An emerald sedan sped past with a black man standing in the passenger seat\u2014the yellow feathers of his headdress streaming out the sun roof.<\/p>\n
\u201cFollow that Indian!\u201d<\/p>\n
Glen swung a quick U-turn on Rampart Street, the northwest division between the French Quarter and the Trem\u00e9\u2014the nation\u2019s oldest African American neighborhood. The car now headed east towards the Faubourg Marigny, another boundary of the Quarter.<\/p>\n
We\u2019d been up since 8 a.m. searching for Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans on an unseasonably warm March 19th\u2014St. Joseph\u2019s Day. A newspaper had published the parade schedule, but it\u2019s not always accurate. To see them, we needed to be persistent and lucky. Our local friend Glen drove through uptown neighborhoods with an architectural gumbo of ante-bellum mansions and wood shacks\u2014some of which still had four-foot water lines and dead trees from Hurricane Katrina\u2019s deluge.<\/p>\n
From there, we\u2019d searched through Bayou St. John on our way towards the Creole houses and cottages of Mid-City and the Trem\u00e9. The now-fading high water marks here reached eight feet in some places. We scanned for flags, crowds, and feathered suits. All the windows were rolled down to hear chants and music. But the golden Indian in the beetle-green car was the closest we\u2019d gotten in hours.<\/p>\n
\u201cMasking Indian\u201d has been a New Orleans tradition for over a hundred years, and served as a method for African Americans to celebrate their own culture. The intricately sewn suit isn\u2019t a disguise, but a way to \u201cshow our true selves,\u201d according to Big Chief Monk Boudreaux. \u201cThis is in our blood\u2014it\u2019s not just something we do.\u201d<\/p>\n
Some say that slaves seeking freedom escaped to the forests to live with Native Americans. Others believe that touring Wild West shows influenced the Mardi Gras Indians. In years past, the groups fought when they encountered each other on the street. But now, tribes welcome each other with dance, songs, and inspection of each other\u2019s \u201cnew suits.\u201d<\/p>\n
From Creole Wild West to 9th<\/sup> Ward Hunters, Fi-Yi-Yi to Skull and Bones, Wild Magnolias to Yellow Pocahontas, the tribal costumes take the better part of a year to construct\u2014all by hand. \u201cThey usually know how it\u2019ll look before they put it together,\u201d said Sylvester Francis, Executive Director of the Backstreet Cultural Museum. \u201cBut they gotta take a break after Mardi Gras before they begin sewing for next year.\u201d Each suit can weigh up to 100 pounds and cost thousands of dollars to assemble.<\/p>\n The day before St. Joseph\u2019s, Francis let me touch some of the outfits he keeps in his museum. The jewel box sparkle of sequins, faux gemstones, metal, and crystal seemed to light the room. But alone, they\u2019d be singing only melody without the harmony of pearls, cowrie shells, and the rainbow of seed beads. My fingers brushed across the sleek, cool decorations and followed the individual lines of color until they merged into a new design. The creations are inspired by traditional Native American scenes, African sculptural elements, abstract patterns, or fantastical creatures.<\/p>\n Not to be outdone by the parade of beads, shells, and sequins, the fabric is equally attention-grabbing: velvet, satin, silk, yarn, ric rac, and cardboard (to make 3D figures \u201cpop\u201d). And finally, the feathers. No suit is complete without them. Francis\u2019 wife Anita almost whispered, \u201cThe tribes get them only in white because they don\u2019t trust anyone else to try and match the colors.\u201d The plumes are then dipped in dye individually, to ensure the color is just right. Each Indian makes his own suit, sometimes with the help of family or others within the tribe.<\/p>\n I\u2019d seen the Indians in photos, at Jazz Fest, and at Mardi Gras, but I\u2019d never chased them on St. Joseph\u2019s Day. In New Orleans, the holiday is dedicated to the patron saint of the working man. The Voodoo tradition celebrates the day as a feast for Legba\u2014messenger of the gods and trickster guardian of the crossroads. The day seems perfectly geared to the Mardi Gras Indians, especially since one never knows exactly where to find them.<\/p>\n We followed the saffron-fletched Indian down St. Claude Avenue through the Faubourg Marigny and into the Bywater\u2014a neighborhood in the Upper 9th Ward. Just across the Industrial Canal is the Lower 9th Ward, where homes were still in ruins months after Hurricane Katrina.