Going Native

With only some ninety days to go the US presidential race is hotting-up as the rival camps do their level best to trash talk the opposition. There are anecdotal reports on social media of opinion poll rigging and lies about both candidates proliferate. So wild are some of these that you would not be at all surprised to see claims that Hillary Clinton has a secret army of ninja assassins to take out dissenting commentators and that Donald Trump plans to hide the national debt under his, er, ‘remarkable’ hair.

Trump supporters are hoping that Clinton’s much-speculated-upon health issues reveal themselves spectacularly in a live-TV meltdown ending in catatonia, while they frantically try to locate Catatonia on the map. Hillary’s supporters are expecting that just sitting back and giving him free reign will lead to the revelation that ‘The Donald’ is nothing more than a blast of hot air, the venting of which has much the same substance regardless of which major orifice it is vented from.

But until either candidate spectacularly self-destructs the hustings continue, to which end Hillary found herself in a Native American reservation in a barren mid-western state, courting the votes of whom Donald would undoubtedly refer to as immigrants from Red India. She made quite a speech: "I promise better education and better life opportunities for Native American children!" she declared.

The crowd went wild, shouting “Hoya! Hoya!” a few at the back smiled and began to ululate. Clinton was emboldened and continued. “I promise more social reforms and job opportunities for Native Americans!” And again the crowd responded with a cry of “Hoya! Hoya!” The Clinton aides smiled and took notes as photographers and documentary makers recorded the scenes as she made her closing statements. “This land is your land,” she said “and when I become president I will make it my duty to preserve forever your precious heritage and secure your rightful stake in governing this proud nation!”

She was cheered from the stage by a stamping of feet, the raising of arms and the resounding chorus of “Hoya! Hoya! Hoya!” This was surely in the bag. Next stop, a few reservation homestead visits, a tour of the casino and back to civilisation and a nice hot bath. The cameras recorded her glad-handing and well-rehearsed feigning of interest as she was shown around the modest homestead of a tribal elder and protector of the reservation’s buffalo herd.  

The herd in the distance looked impressive, grazing out on the prairie, but how much better would it look for Hillary to be photographed among these mighty symbols of the American story? She asked, would it be possible to see the impressive beasts up close? The chief nodded and said “Sure, but you should wear these.” He offered up a pair of ancient, beat-up moccasins. Hillary took them reverentially, assuming she had been entrusted with a gift of native craft of great value and was effusive in her thanks. “You are welcome,” said the chief, “I would hate if your shoes got covered in hoya...”