Page: The People Who Really Own America

9 min readApr 30, 2017

In the 1930s, a duo of Soviet writers travelled around the USA. They published a travelogue called “Single-storey America”.

The town of Page, Arizona did not exist at the time: it was founded in 1957. But — if there ever was a single-storey America — this is it.

Lake Powell Boulevard is a neat row of lots: some hotels, a liquor store, a supermarket, two petrol stations, two Mexican restaurants, a seedy diner, and a hunting and fishing shop (M10–762 rifle: $631; revolver: $310).

Follow the boulevard to the end, turn right after Big John’s Texas BBQ, and you’ll come to Christianity Central. Seven churches stand shoulder to shoulder: everything from Lutheran to First Assembly of God. Faith is important in small-town America.

Across the road, a different sort of American traditionalism was playing out.

In the gym of the local high school, just above a banner advertising the Sand Devils, — the school basketball team, — men sat around a big drum. The beat was slow, with no beginning and no end. One of the men started to sing in a high-pitched, piercing voice.

I snapped a picture before a drummer waved me away, furrowing bushy brows at the camera.

This was the annual Page pow-wow. A gathering of Native Americans from different tribes, this event was the first in a series of such festivals. Throughout the warmer months, the pow-wows travel around America’s Southwest.

In the stands, mothers were pleating their daughters’ hair. Dancers laid out elaborate costumes, checking that everything was in order. On the gym floor, a dignitary was speaking into the microphone. His topic, — the importance of preserving the native culture.

An elderly woman was putting together hand-made jewellery. Her neighbour, sitting next to her, told me she’d been getting up at 5 a.m. every day for an entire year to make these decorations.

“She is really particular about each pendant, each piece of string, every little detail, — he said. — Everything needs to be perfectly straight”.

A family took up seats next to me. Their eldest swiftly fell asleep in the warm, stuffy gym. There was something timeless about his face, his pose, his attire, the way he carried himself, even in his sleep.

As more and more people arrived at the pow-wow, the gym took on an atmosphere of a folk festival in a sewing shop.

“It is really important for us that we are seen in our absolute best, — one participant explained to me. — Originally this was the event at which we celebrated the arrival of the spring. People from different parts came together and exchanged their news: what happened over the winter? Who had a child? Who died? Who had to fight to protect their lands? Of course you want to impress your neighbours!”

Children, some barely above toddler age, were milling about, darting into and out of groups of adults.

A bespectacled man in a dark-navy suit directed proceedings. As noon struck, he gave the sign for the first official event of the ceremony, — the introduction of the flags: of Arizona, and of the United States.

As dozens of people in the gym stood to attention, an elder made a speech. He mentioned their “guest from London who is here to take photographs of our festival and will spread the Navajo spirit far and wide”.

“Who knows, — he added, — maybe soon there will be a pow-wow in Trafalgar Square”.

Another elder came to the fore. He asked the spirits to look benevolently at the event which was about to begin.

“We have had a good winter, — he intoned, suddenly going into sing-song. — And we expect that this year, like the one before it, will be successful for the entire nation”.

Despite centuries of missionary work, Christianity has not overtaken the traditional Navajo religion.

The man’s ceremonial attire, — decorative, but restrained, — bore some patches from the military. This man had served his county; now, at this event, he was serving his people.

The drummers started a quick rhythm. A singer joined in, — using his palm to modulate his throaty, ancient-sounding voice.

This was the moment of the Great Entrance.

A long line of people streamed through the door. The pageantry, the choreography, the pomp and circumstance, — these Native Americans could do well at Trooping the Colour.

In this modern school gym, they did not seem out of place. No, — out of place were the health-and-safety signs; the basketball hoops; the electronic scoreboard.

This was Native America taking over what is rightfully its. This was modern America being relegated to the back seat.

An elderly man took up the microphone to speak about his son. Today was the boy’s initiation day. He was becoming a full member of the tribe; a grown man.

The teenager — who had been lurking in the shadows — stepped into the middle of the gym. Silence fell as the priest performed initiation rites. Behind the pair, crates of gifts for the family were being piled up.

