while spinning deliriously in what looked like a pagan drug-induced haze. Dancers decorated in long grass dresses and fringes, which shook as if the wind was blowing through them, flowed behind, and every shell and every feather of the men’s traditional dress seemed to follow the leading beat of the drum that kept this mass of colour and energy moving.
Native women and children now entered the arena. Their turquoise tunics hung with leather thongs, shells and tin cones that rattled and jingled sweetly in time with their slow and graceful movements. They carried delicate fans of goose feathers that twisted and turned in their fingers as they moved around the arena, skipping lightly in their Ojibwa moccasins. The drum beat changed and new drum groups were introduced and new dances announced: the corn dance, the trot, the crow hop, the horse-stealing song and the round dance.
More and more people took to their feet, and the arena became a confusion of black turkey feathers, bear claws, eagle masks, black-and-white skunk pelts, beaver skins, immaculate woven headdresses and the natural earth colours painted on the faces. As darkness fell the moon rose out of the water of the great lake and the tribal drum was still being hit. My initial anxiety and my English inhibitions slowly evaporated with every beat. I took to my feet and I began to shuffle gently in a small circle, and as my confidence grew I began to spin. I turned faster and faster, the drum controlling my every move, and I swayed forwards and backwards, catching glimpses of other dancers and costumes that flashed out of the shadows and spurts of firelight. The primitive beat resonated and invaded my system and I spontaneously began to wail like a brave.
The singing, dancing and drumming continued. In the moonlight I walked back to my tent and, untroubled by the usual frenzy of mosquitoes, put my head back on my sleeping bag and enjoyed the cool breeze that washed through this sacred and ancient place. The distant melodic pounding of the central drum continued to swell into the night, but far from being a disturbance, it was as if I was listening to a deep and distant heartbeat, while the haunting wailing of the singers carried into the star-filled sky. No words, no apparent plan, just the natural calling of grown men transfixed, concentrated, and singing as one. Their feelings translated into one true sound that needed no words to describe the sentiments and insights being expressed. Beauty, pride, honour, bravery, respect and the tragedy of the mighty Ojibwa people. This strange, abstract, wordless noise that had so much more meaning, more depth than words could ever convey, lulled me and I slept.
In the morning the pow-wow would pack up. The magnificent wigwams would come down. The traditional costumes would be packed away and the arena dismantled. One hundred and fifty years ago the Ojibwa would have finished their harvest of wild rice and maple syrup and moved west towards the buffalo-filled plains of the Dakotas. In the morning I too would roll up my shiny wigwam, pack a bag of wild rice and begin my journey west towards the Dakotas, the Midwest and cowboy country.
What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
Black Crow
Puerto Rican Rice
Serves 4
200g dried pigeon peas (black-eyed peas will do) 100g salt pork (or bacon), chopped into small pieces small onion, chopped 2 garlic cloves, crushed 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 red bell pepper, cored, seeded and chopped small 1 green bell pepper, cored, seeded and chopped small 2 tom atoes, chopped 350ml chicken or ham stock 1 tablespoon annatto (achiote) oil 200g long-grain rice salt and freshly ground black pepper to garnish: cilantro (coriander), chopped chillies and limes
1 In a small pot, bring the pigeon peas and 700ml water to the boil. Cover, turn off the heat and allow to stand for 1 hour. Drain the peas,.
2 In a deep pan, sauté the salt pork, onion and garlic in the olive oil for a few minutes.
3 Add both bell peppers, cover and cook over a medium heat until the onion begins to turn transparent.
4 Add the tomato, drained pigeon peas and stock. Simmer, covered, over a low heat for 15 minutes until the peas are almost tender and most of the liquid is absorbed.
5 Stir in the annatto oil, rice, black pepper and 500ml cold water. Return to the boil then simmer, covered, for 15-20 minutes until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is soft and tender.
6 Add salt to taste and mix through a handful of chopped fresh cilantro, some diced chilli and a good squeeze of fresh lime.
Beaver Tail Soup
Serves 6
bones and tail from 1 beaver 2 large onions, sliced 3 bay leaves 2 large carrots, chopped 4 garlic cloves, chopped salt and freshly ground black pepper to garnish: sprigs of fresh mint
1 First you need to remove the tough skin from the beaver tail. This is done by toasting the tail over an open flame until the scaly skin peels off in one blistered sheet. This will reveal the tasty white meat underneath. Cut the tail meat into chunks.
2 Place the bones and pieces of tail in a large deep pan, cover with water (at least 2 litres), add a teaspoon of salt and bring to the boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 30 minutes, keeping the surface clean with a large spoon.
3 Add the onions, bay leaves, carrots, garlic and 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, and keep simmering for a further 30 minutes.
4 With a large spoon, remove the chunks of beaver tail from the pan and leave to drain on a plate. Don’t worry: these will be added back to the soup later. Carefully strain the remaining soup through a sieve into another large pan, being sure to remove any bits of bone. Now continue to boil until the soup reduces to roughly half of its original volume.
5 While the soup is reducing, cut the tail meat into bite-size chunks and add to the soup. Serve hot, making sure everyone gets some chunky bits of beaver in their bowl, and garnish with a few sprigs of fresh mint.
Rodeo Ga Ga COWBOYS, CRITTERS AND BEAUTY QUEENS IN AMERICA’S MIDWEST
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don’t let ’em pick guitars or drive them old trucks. Let ’em be doctors and lawyers and such.
‘Son, I drove cross-country once. The boredom near killed me.’
Plucking a couple of dollar bills from the pocket of his dishevelled checked shirt and tossing them on to the table as if placing a bet in a Vegas casino, the substantial man sitting in front of me then poured the remainder of his coffee into the mouth I had just witnessed demolish a breakfast large enough to feed a small nation for a month.
‘But good luck to you all the same and God bless.’
He began to leave
