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STURGIS, S.D.,
Aug. 2 — Robert Simpson pieces together a living, building ranch
fences and riding saddle broncs at rodeos. When things get tough, he
says, he makes a trip from his home in Montana to the Black Hills of
South Dakota, where he can practice the traditional ways of his
tribe, the Northern Cheyenne, with four days of fasting and praying
on a bed of buffalo robes and sage atop Bear Butte.
“Spirits come
and hear your prayers,” Mr. Simpson said. “You can regroup
from everyday life, and get your marbles together. It’s peaceful.”
But Bear Butte,
which dozens of tribes hold as one of the most sacred sites in North
America, is getting a new neighbor: a giant biker bar and campground
are under construction about two and a half miles away. They are
scheduled to open this weekend, in time for the annual Sturgis
Motorcycle Rally, one of the country’s largest biker events,
which officially starts Monday.
The potential for
rock music, roaring motorcycles and thousands of people drinking near
the striking volcanic Bear Butte formation has brought American
Indians from around the country to an encampment on the treeless
plains near here. They plan to march into downtown Sturgis on Friday
to demonstrate their concerns to the bikers already gathering for the
rally.
Organizers said
that about 2,000 Indians and their supporters were expected to take
part. Nearby Pine Ridge Indian Reservation was the site of the
Wounded Knee standoff in 1973, and some participants are veterans of
that protest. Some religious groups, including the Mennonite Central
Committee at Pine Ridge, have also become involved.
“We need
integrity in our ceremonies here, and it requires a certain amount of
quiet,” said Alex White Plume, president of the Oglala Sioux
tribe at Pine Ridge, as he stood at the hot, windy encampment at the
base of the butte about five miles from here. A small buffalo herd
still roams the land.
Mr. White Plume
estimated that as many as 8,000 Indians from 30 tribes around the
country travel to Bear Butte, which the Sioux and others call Mato
Paha, to fast and pray each year. Bear Butte, which rises 1,100 feet,
is in a state park with an interpretative center that describes the
central role the butte played in the lives of the Plains Indians for centuries.
Sitting Bull,
Crazy Horse, Black Elk and other widely known leaders sought visions
here, and the trees are still covered with bright prayer cloths and
other offerings of modern-day seekers. The Sioux call it an emergence
site, where their prophet Sweet Medicine brought forth the cultural
traditions of their people. Tribal traditionalists say many people
are finding their way back to the old ways, which is healing the drug
and alcohol addictions that have plagued tribes.
Mr. White Plume
said tribal leaders wanted to preserve a five-mile buffer around Bear
Butte. Over the years, tribes have spent more than $1 million to buy
about two and a half square miles of land near the butte, but they
have not been able to raise enough money to protect the rest.
Down the road from
the encampment, Jay Allen, who owns the Broken Spoke Saloon here in
town, is racing to finish the new bar. Mr. Allen said that the
Indians’ concerns were overblown and that the bar and campground
would be good neighbors.
“We’re
very responsible about how we run our operation,” he said, as a
table saw whined behind him in a parking lot filled with antique
Harley Davidsons and construction equipment. “We’ve got a
flawless reputation.”
Mr. Allen
estimated the cost of his 22,000-square-foot, three-story bar and
adjacent campground at $3.5 million. The bar will allow motorcyclists
to ride through it, and it will feature a regular “Best
Breast” contest. A separate rock music amphitheater, he said,
will face away from the mountain to reduce noise.
“I know for a
fact that this isn’t a disruption,” Mr. Allen said.
“I come out
here all of the time for sunsets, and to me this is sacred ground.
Look at that mountain,” he said, gesturing toward the butte.
“No one has anything like it.”
The disagreement
over the new businesses is one of the largest controversies here in
many years. There have been numerous public meetings, and seven
lawsuits have contested the beer and liquor licenses granted to Mr.
Allen and other campground owners. The Meade County commissioners who
approved the permits have refused to comment because of the lawsuits.
Laura Gehner, a
spokeswoman for Gary Lippold, a local businessman who puts on a
five-night concert called Rock’n the Rally, said that Mr.
Lippold had taken measures to reduce the noise but that the proposed
buffer was impractical.
“The Native
Americans are asking for far more than is feasible,” Ms. Gehner
said. “A five-mile buffer would extend into Sturgis.”
Tim Coulter,
director of the Indian Law Resource Center in Helena, Mont., said the
new development, as well as two nearby campgrounds with bars, would
violate a declaration on the rights of indigenous people that the
United Nations is expected to pass next month.
“This
declaration says that Indian people need to be able to control
development or their culture and traditions and even their existence
as a distinct people are likely to be destroyed,” said Mr.
Coulter, who helped write the United Nations document and has joined
the encampment at Bear Butte. “The document says the world is
watching and considers this a crucial matter.”
Opposition to the
new development has brought support from non-Indians as well. In
addition to the Mennonites’ involvement, the Association of
Christian Churches of South Dakota backed a march last month.
“Because we
suppressed their ability to pray their way, and because of the
terrible history churches have with Indian people, we want to work
with them to protect these last few places,” said Carl Meyer,
who works for the Mennonite Central Committee on the Pine Ridge reservation.
Some bikers have
also sided with the Indians.
“If they
wanted to put a bar in the Vatican it would be the same thing,”
said Kenneth G. Robinson, who rode out from Sturgis with another
biker to show his support.
The Indian
encampment, which was set up on July 1, has been a mix of modern and
the old ways. A low-power FM station called MATO carries speeches by
Indian leaders, while wireless Internet enables laptops amidst
teepees and traditional staffs with eagle feathers fluttering in the breeze.
Mr. Simpson said
he hoped the protest would force a change.
“I want my
kids to be able to go up there and fast and pray and not have
Aerosmith playing in the background,” he said.
Mr. Allen, the bar
owner, said he had planned to build a statue of an 80-foot-high
praying Indian on his property as a nod to his neighbors, but has
since given up the idea.
“Everyone
loved it,” he said, “but the Native Americans.”
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