Would they fumigate the Pope?
GlobalPost, June 10, 2010
Winnemem deer toes that crumbled after they were fumigated.
When the Winnemem Wintu tribe traveled from their home in California to New Zealand this spring, they carried with them dozens of hard-coated suitcases and bazooka-shaped tubes, protection for some of their most delicate and hallowed possessions.
Inside were feather trailers, headdresses, spears, manzanita firewood and a variety of sacred regalia that are inextricably tied to the small tribe’s spiritual beliefs and were required for a ceremony they planned to hold while abroad. To the Winnemem, these are items of the highest religious potency.
But to New Zealand Biosecurity officials these were also items that posed a potential threat to their island’s delicate ecosystem and agricultural industry. . .
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A Salmon Returns
Christian Science Monitor, May 25, 2010
Jerod Ward of the Winnemem exchanges a traditional greeting, a hongi, with a Maori woman outside the Rehua Marae in Christchurch, New Zealand
The eel was there, just as the Maori said it would be. About two feet long and colored a misty sapphire, the longfin eel billowed in place beneath the glassy waters as the Winnemem Wintu watched in rapt silence.
With the foothills of New Zealand’s Southern Alps looming in the distance, about two dozen members of the northern California tribe had lined the banks to peer into the shallow creek. Many aimed video or still cameras down at the South Island waterway, a traditional spawning ground for the country’s modest chinook salmon fishery. The small tribe had traveled across the Pacific to commune with their sacred salmon, which they hadn’t seen in more than 60 years. . .
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Guardians of Language
American Indian students race to preserve tribal languages before they disappear
CAScade, Spring, 2010
Greg Sutterlict grew up in Lacey, Wash., on the other side of the mountains from his tribe’s reservation, but the barrier between his immediate family and their Yakama traditions was as much emotional as it was physical.
In boarding school, like many of his peers, Sutterlict’s father had been taught that the old ways — whether it was singing, attending pow-wows or spending time in the sweat lodge — were evil. His father also never learned the Yakama’s tribal language, Sahaptin, and Sutterlict himself picked up only a few words here and there.
Sutterlict’s great-grandfather spoke the language, but it wasn’t until later in life that he explained why he never passed it on to the younger generations.
“He said, ‘You know, they really tortured us at the boarding schools for speaking the language, and that’s why I never wanted you to learn. Now I wish I would have taught you, but it’s too late’,” recalled Sutterlict, who was a teenager at the time. . .
Read the full story here.
It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s Zetaman!
Zetaman takes a break from patrol to have a spin on an H.G. Wells-esque sculpture
What happens when a superhero fantasy collides with reality?
Etude, Winter 2010
“. . . One weekend Zetaman sneaked to the garage where he kept his gear in a box next to the Christmas decorations. He quickly got dressed in his superhero regalia and presented himself to Allison, who was in the bedroom. No introduction. No preamble.
“I’m Zetaman of Portland,” he told her solemnly, as if this was supposed to mean something to her.
“Okay, then,” she said. “And I’m the queen of France. I have no idea what you’re saying. It’s not even close to Halloween.” Meow had no clue.
Her husband explained how he’d been patrolling the streets as Zetaman, how instead of coming home right after work he was wandering around one of Portland’s more dangerous neighborhoods all by himself. She was confused, and she was angry. . . .”
Read the full story here.
Behind Bars
It happened one night at the new Springfield jail
Eugene Register-Guard, Jan. 28, 2010
” . . . The door is slammed shut, and it clangs with a sickening, plangent thud. Morphew flinches ever so slightly.
Overall, there’s a palpable sense of excitement that pervades the air.
Many of the Pod C guys admit that previous to tonight, they had images of dusty Old West jails swimming in their brains. There’s something almost romantic about spending the night behind bars, standing in the place of John Dillinger or Babyface Nelson.
But there is nothing romantic about Pod C. It’s devoid of color. While daylight supposedly seeps in through the window and grated hole high in the ceiling, mostly it’s just you under the harsh fluorescent lights in a sprawling room of sharp right angles and hard metal. . . “
Read the full story here.
The New Gold Rush
A solitary moment from the Truffle Festival's truffle hunt
One scientist’s fight against fungal bigotry
Etude, Spring 2009
” . . . It’s an almost Pavlovian response for those who’ve been enchanted by the truffle’s mystic spell. The moment it hits their palm, it springs straight to the nose for a deep intimate whiff.
The teen places the white nugget gently in Lefevre’s hand. Lefevre cradles it gently, almost tenderly, between his thumb and forefinger, and takes a sniff of remarkable restraint.
“This one’s mature alright,” he says. “That’s a nice one.”
There is nothing polite or moderate about the aroma of a truffle. Within the bundle of its molecules scientists have discovered a pheromone present in human sweat, and so it perhaps makes sense that truffles themselves are the fruit of microscopic lovemaking. Amongst the trees roots, microscopic threads of mycelium weave and tangle like the tendrils of jellyfish in what amounts to mycological foreplay. . . “
Read the full story here.