As the ritual finished, the boy, — now an initiated Navajo man, — took the first steps of what would become a long, complex, intricate dance. Beat by beat, the drums sped up, and so did he, twirling, shaking, leaping into the air, pumping his fists. He was beautiful, full of youthful macho energy and of self-confidence.

The pow-wow was only just beginning. The dances and the pageantry became competitive. In a whirl of feathers, bright colours, bizarre boots, fancy headgear, the Navajo filled the bland, functional gym.

This colourful festival, though, can paint the Navajo life in an entirely wrong light.

Just outside Page, lands of the Navajo reservation are a place of almost extreme poverty. Many still live in traditional houses, without electricity or running water. 40% survive below the Federal poverty line. Roads remain unpaved.

As we drove past Navajo settlements, I remembered my trip to Morocco: the desert landscape, the shed-based architecture, the sense of destitution were all very similar.

Except this time, I was in America, the richest country on Earth.

Six miles East, a group of simple wooden buildings marks the entrance to one of America’s natural wonders.

Two slot canyons, — Lower and Upper Antelope, — were formed over millennia by water rushing through rock and along layers of sand. Innumerable floods created stunning shapes and exposed beautiful colours, in hundreds of shades of ochre.

Plenty of stunning images of these canyons exist. And if you have ever used a Mac, you, too, have seen one, — even though you might not know it. For years now, an image taken in Lower Antelope canyon has been one of the desktop pictures in Mac’s OS X.

But both canyons have been turned into tourist traps, — with unnecessary guided tours, rusty metal staircases, and staff hurrying you along just as you try to reflect on the beauty of your surroundings.

A young man with an employee badge will point out bits of rock in which he wants you to see animals, everyday objects and people.

Recently, in the Lower Canyon somebody discovered a Trump-shaped rock. Personally, I thought it looked more like broccoli. But, of course, Americans know their president better than I do, and to them the resemblance was uncanny.

At least the colour of the rock was right, — iridescently bright orange.

From the Canyons, most visitors to Page drive West, to another must-see location in the area.

This is Horseshoe Bend. A landscape photography cliché, if ever there was one. By late afternoon, dozens of photographers settle for sunset on rocks overlooking this curve in the Colorado river. Some come with the latest kit and the fanciest lenses; others bring drones; many are equipped with just a mobile phone and a selfie stick.

Surprisingly, very few tourist facilities are available here. A car park, a sign, and a rubbish bin, — and that’s about it. The American entrepreneurial spirit seems to have switched itself off here.

Which is probably for the best. In this young, small, unassuming town I found some of America’s most important features: amazing nature, proud history, community spirit.

These have remained unchanged since those Soviet writers travelled the land. They will probably remain unchanged for centuries to come.

Practical Advice: Page and the Canyons

How long should I spend there?

If you are not lucky enough to attend during an interesting event, one day should be enough. You could visit the Antelope canyons in the morning, have lunch overlooking Lake Powell, and then go to Horseshoe Bend for sunset.

Restaurants

We ate at a great Mexican place called El Tapatio. A set meal for two is big, nice and tasty. If you order a “flaming” option, expect your waiter to demand that you photograph your meal and Instagram it.

What else is there to do, apart from the Canyons and the Horseshoe Bend?

You could have some water-based fun at Lake Powell. You can rent boats, jet skis, kayaks etc. Or you could do what we did and hike one of the trails.

The Hanging Gardens Trail leads to a stunning overlook of the Colorado River.

Money

Prices in Page are not different from what we saw in other small American towns. But, crucially, it was here that we found the only free-to-use cash machine we saw on our entire trip.

Prices to tour Lower Antelope Canyon start at $25. There is a $8 surcharge for the use of Navajo Land, and a $3 credit card fee.

Entrance to Glen Canyon recreation area is $25 per car — we decided not to go, because we are stingy.

Lodging

We stayed at Page Boy Motel. It was just fine. Breakfast was inedible, though, and Wi-Fi only worked within spitting distance of reception.

You can also take a tour of the Glen Canyon dam over the Colorado. This dam — which serves a hydroelectric power plant — is the reason Page exists. The town was built to house workers who constructed the power station.