Sacred Waters, Compassionate Travelers - On Becoming an Agent of Change in a Postcolonial World

The hike to the Havasupai falls is over ten miles from the rim of the canyon, and the trail starts to get sandy after a mile or so. My thighs burn and so do my lungs. Eventually, after several grueling miles, the burning in my leg muscles fades to a dull roar. The sun beats down on the top of my head like a bright sledgehammer as our group moves further down the canyon. We know at the end of the trail, there are crystal clear waterfalls of almost mythical renown. Magical waters. I have never seen them before. Synonyms for blue beat inside my skull like my footsteps against the sand. Aqua. Sky. Turquoise. My mouth is dry and gritty. I am rationing the water in my Camelback. Azure. Cobalt. Sapphire. Lapis Lazuli.

We are on sacred lands. The only reason we can backpack here is because the Havasupai tribe has issued us a permit. After a few hours of hiking, a man on horseback melts from the shadows of the canyon walls and canters toward us. He asks to see our papers. J shows it to him. J is Hopi and has designated himself our spokesperson for this voyage. He thought it would be better if he did the talking, and everyone enthusiastically agrees. I’m aware that we are interlopers, outsiders. I am treading carefully.

The man on horseback stares impassively at our permit, nods, and trots his horse away. Our group moves on. Further down the trail, we encounter a mule team. The poor animals are staggering - half dead, their swaybacks piled high with a crushing weight of camping gear. I feel rage at their obvious discomfort, and that these people don't seem to see the ribs protruding, clearly visible beneath their dull hides. A white couple are astride two other scrawny mules, snapping photos on expensive DSLR cameras while their Native American guide leads the emaciated beasts of burden safely around the rocks.

In David Spurr’s chapter on “ Resistance,” he writes that “the first step toward an alternative to colonial discourse, for Western readers at least, has to be a critical understanding of its structures; and this understanding would be an insider's because we read the discourse from a position already contained by it. The logical operations we perform in such a critical project-for example, those of classification, analysis, objectification-are those we have learned from the same critical tradition that produces the discourse of colonialism. We are constituted as readers by the very principles we would call into question, and we do not escape the West merely by constructing it as an object of critical interpretation” (Spurr, 185).

I am not writing this in order to virtue-signal that I am somehow better than the other tourists because I’m aware of my own participation within Western colonial structures. At the time of this experience, I did not fully understand what my presence in this place as a tourist means. Other than indignation and sadness at the treatment of these animals, I did not stop to question why this Native man would have needed to earn money hiring out mules to carry tourists’ gear. I didn’t ask myself what it would feel like to guide strangers to a place as sacred to many tribes as the Vatican is to Catholics. What it would feel like to watch these people leave trash and pool floaties in my ancestors’ sacred waters. I do not litter, but this is mostly because of my indoctrination into early-nineties green messaging rather than any awareness of the cultural significance or the delicately-balanced ecology of this place. Slogans like “give a hoot, don’t pollute” and “only you can prevent wildfires” wallpaper the rooms inside my brain, and at this age, I make sure I “pack it in, pack it out” while I “take only photos, leave only footprints” without much critical analysis as to why. It is not until years later that I recognize the landscape of the Havasupai falls for what it means to the people who have lived there since before my ancestors crossed the Atlantic and stole their land.

My pack weighs heavier with each mile that passes beneath my feet, as the sun blazes down with increasing ferocity. At this point in my life, I have begun to realize that it is important to me that I accomplish challenging tasks. I want to be known as the girl who backpacks ten sandy miles in the summer heat to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with no problem. I want everyone to know I am up for any adventure at any time. I will realize all of this later, but at the time of this trip I have begun to construct an identity for myself - one where I am cast as an adventurer, the hero of my story, the captain of my ship, the master of my fate, blah blah blah. I am sure that I am the author of my own text and that this narrative has inherent value because it is mine. My sense of self is constructed around my difference from others, my uniqueness in relation to those I know, and those I encounter when traveling through Indigenous lands. At this point in my life, I consider myself very much an individual. I have not yet begun to perceive the bonds that connect me to the environment, and to the other human beings on this beautiful and threatened planet.

