Inner And Outer Travels

The lost city of the ancient Tayronas in the Sierra Nevadas of Santa Marta, Colombia has its beginnings over a thousand years ago. Stories are told of Carib peoples invading and that the Tayronas were forced to higher ground for protection. Over two hundred tribes were then in existence throughout the vast range, and it was a small group of connected tribes that constructed the hideaway society.

Today, most of the living spaces are overgrown, and yet what remains; the steps, the walkways, the circular stone rings which once supported ceremonial thatch structures are everywhere in evidence of skilled engineering. The main site rises some three hundred yards up a narrow ridge – steep on either side – and is accessible by one trail which at one point is overlain with 1200 stone steps leading up and into the entrance.

On either side of the prominent ridge of official structures nestle clusters of dwellings and foundations which are connected by walkways of neatly placed stones giving the “city” an appearance of an aggregate of separated sets of housing. Archaeologists tell us that three or four thousand inhabited this area, and what are now at a distance, many more dwellings may well have been filled the spaces in between these little community areas.

After a several hours in Ciudad Perdida, we began our trek back down which was – I confess – not as strenuous as the hike going, though each had about as many ups as there were downs. However, with showers muddying the dirt, the going was slippery and at times hazardous… which enhanced the reward.

At the start of our outing, unaccustomed to the strain of such a hike, I made a contract with my legs. I said to them that this hike was not going to be easy, and that if they would make extra effort for the task, I would not push them hard, and give them a rest whenever the going got too tough. The slippery down hike was slower, but also gave focus to the hike itself; the impassable mud areas, slippery rocks, mud caked boots, and a couple of nasty slips. It struck me the more that the energy I was expending was the very energy that was the beauty of these Sierra Madre mountains. The great green calm all around, the roaring at times of the river, the serene sense of being surrounded by an immensity, in all, the sacredness of nature which the indigenas all around pledged to honor and protect. Living Life itself.

I became that pledge, and not only for the mountains, but including me; the inner me that connects to the divine and the outward living-in-the-world me. I am this Life. I came away from the the Lost City hike, empowered, eager for whatever comes to the moment. I learned, once again that the action underlying the demands of every occasion, whatever they may be, must necessarily rise out of three domains: The greater good of the Earth, the community through which I think and act, and me, to evolve out of my own unique set of givens.

peace, greg

By now you will have learned that the Army Corps of Engineers has stopped the pipeline construction. The piece that follows was written after I arrived back from my Thanksgiving trip there, a few days before the announcement. I’ve edited the story slightly, but by and large it remains the essentially the same as the one sent by email. This web-site version is my first attempt at the web for me. I’m hoping that it will reach those who said they didn’t receive the first.

Standing Rock sits on the Cannon Ball River and consists of three camps. The Oceti Sakowin (pronounced och-et-ee shak-oh-win and means Seven Sacred Fires) is the largest by far and, and is across the river. Thousands are encamped there. Although part of the Sioux reservation, the Army Corps of Engineers has certain rights on that land and its occupation may be considered “illegal”. On this side of the river at the foot of the bridge to the left is Rose Bud, a smaller camp which also receives donations and houses (or should I say “tents”) – like the other camps – hundreds of native Americans from all over the county and the world. Just below the ridge and out of view is the third camp, Sacred Stone. This is also Sioux reservation land, but this portion is leased by a native women who heads the building of a settlement of school, a kitchen-dinning hall, a medical clinic, and other more permanent facilities. It is considered private, and law enforcement may not enter.

Of the three, we found Sacred Rock to be the most warmly receptive and well, sacred, spiritual. Open engaging talk and enthusiasm were everywhere evident. At the dish washing area, a couple of young people were washing dishes outside in large tubs with their hands deep in the water – mind you, North Dakota is cold – and the dad, standing nearby said as he watched, “That’s great you’re getting practice for when you get home.” They continued, beaming, obviously enjoying themselves.

Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Sioux had a vision of victory, and along with other chiefs his leadership resulted in the annihilation of five of Custer’s 12 companies including Custer, and several relatives at the Battle of Little Bighorn. The metal sculpture of him – some 15-20 feet tall – sits atop a ridge at Scared Rock and gazes confidently over the proceedings below as the insistence of rights for his people continues. We are told that the gathering of Native Americans at Standing Rock is the largest since that battle in 1876.

In the middle of Oceti Sakowin camp the many different tribes have placed directions to where their area of tepees, tents and shelters are. Except for more common names like Hopi, Taos, Pueblo, and Onandaga, these tribes and bands are mostly unfamiliar to me. Scrolling though and enlarging them might produce names you recognize.

The gathering of these clans has become an icon, and its name is Standing Rock. Yet it is a far larger movement. I felt I needed to go to support the Native American, yes, and also something else. At first it was not clear. As I spoke to individuals who gave me materials and funds, each person thanked me in much the same way. The gift was coming from a deeper place than simply support for a cause. Gradually I came to see that Standing Rock was drawing a line. So many years of killings, abuse, broken promises, gross injustices, robbing of freedom. That was it. No more. And that penetrated deeply into me.

No more. I too will not stand patiently by accepting all the inequality and injustices going on all around me. The wars, the violence, the criminal acts conducted by authorities, the greedy taking from the poor and powerless.

Without exception, those who gave me contributions to take to Standing Rock did so as if they were offerings for something sacred, from the heart. A young lady came up to me and gave me $16. She said, apologetically, that that was all she had. And she thanked me – like so many others who gave – with a deeply personal tone and quiet respect.

Horses are part of many tribal cultures, and these feeding freely south of the river were untied and content. The night before, as we were strolling back to our sleeping place a group of young Native Americans – all riding bareback – rode through camp calling out to those they passed in native dialect. They were answered in the same loud, crisp manner as when singing songs – not melodious, or for me at least, not charming or sweet. Rather, the boisterous sounds are exuberant, individual, wild. I was moved in hearing the exchanges, and felt glad.

Each camp has a sacred fire which is kept forever burning. An elder or two often sit quietly in folding chairs, bundled and unmoving. Near the fire are herbs, seeds, and aromatic leaves and branches that serve as offerings. I learned the procedure of praying at the fire through an elder who approached me when I had finished saying a prayer and turned around to go back to the bench where I had been sitting. He advised me softly to walk around the circle, and in that way, my prayers would be completed.

The evening before, I had been sitting in a folding chair at the sacred fire listening to songs sung in dialect. Several times I had taken out my handkerchief from the pocket in which I kept my car keys. The next morning, after looking everywhere and couldn’t find them, I went back to the sacred fire. My chair had been moved, and an elder was sitting in it. I mentioned the predicament, and he immediately got up to look under the cushion he’d been sitting on and behind his chair. I went to where the chair had been, and sure enough there they were lying in the dirt. I picked them up, approached the elder and shook them gently. The sound caught his attention, and when he saw them, a warm smile filled his face. I reached out to hug him, and he me.

In Sacred Stone, a new school is going up… quickly. The same school from a distance taken next day shows the new red roof already in place. Behind the structure, a warming house with a large propane heater serves to warm the workers, and in time the kids.

This is Rose Bud Camp, and beyond it the bridge the crosses toward Oceti Sakowin Camp, which was the first camp we went to. Rose Bud was the second, and after seeing how the third camp, Sacred Stone felt, we decided to give all our donations there. Monies I received were spent on propane fuel, individual camping burners to screw on the top of the gas canisters and a propane lantern in addition to a large canvas and a supply of tie downs for it.

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