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

Sierra, Nov, 1998 by Gary Paul Nabhan

"They ought not to be able to camp here in Seri territory, even if they were given permits to fish offshore," Alfredo said calmly, with only the slightest trace of frustration pulling at him like an undertow. "This is too near some sacred places on the south side of Tiburon for it to be safe for people who don't know where they are."

As we sat on the beach at dusk and shared our Thanksgiving dinner, Native Americans and seafaring pilgrims side by side, I thought about what Alfredo said. He was disturbed by the sight of wanton killing of endangered reptiles within Seri homelands, but just as concerned that non-Indians could be hurt by naively messing with a power greater than their own. I wondered if the Wampanoag had the same concerns when they took pity on the poor people who arrived several centuries ago on the Atlantic seaboard with so little knowledge of how to be nourished by the bounty all around them.

I hoped that during future Thanksgivings I would remember the present scene: a handful of people from two dramatically different cultures sharing food, songs, and stories, acknowledging our mutual dependence on the wild lives all around us, lives that are so easily snuffed out by either ignorance or carelessness.

In the morning, the ocean appeared much calmer than it had the day before. As we packed everything into the panga, Alfredo pulled me aside and said, "I would like to make a tape of the entire sequence of canticos that we need to sing from our village all the way to Isla San Esteban for the crossing."

I asked whether the water-serpent song, the one sung to placate Coimaj Caacol, was one of these canticles. "Yes, but the others are sung when you spot certain landmarks. The one for Coimaj Caacol, well, you don't sing it in advance--you sing it only if you have trouble out in those waters." He nodded toward the southwest, then asked me to gather up the entire group.

"Just as Amalia told you, we have an obligation to sing these canticles to all the powers which are out there, before we make the crossing," Alfredo said. "Whether we are in a balsa made with our own hands, or in a big panga like this, we need to do this during the time of dangerous tides. Maybe not in every season, but in conditions such as this, yes. The canticles are to all the spirits active around here. We all need to get into the boat, and then I'll sing."

Four biologists huddled around Alfredo, while Jose-Ramon sat quietly on the prow. Alfredo then sweetly sang the first of the Seri ocean power songs:

   Before going on our way/We find ourselves still in place/Before going on
   our way/We aim to pass the mountain/ That comes in the midst of the path.

We all leaned toward him as if he were the lead in a gospel ensemble and we were the harmony section backing him up. When the singing was done, Alfredo and Jose-Ramon pushed off without another word.

As we made our way around the southeast corner of Tiburon once more, we could see that the sea was indeed calmer. We stayed on Tiburon's submerged shelf, and pushed past Turners and Cholludo without incident, watching ospreys nesting on the cliffs of Tiburon high above us. Then, as we approached one of the shortest distances between Tiburon and San Esteban--perhaps eight miles as the osprey flies--Alfredo turned southward and headed out into the charcoal-gray and night-blue waters of the deeper seas.