In her book Engaging the Political: Contemporary Travel Writing and the Ethics of Difference, Debbie Lisle notes “how the self is constructed in the face of difference, and how others are produced as markers of security for the self. Indeed, the reproduction of 'authorian sureness' in travel writing is a deliberate strategy to avoid asking difficult questions about both the role of the travel writer (e.g. Why am I here? What am I doing here?) and the production of others (e.g. What right have I to speak for others?)” (Lisle, 269).

So why am I here?

Because I jumped on an opportunity to see one of the most beautiful places in Arizona, and arguably the world. I am here because I enjoy being outdoors and challenging my physical body. Because I don’t know if I will ever get this chance again. Havasupai permits are difficult to obtain, and I feel like I have won the hiking lottery.

And what am I doing here?

I’m a tourist in a place that arguably should not be a tourist destination. And yet. The Havasupai Tribe is actively involved in tourism, and to end this trade would bring serious economic hardship to those who live on the Havasupai reservation lands. Each year, thousands of visitors hike or ride horses or mules into Havasu Canyon, and many of them pay to stay in the lodge.

Of all the tribal nations whose ancestral lands are in or near the Grand Canyon, the Havasupai are the only ones who continue to live deep within the canyon. They consider themselves to be the “guardians of the Grand Canyon” and actively protect this precious ecosystem. In their language, Havasupai means “the people of the blue-green waters,” and the Havasupai people continue their traditional lifestyle in the canyon to this day.

But it isn’t all magical blue-green waters and sublime scenery. The Havasupai Tribe is threatened by the development of uranium mines upstream. The toxic effects of groundwater contamination have led the tribe to demand a ban on uranium mining. Although the Havasupai tribe has had limited success in this endeavor, Indigenous peoples all over the Americas and indeed throughout the world face the ecological freefall of their ancestral lands and cultural erosion. These symptoms of the colonial malady aren’t going anywhere. They’re getting worse.

Lisle also writes that “travel writers cannot and will not address the ethico-political problems of encounter if they are unwilling to question the authority of their own subject positions. Indeed, what right do travel writers have to speak for and represent others?” (Lisle, 270) So what gives me the right to tell this story? What right do I have to discuss the mining, tourism, and other effects of colonialism in relation to a tribe which is not mine? My answer is this: because I care about the planet, and I care about people, and because I believe that we have far more in common than we sometimes realize. Even though I inhabit my own subject position, I am aware of my human connection to others and to this planet. I want to build a sustainable, harmonious, inclusive world for future generations. And if I don’t question my subjectivity in these places, and if I don’t raise my voice in allyship with those who guard these sacred lands, Havasupai will soon cease to exist.

As Nita Mosby Tyler says in her Ted Talk, “Want a More Just World? Be An Unlikely Ally” “when you add your voice and your actions to situations that you don't think involve you, you actually inspire others to do the same.” (Tyler, 2010). I want to use my power and privilege to amplify and support the environment, and all peoples who have been marginalized, colonized, and oppressed.

The last mile of the hike is brutal. My legs tremble. It's so hot I see spangles of light in my peripheral vision. Suddenly, I hear a miraculous sound. It is the thunderous, joyful noise of a hundred-foot waterfall. Water gushes crystal blue from a dizzying height. I have arrived.

Turquoise. Azure. Lapis Lazuli. Sapphire. Sky. Aqua.

Sacred.

Works Cited:

Havasupai. Grand Canyon Trust. (2021, April 28). https://www.grandcanyontrust.org/info/havasupai.

Lisle, D. (2006). The global politics of contemporary travel writing. Cambridge University Press.

Spurr, D. (2004). The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration. Duke University Press.

Tyler, Nita Mosby. (2019). Want a More Just World? Be An Unlikely Ally. TedxMileHigh.