Songs of the Seri - Seri Indian ecotourism on the Sea of Cortez

Sierra, Nov, 1998 by Gary Paul Nabhan

You packed up the panga, but did you remember the canticles? You'll need them to face the giant serpent in the Sea of Cortez.

"He's wondering whether we've got everything we need," I yelled out to three other biologists over the waves crashing down along the Sea of Cortez coast. Or to be exact, the shores of the Canal de Infiernillo, or Channel of Little Hell, as the narrow straits between Tiburon Island and the Sonoran mainland are called. We waded knee-deep in its stormy waters as we loaded a Seri Indian panda with all the provisions we thought we might need during our next four days of island-hopping. The 16-foot skiff was not so full that it was taking in water, but then we had not yet gotten into it.

I glanced, embarrassed, at Alfredo, our elderly Seri guide. Just one generation removed from his ancestors' hunter-gatherer existence, when everything they owned had to be carried for miles on their heads or backs, Alfredo couldn't help but comment on how many material goods we were casually tossing into the panga: inflatable kayaks, wetsuits, life jackets, waterproof river bags, and puncture-proof water jugs. A two-burner cookstove, tarps, foldable lawn chairs, Thermarest pads, sleeping bags, and a chuckbox replete with wineglasses, dinnerware, tablecloths, lanterns, and candles. A cooler stuffed with precooked turkey dinners, pumpkin pie, and cranberry sauce. Every field guide covering any set of critters ever spotted in or migrating through the deserts and seas of northwest Mexico. A profusion of tape recorders, cameras, binoculars, measuring tapes, thermometers, fishing tackle, lizard grabbers, and snorkeling gear. Finally, a half-dozen bottles of hot sauce and one of tequila in case of a sudden need to treat emergencies such as accidental wounds or bland food. We had hauled much of this paraphernalia from Tucson, a six-hour drive, and bought the rest in Kino Bay, the closest Mexican tourist beach to the two remaining Seri villages.

"Travel light," I muttered under my breath, as I finished off the last of the "lite" corn chips we'd brought with us across the Mexican border.

In turn, Alfredo and his sidekick, Jose-Ramon, each carried a single blanket, a canteen, and his own bottle of salsa in case ours was too tame. They brought two old life jackets, but hardly ever wore them.

What we sought in our waterlogged field guides, they kept in their heads and hearts. They were among the Seri tribe's first ecotourism guides, and we were among their first guinea pigs, trying out a new trip route. I had worked on field-conservation projects with the Seri for several years, as had my U.S. colleagues, but I wasn't sure what ecotourism meant to the Seri. We soon learned, however, that as "official guides" they have been authorized by the Comcaac, or Seri, community to sing us any traditional song or tell us most any story about the seabirds, fish, marine mammals, and reptiles that we might encounter over the next few days.

I only knew about one Seri song, and I was a little anxious that Alfredo and Jose-Ramon might not know it. The month before, Seri artisan Amalia Astorga had visited me in Arizona. Hearing that I was planning to go out to San Esteban Island, she looked worried.

"Don't go out there unless you are with someone who knows the song to placate Coimaj Caacol. He's the giant serpent that lives underwater between Tiburon Island and San Esteban Island. By writhing along on the ocean bottom, he churns up the water between the two islands. If you try to cross without giving him respect, he'll smash your boat to bits."

So the last thing I asked Alfredo before we left the mainland was whether we had traditional Seri life insurance.

"Seguros?" he repeated in Spanish, puzzled.

"Do you know the song to sing to make peace with Coimaj Caacol?" I asked.

He and Jose-Ramon looked at one another, then burst out laughing. "I know all the songs we'll need for this trip, not just for where Coimaj Caacol lives, but for other treacherous places as well."

Alfredo jerked the starter cord of the outboard engine, and it instantly cranked up to a full-tilt roar. Jose-Ramon gave the panga one last push off the gravelly beach, and lifted himself gracefully up over the bow. We were off, crossing the Canal de Infiernillo while California gulls, eared grebes, and brown pelicans took flight or rapidly paddled out of our trajectory toward Tiburon Island. We high-tailed it across the straits without hitting much choppy water, for the cross-tides were not yet pulling strongly. It was the kind of water that Alfredo could navigate blindfolded, without a single song. Not all water we would meet over the next few days would leave him as quiet.

We rounded the southeast corner of Tiburon and caught our first good glimpse of three other islands: Turners and Cholludo, both less than a mile off the south end of Tiburon, and San Esteban, much farther away. One of our crew, a marine biologist, had brought her tide charts, as she does on most marine voyages.

"I hope you aren't supposing that you can cross between the islands in that little inflatable kayak," Katrina teased me. "Do you see the height of that surf hitting the windward side of Cholludo?"