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| Look Familiar? |
Picture it – 1972, my right arm is extended, fingers curled
under with thumb up and arched. I’m
wearing a pack that makes the one Reese Witherspoon wears in the movie “Wild”
look like she snatched it from a preschooler with a penchant for cupcakes and
bunnies. Mine extends several inches
above my head and weighs almost twice my 119 pounds. Fortunately my dancer’s flexibility and leg
strength allows me to maneuver my arms into the padded straps then rise to a
standing position. However, like Reese,
I have to hunch over in order to maintain my balance. This forces me to lift my chin in order to
see where I’m going. I feel like a
turtle on two legs.
Michael, Jimmy and I are making our way down a long stretch
of road somewhere on the south side of the Badlands. We’re not exactly sure where we are and, as
been our practice of late, the boys are hanging back a bit so drivers passing
by initially see only me. On this
particular day, the South Dakota winds whip their way through Jackson County
with such ferocity I can barely hold myself upright. My long paisley printed, purple skirt keeps
getting twisted around my ankles making it even more challenging for me to put
one heavy hiking boot, in front of the other.
Michael is yelling something at me, but the sound of the
wind muffles his words. As I turn around
to see what he said, my muscles are
no match for the huffing and puffing of Mother Nature and I am blown backwards
by a surging gust. Suddenly I find myself
flat on my back, the tire-tread soles of my boots facing skyward while my
overstuffed back pack serves to cushion the fall. Evidently this is a comical sight, because
now I can clearly hear both Michael and Jimmy laughing hysterically. Of course neither of them walks over to help
me. Probably because the Women’s
Liberation Movement is going strong and I’m usually thrilled when opportunities
such as this one allow me to emulate leaders of The Movement. What
would Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan do?
With a one, two, three, I manage to roll over onto my hands and knees
then wobble my way up to a semi- erect position. I see blood dripping onto my white peasant
blouse.
“I’m bleeding!!”
Thoughts of the Sisterhood are blown away with the dust and
pebbles skittering past my feet and replaced with behavior more associated with
a Disney Princess. The boys rush over, Michael
shoves my head back and uses his dirty, torn shirt to pinch my nose while Jimmy
stands behind me pack-to-pack ensuring I don’t fall backwards again. It is during this display of harried hustle
and bustle when a long, black, shiny car pulls up next to us.
“Everything okay?”
“Yea, she just has a bloody nose.”
As the three of us look over to acknowledge the driver we
see he isn’t our usual pick up. Those
who have been giving us rides as we make our way across the country from West
Coast to East are usually “middle America.”
Decent people who are more curious than anything, about a 6’2” Grizzly
Adams doppelganger, a diminutive but real life Bilbo Baggins, (with a really
long beard), and a Peggy Lipton wanna-be, on an adventure most of them of have only
heard about and a few dared dream. They
ask us questions like; where’r you from,
where’r you going, so you don’t have tents, do you work, what do you do for
money, so you just sold all your
stuff and now you’re out seeing the country?
Their interest is genuine and help generous. Of course there have been some who slow only
enough to spit a luggy at us and yell something like “go home hippies!” But those are few and far between. Due to the lack of teeth in their heads we don’t
take them too seriously. What they do have are rifles on the gun racks of
their trucks, spitting back is never an option.
This driver is
different. He wears a dark suit and tie
and appears to be in his forties. Instead
of a gun we see a briefcase on the seat of his car. Because of this, not one of us thinks to ask
him for a ride.
“Get in the car.”
Well, that sounds
scary. Shit where did all my; I am woman hear me roar stuff go? Michael, Jimmy and
I don’t move. Obviously he can’t rob
us. You can tell by looking at our
tired, dirty and my now bloody face we don’t have any money or valuables on
us. Rape is out of the question. Michael looks to be a big, mean, biker guy
and some might discern Jimmy as shifty. Though he’s anything but.
“Get in! You’re not
supposed to be here. If they catch you,
you’ll be in trouble.”
This gets our attention.
Still we stand looking at him, heads cocked as though urging him, well go on.
“You’re on Lakota property!”
Michael and Jimmy immediately opened the back door of the
car, throw in our packs then push me in.
As I sit wedged between my two bulldogs the man asks how we ended up
there.
“Where? We don’t even
know where we are.” Michael booms from
the back seat.
I’m amazed there’s room in the car for the three of us and
all our stuff.
“You’re on protected land.
You’re on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation,” replies the man.
“I guess when our
last ride dropped off us we walked on without knowing it.” Michael sounds sheepish when he answers.
The man explains in a serious tone, he’s a federal attorney
and has been in meetings over the last several days with the chiefs and elders
of the Oglala Lakota tribe. For three
hippies to be found wandering around without permission could work out badly
for us. Especially during a time of
unrest, which this is.
“But we’re peaceful,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t matter,” says Jimmy. “The Oglala are one of the 7 tribes of the
Lakota People that make up the Great Sioux Nation. The Lakota have been reported to be among the
most aggressive of Native American tribes due to their unifying with the
Cheyenne and the Arapaho when they wiped out General Custer’s entire
battalion.”
“That’s right, Battle of The Little Bighorn.” Our driver clarifies from his position. Jimmy went on.
“The Oglala Lakota are also known as The Teton, which means
Prairie Dwellers or The Teton Sioux. But
some of their people reject the Sioux name since it is said it was given to
them by their enemies the Chippewa.
