Nov. 12, 2002

The official scenic historical marker on approach to Acoma “Sky City” Pueblo reads:

Legend describes Acoma as “a place that always was”. Archaeological evidence shows it has been occupied since at least the 13th century. Established on this mesa for defensive purposes, Acoma was settled by inhabitants of nearby pueblos, which had been abandoned. Nearly destroyed by the Spanish in 1599, Acoma was quickly reestablished by ancestors of its present occupants.

It looked amazing, mysterious, intriguing. I knew without a doubt that I hadn’t made a mistake when I turned off Interstate 40 and headed south 13 miles, a side trip I’ve never taken on other cross-country trips, but had impulsively decided to take this time. The road was completely deserted, easy to drive, and surrounded by vast open space and dramatic rock formations. I stopped several times just to get out of my car and look around quietly. The land stretched out in every direction. All traces of sound from the busy highway had disappeared. I could feel the silence in my chest.

I approached the Visitor Center for information and was told a tour was departing in fifteen minutes. A few other visitors were wandering around, some looking at items in the small gift shop, others watching a short documentary on the Acoma people. There was no option of driving or walking up to the pueblo on my own. The guided tour was the only permitted means of entry. I paid my entrance fee as well as an additional fee for a photography permit, which earned me a bright pink pass, tied to my camera, and the right to photograph most areas during the tour. No photography is allowed at any time inside the cemetery or cathedral, which they make extremely clear, with promises to confiscate cameras and destroy film if the rules are not heeded.

The bus ride was short and steep, up the side of the mesa. There were about 25 in the tour group, which seemed to materialize from nowhere when they called out the departure notice. We were deposited and left in front of the first of many adobe buildings, where we gathered to follow and listen to the guide. Well, the rest of the group did… I juggled my camera around and fell behind repeatedly to take pictures. A few others had cameras and permits, also. One other man took photographs and also notes on a small pad of paper. I was reprimanded once for falling behind near the cathedral, but once they realized I wasn’t taking any prohibited pictures, they left me alone. I did earn a degree of infamy for this, however, and was teased by others in the group several times.

Without question, this visit was a step through time. I don’t know if it seemed more amazing to ponder the history of this “city in the sky,” which dates back almost 900 years, or to consider that there are people who still live there now, without electricity or running water, just as their ancestors did. Many of those residents, as well as those who live in more modern communities nearby, keep up the tradition of making clay pottery, which is available for sale on small tables, set up in front of individual houses.

I stopped and spoke with Susan, a kind young woman with a sweet smile, whose table held a variety of wonderful clay pots, most with intricate geometrical designs, a trademark of Acoma pottery. I fell in love with a small vase and was delighted to learn she was the artist and that she makes everything she sells there in her home at the pueblo. She was happy to have a picture taken and proudly held her artwork in her hand for the camera. She carefully wrapped it in bubble wrap and inserted it into a small brown lunch bag, while I rummaged in my purse and pulled out money to pay her. I thanked her wholeheartedly and attempted to catch up with the tour group.

Around every corner of the village was some sort of intriguing sight – round ovens with slabs of stone for doors, V-shaped ladders, marking the entrances to kivas, rooms for family gatherings and religious meetings, vistas off the eastern side to the 400 ft. high “Enchanted Mesa”. The tour took a circular pattern, starting with the San Esteban Del Rey Mission, which was built between 1629 and 1640, as a restitution of peace after three years of battle between the Acoma people and Spanish troops.

Considering the sandstone mesa rises 367 feet above the valley, it’s mind-boggling to think that the road that easily brought us up on the tour bus wasn’t there at the time the church was built. All building materials had to be carried by hand or hauled up the slopes. This mission is now a National Historic Landmark, as is the pueblo itself. From the mission building, we wandered down narrow streets of houses, many two and three stories high. Acoma people often alternated the use of floors according to heating needs, using the lower floor as the kitchen in the winter, in order to have the heat rise. In the summer, the upper floor was used for cooking and the lower floor for storage of grains and other goods, where they could stay cool.

Toward the end of the one hour allotted time for the visit, I came across another table of pottery, this one offered by a mother and teenage daughter. They were very kind about answering my questions about the process of making and selling the pottery, life at the pueblo, and general culture of the Acoma people. Though camera shy personally, they allowed me to photograph their table. I thanked them by purchasing two more small items, both made by the daughter: one a small dish, shaped like bird, and the other a “storyteller” doll.

It is interesting to note that the Acoma culture is a matriarchal society. The houses are all owned by the woman in the family and are passed down to the youngest daughter. In the case that only sons are born to a family, property goes to the youngest daughter of the youngest son. I saw only women selling goods within the pueblo itself, although one displayed some items that her husband had made.

I finished my last purchase, rearranged my camera and purse on my shoulder, and looked around for the rest of the group. Right. What group? What tour guide? What bus? OK, I confess. I ended up walking back to the Visitor Station, which was fortunately less than a mile and all downhill. Thrilled with my new treasures, I said goodbye to Acoma Pueblo and moved on, knowing this stop would surely be a highlight of this particular cross-country trip.