On the Great American Plains

As dusk falls, in Pine Ridge South Dakota, Oglaga Sioux gather around tables in “Big Bats,” a café cum convenience store and gas station situated at the reservation cross roads. It’s clearly the place to be, and the first time I’ve seen men hanging out in groups, as they might in eastern countries, since arriving in the USA. Indeed it’s the first time I feel like I encounter America head on. There’s a funk in the air, a feeling of dilapidation, of despair, of bleak surrender. Among the throng an unmistakable face stands out – an elder – the deep ingrained lines of his weathered face, a thick coat pulled all around him. Wistfully I wonder who seeks out his wisdom, at this crossroads, in the cold night of an American gas station? The younger folk gather in groups, waiting, talking, supping coffee. Photographs of tribal elders look down on the scene, circumferencing the ceiling above.

Wounded Knee

A few short miles away lies the site of the Massacre of Wounded Knee where, in 1890, between 250 men, women and children of the Lakota were killed. That funk has long historical roots indeed. 64% of the population of Pine Ridge currently live below the poverty line. Multitudes of millions of dollars have been made selling alcohol from trading posts surrounding the reservation to a tribe who have no tolerance for the stuff, and never will. Six generations of corrosive alcoholism proves this. Still, I innocently see beauty, kindness and openness in the faces that pass by. At Wounded Knee, reservation dogs bark. Orion stands proud in the night sky. A crescent moon rises as car headlights crisscross the plain returning home. Beauty can belie reality.

Layered History

MORE: A MID-WEST PHOTO STORY

Posted 25th February by Marc Perry