Ooga Booga Nights

I pulled into The Hairy Mosquito’s parking lot with a blazing heaven of a sunset behind the silo in front of me. To the east of me the clouds were dark and were showing off a spectacular lightning jig. A storm was coming. That was clear. But the sunset on the horizon in the west settled me comfortably as the wheels of my car rolled in on the gravel.

When I stepped out of my car, I was out to find my friend who had gone for a walk down a tractor path. I walked by the side of the pawn shop and found artisans hard at work, carving away on stones, making arrowheads. They had tables of arrowheads for sale, all made out of different colored stones. Some of them were rather breath taking. I looked at them closely, my imagination suddenly binding them to the end of a shaft of wood with a feather tail, and placed upon a bow in the hands of an Ojibwa long, long ago.

A live band was playing on a sort of porch on the side of the pawn shop, and the music rang through the open prairie like something bound to be a memory from someone’s childhood somewhere in time. Watching the families sitting in lawn chairs behind their vehicles listening to the music, and seeing the children dance around with a bag of chips to share made me think to myself, “This is a memory… It’s not mine, but it’s familiar…”. I related to the senses it provoked. Tents were pitched just beyond in the trees, and the beat of the drummer’s drum and the strum of the guitar player’s guitar made me think of camping as a child. It made me think of going on vacation with my family. It made me think of going to church picnics. It made me think of going to baseball games, and barbeque parties at my parents’ friends’ houses. I’m not sure why, exactly, but it did. It all felt, familiar. And as the wind from a nearby, disregarded storm blew my hair away from my face, I smiled as I walked out to the back field to find my friend.

The sunset was too spectacular to ignore. I took a few photos, a couple with my friend in them holding up her hands to the sky. It was a divine feeling to be there with her, to be enjoying the company of fresh, evening Minnesota air out in the middle of openness that is seemingly open to everything in the universe. One horizon to the right glows gold while the horizon on the left is rolling in a fresh plundering of thunder and lightening. The wind began to rise wildly as the dark clouds eventually ate out the sunset. Trees were bending all to far, almost to their knees. The band packed it up and had to ship out early as the rain started to fall and as the wind was coming from two different directions. A cop car pulled in the driveway to tell us that hail was falling not too far away, and that we should seek shelter.

Standing in the pole barn, the one with the bull skull and feathers painted on the front door, we waited for the worst. This is tornado country, and it wasn’t too far fetched to believe that one might come roaring out of the sky. Making jokes of it I had said to my friend, “Well, if we get sucked up into the vortex of a tornado, at least we’re all dying together.” She laughed in a shocked sort of way and said sarcastically, “That’s a nice way to put it!”

I’ll spare you the suspense, Reader. There was no tornado. The wind was fierce for a time, and the rain fell heavy, but soon all cleared out and all was well. In fact, the wind had retreated entirely and the stars joined us for the rest of the night. This, is when the party truly began. The Ooga Booga Party. It is an ancient tradition, going all the way back to………….the 1970’s. It’s a bit of a hippy-ish ceremony of sorts, but also something surprisingly spiritual. It is a sort of hazing, a mild test, a way to prove yourself to the Chief that you are worthy of being part of the tribe. The tribe, of the Ooga Booga.

Should you take this seriously? Oh yes. Very seriously. This is not something to mess around with. I went through the Ooga Booga initiation back in the winter. I was excited to already be part of the tribe and watch newcomers go through it. Like I said before, I’m limited on what I can tell you about it. But I’ll do my best to make you a part of it, Reader.

The fire was lit. The new pack of tribe members to be were huddled in one of the buildings being told the rules they were to follow. The rules, I can share.

Rule number one: respect the chief.
Rule number two: you need a spirit name, but only you can come up with one for yourself.
Rule number three: don’t trust the coyotes.
You also have to have a gift for the chief. You also have to show yourself worthy by marking yourself with colors. In other words: tribal paint. Or, as was done to me back in the winter, mud and ash. And then? Off you go, one by one.

The drums pound hard in your ears as you approach the dancing shadows by the fire. The tribe is rattling maracas, and the Chief is decked out in furs and feathers and leathers. It is a great feeling of trepidation, especially when you’ve been told by others that there’s a chicken involved and you’re holding the last one they’ve got. But everyone who goes through it can say in the end, “I’ve never done anything like this in my life, and I’m so glad I did it!” It is definitely a positive experience, scary as it may be. But you have to be a little open minded. And you have to be courageous. Very courageous. I’m afraid, Reader, that this is all I have the liberty of sharing with you.

The evening ended late into early morning. It was time for me to leave. As everyone else was gathered around the fire, sharing the joy of being part of “the tribe”, I slunk off to go home. The gravel I drove in on crunched just as loudly driving away on it. I was tired. But I was supremely satisfied. I drove home with the thoughts of, “thank you, Fate.” It was a night worth remembering. It was a night worth tucking away into memory. It was the sort of memory that would, in the future, make me think of home. My new home.