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think there are any Indian events out here,\u201d Glen said. \u201cBrotha\u2019s just going for some lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n The Indian\u2019s car stopped outside a corner market, and he disappeared inside. We quickly parked and followed him to the small deli in back.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen you goin\u2019 out?\u201d the man behind the counter asked the Indian.<\/p>\n \u201cNot \u2018till tonight,\u201d he answered. \u201cThere aren\u2019t many people home yet. We decided to get together at Congo Square in the evening, but we gonna go out to our old houses before then. Maybe the land\u2019s spirit needs liftin\u2019 too.\u201d<\/p>\n The server handed the Indian a po\u2019 boy\u2014a New Orleans hero sandwich. \u201cYou give it all you got,\u201d he said. \u201cEverything needs good luck here.\u201d<\/p>\n We shuffled in line to order. If we weren\u2019t going to see anything until later, we might as well eat.<\/p>\n \u201cWait. Y\u2019all were following me, weren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n I turned to see the detail of the Indian\u2019s suit\u2014ruby gems with amber beads and cowrie shells swirled in a sunrise design, all within the surrounding canary-colored feathers. His dark hair hung in two tight braids. I wondered if it was really that long or if he wore a wig.<\/p>\n I replied, \u201cWe were just trying to find your tribe. You were the only breadcrumb we had.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHaaaaaaaa!\u201d His laughter echoed through the small store. \u201cI never been called a breadcrumb before. That\u2019s pretty good. You hear me say we\u2019ll be at Congo Square tonight? I\u2019ll save you a dance if I see ya.\u201d<\/p>\n He swept out of the market. On the floor lay a lonely yellow feather. I bent, grasped it, and tucked it into my pocket.<\/p>\n As we approached Congo Square that evening, the light from torches bounced off brick building walls. I could hear the underlying intensity in the low rumbling hymn, \u201cIndian Red\u201d:<\/p>\n \u201cWe are Indians, Indians.<\/p>\n We are Indians of the nation.<\/p>\n A wild, wild creation.<\/p>\n We won\u2019t bow down.<\/p>\n Down on the ground.<\/p>\n Oh how I love to hear them call my Indian Red.\u201d<\/p>\n Through the park, 30 Mardi Gras Indians were scattered. Some seemed to keep to their tribes, but over time, the chanting and dancing swung their circles wider\u2014until they became one big ring.<\/p>\n Crimson blended with emerald, lilac with copper, and turquoise with sunflower. Like the patchwork of New Orleans culture, nothing here is monochrome. The fire from the torches reflected off the beads and temporarily blinded me.<\/p>\n I turned and saw the golden Indian from earlier. His suit swirled out around him as he performed a fast twirling, foot-stomping dance, punctuated with shouts. The few other members of his tribe stood scowling and nodding. Others ran quickly around him. The drumming got faster. Just watching made me breathless.<\/p>\n With a \u201cwhooooooop!\u201d the dance ended. He stood with his legs apart and arms crossed, breathing quickly. He looked over the crowd and his eyes locked on mine.<\/p>\n \u201cWhatcha think of my dance I saved ya?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe best I\u2019ve seen all night,\u201d I replied. \u201cYour suit is the prettiest in Congo Square.\u201d<\/p>\n The brightness of his wide smile rivaled the torches and he walked over with his arms open.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re always welcome with the Indians, little sister,\u201d he said. And the strength of his hug was just what I\u2019d expect from a Mardi Gras Indian.<\/p>\n Jill K. Robinson is a traveling writer and photographer who spends every New Orleans Mardi Gras looking for the Indians. Her articles have been published in the San Francisco Chronicle, Journey, World Hum, Lonely Planet, Frommer’s, AOL Travel and more. Even when traveling, she can always be found online at Danger Jill Robinson<\/span><\/a>.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" An emerald sedan sped past with a black man standing in the passenger seat\u2014the yellow feathers of his headdress streaming out the sun roof. \u201cFollow that Indian!\u201d Glen swung a quick U-turn on Rampart Street, the northwest division between the French Quarter and the Trem\u00e9\u2014the nation\u2019s oldest African American neighborhood. The car now headed east … <\/p>\n