Sioux means snake, so it can
be considered a slur. Because Native
Americans have their own by-laws and are not required to adhere to state and
federal laws, they can judge and sentence people as they see fit.”
“How do you know all that?”
Michael asked.
“I don’t know, I just do.”
Jimmy retreated back into his quiet space. He hadn’t said more than four words in the
last week, so this splurge of words tumbling out of his mouth and his intimate
knowledge about the Lakota was downright shocking to Michael and me.
But now I was really scared.
When you realize how close to serious trouble you stood not one minute
ago it brings you to a place of introspection and gratitude. We rode in somber silence until we reached
the end of the reservation, according to the attorney anyway. I still couldn’t see any kind of boundary of where
we were when the man picked us up and now.
It was all tall and short grasses amid wide open prairie land that make
up this part of the Great Plains.
The man told us there was a small market and gas station
about a mile or two up the right side of the fork in the road. We climbed out, thanked him and watched as
his big shiny car headed towards the left. It was dusk and all I wanted to do was get to
a bathroom where I could wash myself up and change my clothes. As we approached the market Michael said he
would buy some food and ask about a good place to camp for the night.
I emerged from the bathroom, in fresh jeans and shirt, legs
shaved, (I had perfected the art of shaving my legs in the sinks of public
bathrooms), smiling at Michael and Jimmy each carrying a grocery bag filled to
the brim. Michael had decided my bloody
nose was a result of low iron and not enough food. He bought all kinds of fruit, nuts, raw
veggies, beans and beef jerky. Jimmy had
the beer, wine and water. And since I
had a tougher than usual day, M & M’s, candy bars as well as all the
ingredients needed to make S’Mores! I
was ecstatic and realized I was starving.
The clerk inside told them there was a safe place to camp another mile.
We set up camp, if you can call it that, no tents, just
ground cover sheeting, our bags, blankets and bug spray. Jimmy built a small campfire and I sorted
through the groceries to assemble dinner.
Most evenings I was less Betty Friedan and more Betty Crocker. I pulled something from Michael’s bag I had
never seen before.
“What’s this?’
“Oh that’s an Indian
Fig! At least that’s what the lady
at the market told me. She said it would
be good for you. Have lots of vitamin
C, fiber and calcium. There’s jerky for
your iron deficiency.”
“Who said I’m iron deficient?”
“I did.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Who had the bloody nose today?”
“They also have lots of potassium in ‘em. You need that too Deborah.” Jimmy chimes in with yet another gemstone of
information, causing me and Michael to desist in our verbal tennis match.
“How do I eat this?”
“Ask Einstein, I’m sure he knows,” remarked Michael.
Jimmy did know how to eat the Indian Fig, also known as Prickly Pear, Cactus Fruit or Tuna. Pulling out his hunter’s knife, he began
cutting away the skin, explaining the sharp spines, are removed before they
reach the market.
“Indian Figs come
from a specific type of cactus with flowers that come in white, yellow or
red. They begin blooming in early May,
so this is their season.” Jimmy
continued expounding his knowledge of this rare find.
“It can be used to make jams or jellies. In Mexico it’s used to prepare Colonche an alcoholic drink. Indian
Figs are best eaten chilled but since we don’t have access to refrigeration
we’ll have to make do. Here, try it,” Jimmy instructed, as he held a small cut
of the magenta morsel on the point of his knife.
Cautiously I plucked the piece from its utensil and put it
in my mouth. The texture was soft and
there were lots of small seeds inside.
But the taste . . . the taste was wonderful! Like a juicy watermelon hooked up with a
piece of Bazooka bubblegum!
“Wow! I like
this! What do I do with the seeds?” I garbled with my mouth full of them.
“You can swallow ‘em or just spit ‘em out.” Jim replied as he began slicing up a second
one for himself.
I liked Indian Figs
then and I like them now. They can be
hard to find. Your best bet is going to
a market offering a rich selection of ethnic produce. When I do happen upon some of these delightful,
albeit unusual, treasures I buy them up.
You don’t have to remove the skin to eat; you can simply cut the fruit
in half and use a spoon to scoop out the meat, kind of like a grapefruit. I also like to peel them and throw one into
my smoothie. Another great idea would be
to cook it down or juice it then use as an ingredient in vinaigrette.
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| I can't take credit for this beautiful bottle of Indian Fig concentrate. But I DO plan on adding some to my smoothie tomorrow morning.
Recipe for Indian Fig concentrate:
Ingredients
6-8 Indian Figs
1-2 cups Baker’s sugar, (super fine)
1)
Remove skins from figs by using a sharp knife
and making one incision along the length of the fruit. Peel back the skin and discard or save for
your compost pile. Do this for each fig.
2)
Cut the figs into quarters and place in a large
saucepot
3)
Add water to the pot, enough to cover the figs
4)
Place on stove top over medium-low heat
5)
Add 1 cup of the sugar and allow mixture to
simmer for about 30 minutes. Taste
about halfway through the cooking process, adding more sugar if you like.
6)
Allow mixture to cook down until it thickens,
about the consistency of real maple syrup, not the fake really thick syrup some
of us like.
7)
Allow mixture to cool – then store, covered in
the refrigerator.
Use this mixture to taste, in a home-made vinaigrette, your smoothie or as an ingredient in a sassy Margarita!
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