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Pagosa
Springs Daily News
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| HUMOR: The Anthropologist |
| Louis Cannon | 7/14/10 |
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This brief, scientific account concerns an extremely isolated tribe living high in the mountains of Colorado — a tribe known as the "Pagosans", which name is apparently derived from a collection of strong-smelling artesian wells located in the community’s eastern settlement.
I first came upon this tribe quite by accident, during an automobile trip from Harvard to UCLA, where I was scheduled to deliver a series of lectures on the Chiapas rebellions in southern Mexico. Upon leaving Denver, after a short visit with family members, I proceeded through a succession of increasingly challenging mountain passes and watched with some dismay as the formerly well-maintained highway became progressively more decrepit and dilapidated, until, as result of the punishing roadbed, one of the front wheels detached itself completely from my vehicle.
 As the car ground to a halt, I noticed that I was in a neighborhood of shabby homes — hardly more that wooden huts, really. I could see the natives peeking out at me from behind unwashed glass window panes. My first instinct was to curse myself for not packing a handgun, but as the natives began to slowly come out of their huts and approach my partially dismantled vehicle, my anxiety lessened as I noticed the sympathetic smiles on their faces.
Within a matter of hours, I had been introduced to the tribal leader — a somewhat self-effacing character of short stature whom everyone referred to as “Jefe”. I was later to learn that the affectionate moniker had two meanings in the local parlance; it could be used to mean either “Chief” or “Rascal.” (I found the intended meaning, in this particular instance, to be unclear.)
Although I was only vaguely familiar with the tribal dialect (it bore obvious linguistic ties to certain tribal dialects spoken in Texas and Kansas) I was made to understand, through various hand signals and via sketches drawn in the dirt with sticks, that the natives planned to replace my dismounted wheel (with its now-mangled rubber tire) with an old wooden wagon wheel taken from a broken horse cart found behind one of the wooden huts.
I tried to make clear to the natives that I was happy to pay for the repair services, but they did not seem to understand my intentions. I had the distinct impression that they had never seen paper money before. (The tribe’s economy seems to operate on a series of handwritten IOUs, and upon gifts from family members and tribal elders.)
While the repairs to my vehicle were being completed, I was invited into one family’s hut as an honored guest and, the hour being late, was asked to sit down and share a modest supper.
The tribal tradition seemingly requires that family members consume their meals as they sit facing a box, brightly lit upon one face, upon which face flit tiny puppet-like figures. I was not able to decipher the meaning of the puppet show, but something about it amused certain members of the family, especially the older men and the young boys.
The tribe’s diet, as far as I could ascertain, consists mainly of a dried, starchy powder that, when mixed with hot water, tastes vaguely like mashed potatoes. This white, sticky substance is augmented by slabs of animal flesh, eaten practically raw after being lightly warmed in a grill. The tribe’s beverage of choice consists of sweetened water for the younger tribal members (which seemingly comes in a rainbow variety of colors) and a fermented (possibly alcoholic?) barley drink for the older family members.
Following the meal, I was offered the family bed for the night. I was led to understand that most families cannot afford individual beds, meaning that up to a dozen people share a single bed — so it seemed that I was displacing nearly the entire family. I was not sure whether such an offer could be gracefully refused without causing an insult to the family — and being somewhat exhausted from my travels and mildly intoxicated from the fermented barley drink, I accepted the offered bed.
No sooner had the family turned out the lights, then I felt someone crawling into the bed beside me, and upon striking a match and lighting the bedside candle, I saw to my shock that it was none other than the dominant matriarch of the family (the wife, that is to say.) I was quite naturally confused and alarmed by the situation, but the wife quickly made it clear, by various hand signals, that she and her husband had a merely Platonic relationship. Upon further communication (and I am here admitting quite readily that I was guessing at much of her intended meaning) I learned that this was her fifth husband in a long line of unsatisfactory relationships, and that she intended to make me the sixth, if at all possible.
My background as an anthropologist working in the isolated reaches of Siberia (during the writing of my doctoral thesis) had previously exposed me to the tribal tradition, common in certain extremely isolated communities, of actively seeking to expand the tribe’s limited gene pool by promoting casual procreative relationships with travelers passing through the village. In those cases, the patriarch of the tribe would ceremonially invite the innocent traveler to enjoy an evening with one of his wives.
I had also come into contact with certain Siberian tribes, however, where a seemingly casual procreative relationship led inexorably and inescapably to permanent tribal membership (usually under threat of death) — another way to expand the tribal gene pool, though entailing a much more definite “change of plans” for the innocent traveler.
I honestly had no clue which type of traditions existed within this isolated Colorado community, and so — as politely as possible, considering the awkwardness of the situation — I left my clothing hanging on the back of the bedroom chair and made my way quickly out the bedroom window, much to the dominant matriarch’s apparent displeasure. I fumbled my way through the darkness to my now-repaired vehicle, parked along the curb of the village’s main street (which was really more of a pitted dirt trail, to be honest.) Gratefully, the vehicle engine coughed into life, and after a few moments struggling with the steering (due to the somewhat limited control afforded by the lopsided wooden wagon wheel now mounted on the passenger side, front) I made a hasty escape.
Unfortunately, I had carelessly left my notebook behind, so I am reconstructing this brief report from memory rather than from my carefully detailed notes.
As you might imagine, however, the memory is rather vividly embedded in my consciousness, and springs boldly to life whenever I hear someone mention the word, "Pagosa". |
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