Drumbeats

In my first exposure to the indigenous culture of North America, I attended the Traditional Pow Wow and Harvest Festival at The Museum of Ontario Archaeology in London. But not before scouting the Museum grounds, spellbound as I was by recreated history, a cedar palisade, and a Carolinian forest. It promised to be a memorable three-day celebration.

During the Pow Wow, I enjoyed chatting with exhibitors, storytellers, dancers, potters, and Museum staff. In the elm longhouse, covered in birch bark segments, corn cakes cooked over smouldering fires, the smoke rising through holes in the roof. In one corner, surrounded by children, Nina 'of Many Names' (because she has married and divorced a few times) told the story of the corn husk dolls. Closer to the edge of the forest, members of the London Potters Guild recreated an ancient pit firing. Beyond, Museum staff taught children about archaeology at a hands-on dig.

Near the noon hour on 'Indian time', the Master of Ceremonies, Gordon Nicotine-Sands, announced the Grand Entry. To underscore its sacred nature, the MC requested no photos to be taken during this time. And so began the drumbeats from the ceremonial drum, as veterans and flag bearers solemnly entered the Arena through an easternmost portal, before circling to a certain protocol. More drumbeats followed, as did the chanting and dancing by dancers in regalia in each specific dance, according to custom. The view from my lens inspired images of impressionist-style movement, as my camera swayed in two-step time.

On the last day of the PowWow, a bald eagle circled high above, tipping its wings to the resonating drumbeats that closed the ceremony. It was a fitting signature to an unforgettable experience.

Of hawks and tobacco

Photo courtesy Hawk Migration

It was an overcast day when I approached the recreated palisade of an old aboriginal site, now the Museum of Ontario Archaeology.

The entry looked forbidding. But that was the point. The Neutral Iroquoians had erected the pointed cedar poles with a maze for protection.

Just as I was about to enter through the palisade portal, a large bird with an even larger wingspan flew over me, nearly grazing my head, before returning to its perch. Its cream-coloured, speckled chest revealed the markings of a hawk.

Startled, I wound my way through the maze to find a grassy arena. At one end stood a longhouse — an arched structure covered with large, weathered tiles of bark. Inside, rustic bunks revealed some insight into how former inhabitants lived, 500 years ago.

At another end, by a forest, a man unloaded materials from his truck. I approached, finding a descendant of one of several tribes that, long ago, freely roamed this area. We exchanged hellos. He said he was setting up a booth of historical artifacts for interested visitors to the upcoming pow wow.

I told him about the hawk.

"Red-tail," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Without another word, he walked briskly across the arena, his salt-and-pepper ponytail bobbing along. I kept up with him — barely, as he whisked off his steel-rimmed glasses and rubbed them with his shirt tail. He put his glasses back on and squinted at the top of the palisade. The hawk was still perched on one of the poles.

"Look at the base," he said.

I saw russet-coloured feathers at the bird's behind. But they were small.

"He's immature," said the man. "Probably kicked out of the nest."

I wondered how the man knew that. We parted ways. As I headed out, he called:

"Have a cigarette?"

I turned and said: "No," somewhat disgusted by the addiction that needed to bum cigarettes off others.

The man raised his arm and rubbed two fingers in the air.

"Need it to sprinkle," he said.

"Does a cigarette these days even have tobacco?" I called back.

The man paused. I sensed a chuckle.

On my way out, I entered the administrative building. Staff member Anne Tremblay-Pedersen was wrapping up for the day.

"Is the man that's setting up still on the grounds?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, before telling her about the tobacco incident.

"Indeed," she said. "Tobacco, like sage or sweetgrass, is sprinkled about in what's called a smudge."

I expect a few more aha! moments during the pow wow — my first — this weekend.