324 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



him. He, too, took a puff and passed the 

 cigar on to the next ; it finally disappeared 

 in & the crowd. But Juan held tight to the 

 box. 



"What kind of a man is that?" de- 

 manded the Chief, pointing to a negro 

 sailor in our party. 



"Es Americano, tambien," I explained. 



"He's not," insisted the Indian. "I've 

 seen Americans before. They come here 

 to hunt. They are not like that man." 



But he did not pursue the subject or 

 show any further interest in the black 

 man. 



After some parley, the Chief agreed to 

 lead us to the Seri village. It lay down 

 the beach half a mile, toward the Sonora 

 side. But when we got there it was not 

 a pueblo at all, as other Indian pueblos 

 usually are. 



It was little more than a place in the 

 sand where the Seris ate and slept — just 

 rude, flimsy shelters of mesquite and 

 tules, or palo verde brush piled in circles 

 about holes in the sand. Here and there 

 a few big turtle shells were worked in or 

 laid on the brush. No typical Indian 

 huts, no tepees — not even the primitive 

 but substantial "ramadah" of the Pimas ; 

 in fact, the abiding place of the Seri is 

 no more of a shelter than the pigs and 

 calves of Iowa find on the lee side of 

 straw-stacks. 



The Seri women, carrying bundles on 

 their heads and chattering excitedly, fled 

 up a canyon as we approached their vil- 

 lage. But after a few minutes they be- 

 gan venturing back, timidly, curiously. 



A CONCERT ON THE SANDS 



To add to the gaiety of the occasion, 

 we brought from our ship a sailor who 

 played the mandolin. It was incongru- 

 ous, ridiculous — a mandolin tinkling off 

 "Casey Jones" on this lonely shore. But 

 our music failed to soothe these particu- 

 lar savages ; on the contrary, it made the 

 men dance and the women giggle. Then 

 one sturdy, long-haired Seri dashed into 

 the brush and emerged with — well, a fid- 

 dle, for lack of a better word ; just a 

 square of dried hide, a stick with notches 

 in it, and a "bow" — merely a dried reed. 

 He squatted down, stood the piece of hide 

 on edge, laid one end of the notched stick 

 on the ground and the other end on the 



upper edge of the hide, and fiddled 

 away — and sang. It was not unmusical, 

 nor was it music, as our ears know it. 



"Sounds like filing a saw," grunted one 

 of our sailors. 



"I'll say he's sho got some jazz in it," 

 ventured George, the negro. 



One buck volunteered to dance. He 

 got a dried deerskin and laid it, hair 

 down, on the sand. Leaping onto this 

 improvised platform, with swaying body 

 and waving arms the Seri scraped and 

 patted the dried hide with his bare, cal- 

 loused feet, keeping time to the whining 

 fiddle. 



Then, one by one, a small group of 

 women ventured out from the brush and 

 formed a half circle about the dancer and 

 began to sing. They were a sad-looking 

 chorus, to say the least — ragged, un- 

 speakably filthy, their faces and limbs 

 hideously tattooed with some blue color- 

 ing matter, and their foreheads daubed 

 with white bird-guano. 



In a worn canvas envelope, suspended 

 on a string about his neck, the Chief car- 

 ries an old letter signed by the Prefect at 

 Hermosillo, acknowledging Juan Tomas 

 as Jefe of the Seris and holding him re- 

 sponsible for their good behavior. 



POVERTY AND DEGRADATION UNEXAMPLED 



Years ago these Indians inhabited a 

 part of the Sonora coast and went trad- 

 ing to Hermosillo and Guaymas. But 

 their thieving, lawless habits kept them 

 so much in conflict with the Mexican au- 

 thorities that eventually they were driven 

 back to Tiburon Island. 



For some months previous to our visit 

 the -Indians had not been to the mainland, 

 by reason of a little affair wherein the 

 tribe had murdered certain Mexican fish- 

 ermen from Guaymas and burned their 

 boat. 



Their poverty and degradation are per- 

 haps the most absolute among human be- 

 ings anywhere. No housekeeping, no 

 gardens, no animals, no fowls to care for, 

 no tools — just to fish, to kill a deer or a 

 burro, or spear a turtle! (While we 

 were with them bucks brought in a deer ; 

 it was eaten raw.) 



They had no utensils at all except clay 

 ollas. One old squaw, ignoring us ut- 

 terly, went on with her work making an 



