Leaving Mother Lake (34 page)
Yongning lies south of an ancient Qiang state described in the imperial histories of the Sui (A.D. 581–618) and Tang dynasties (A.D. 618–907) as a Country of Women
(Nü Guo),
which certainly appears to have been not only matrilineal but also matriarchal. These documents are remarkably detailed, for they provide a precise geographical position, naming rivers, towns, and territorial boundaries, as well as information on economic, social, and political organization. The Country of Women was ruled by queens and a council of state made exclusively of female ministers. Men, the imperial scribes tell us, were not held in high esteem; they took the names of their mothers, tilled the soil, and went to war. The record also provides the names of several queens who paid tribute to the Chinese court, among whom figures a Ngue — which is the clan name of the old aristocracy of Yongning and which is not found among any of the Naxi in Lijiang.
As I had discussed with Teacher Lü so many years ago now, Western anthropological theory does not believe in matriarchal states; it believes only in myths about matriarchy — but knowledge of the Country of Women has not come to us via mythology. It has come to us in written, official documents. The Country of Women disappeared from the imperial record during the ninth century, after the Sino-Tibetan wars, but if it ceased to exist as a state, is it not possible that some of its clans, among them the Ngue, made their way to Yongning? And if this is a possibility, the Country of Women may not only throw light on the validity of current ethnic boundaries between Moso and Naxi but also reopen the case of the matriarchy in Western anthropological theory.
Until the late 1980s, the Moso were virtually unknown outside western China. There were several reasons for this, such as extreme geographical isolation, and not least the fact that for several decades after the revolution, they did not have a name of their own but were simply called Naxi. Isolation is still the most prominent feature of Moso country and one need not go far off the beaten path to discover picturesque villages without running water or electricity, and a virtually cashless economy where trade and barter are still done by horse caravan. Amid these tall mountains where modern commodities and infrastructure are practically invisible, the illusion of going back in time is almost perfect. Here one gets the feeling that history has stood still. But appearances are deceiving. For the Moso have never truly been sheltered from the great historical movements that have shaken the Tibet-China frontier. And the more recent watersheds of eco- nomic liberalization and globalization have not passed them by.
So much has changed in the past fifty years. So much has changed for China and for the Moso. As China has become more urban, wealthier, and open to the world, news of Moso culture has spread beyond Yunnan to the rest of the country and, in the past few years, to the world. Today foreign journalists and filmmakers can travel freely through Moso country, and even Western anthropologists can take up residence for as many months as their research visas allow. To date, German scholar Susan Knödel and American Eileen Walsh have contributed to Moso studies their own doctoral dissertations based in extensive fieldwork. But the great majority of visitors to Moso country are not scholars or journalists but the thousands of Chinese and increasingly also foreign tourists who come to Yongning in ever greater numbers every year. Most stay only a few days, just long enough to look, to do a little horse riding, to paddle across the lake and visit the temples, to sing and dance around the bonfires and speculate on what it is like to live in a society with no fathers or husbands, where free love and women rule — the exoticism of it all, the innocence or the wantonness, depending on where you happen to stand on sex and morality.
In the space of a decade, Yunnan province has become one of the most favored tourist destinations in China, and tourism has wrought stupendous changes there, creating great wealth matched by an enormous gap between those who are involved in the new industry and those who are not. In Yongning, in spite of local efforts to spread both the industry and the wealth it generates beyond the lucky few, tourism is still very much concentrated in the village of Luo Shui near the lake, where hardworking, entrepreneurial families have turned their log homes into spacious guest houses. In only six or so years, standards of living in Luo Shui have increased dramatically, with many families having a television set, running water, a telephone, and plenty of cash in the bank — a material comfort that is in stark contrast to much of Moso country.
Meanwhile, as the outside world increasingly intrudes into their own, many Moso are voicing concerns that their traditional way of life may be enduring on borrowed time — and, ironically enough, when there is no longer a need to fear government interference. Today almost all Moso children go to school, where they learn the Chinese curriculum, and with it, to define themselves beyond Moso language and culture, beyond subsistence farming, and perhaps also beyond the extended maternal family. In the more remote villages, economic urgency is pushing young people to leave and seek work in the cities, where some will inevitably end up settling for good. And in the wealthier communities where tourist dollars make television sets affordable, the young now have access to a world their elders never dreamed could exist.
Few in Moso country would disagree that tourism holds the surest promise of economic well-being. But can tourism alone sustain economic development and stem the migration of young people to the cities? And if not, what then? And if yes, at what cost? The “matriarchy industry,” indeed, creates a strange paradox, for it makes the promise of modernity dependent on the preservation of tradition. But then again, since the Communist revolution, visiting relationships and the maternal family have acquired much more than market value, they have come to symbolize the best in Moso tradition and to embody Moso identity itself. And surely, this is more than an incentive for cultural preservation.
The Moso say that the future lies behind us while the past is before us. By this they mean that the past is what we know, because it is what is in front of our eyes, while the future, since it is behind our back, cannot be seen. I am now thinking of those sacred images of snakes that swallow their tails, bringing end and beginning together in a gesture of eternal regeneration. I am also thinking of the resilience of a family system that has survived the tribulations of centuries of history, and not least, of the unique genius of a people who made freedom to love the keeper of their collective happiness, and who are still doing so even as they dance around the bonfires, hand-in-hand with curious visitors.
Christine Mathieu
San Francisco
November 2001
I
have long understood that my life is different. As I grew up in my village, and then traveled to Shanghai, Beijing, and later to America and Europe, I was always conscious of being different — different from my family, my own people, and others. But I also knew I was carrying a treasure — the treasure of my birth in the Country of Daughters. Although I have chosen to make my life mostly in the Western world, it is only this country that gives me an inner peace that I know I cannot find anywhere else no matter how long and how far I travel. I think I always knew this, but I could never find the words to truly explain myself to others until I began working on writing my story with Christine Mathieu. After many years of friendship, I discovered I could connect with Christine in a way I have never done with anyone. She knew where I came from; she had walked our mountain paths and drunk our salted butter tea, and even sat with my mother in our house in Zuosuo. More than that, she could make sense of my confused, emotional recollections. I had never before reflected so deeply and I had never trusted anyone with so many secrets. Although I had written about my life and told my story many times in interviews with the Chinese media, I had only ever skimmed the surface.
I spent three months in San Francisco with Christine, telling her my story. In those three months, we talked over every minor and major event and explored every visual and sensual recollection I could bring to mind, so that I found myself not only talking about my life but reliving it and recovering feelings and incidents I had buried very deeply long ago, deep enough so that I might forget them. Our talks were often painful but also very funny at times, and almost always surprising. This experience of deeper reflection and memory was completely new to me; it was as though I were seeing my village, my mother, myself even, in an entirely new light, as though I were making new acquaintances, discovering new depths of understanding.
More than a year has passed, and I have now read the final manuscript. I was not prepared for this story of my youth, to see so much of myself in those English words, filtered through another’s imagination. Yet this is me, who I was and who I am, and it is a beautiful, sad, and hopeful story. It is very hard for me to take in so much emotion. I couldn’t leave the manuscript in Geneva, where I first received it; I took it with me to Italy and then to Beijing, and now I am here in Lake Lugu, where I have come to visit my mother, to spend three weeks in my village. This is my longest visit since I ran away in anger so many years ago. I am sitting by the fireplace on the mud floor of the kitchen, looking over the manuscript again. The wood is too wet from last night’s rain and smoke is filling the room, giving me a perfect excuse to let the tears flood my burning eyes and roll down my face. I have always found it so hard, almost impossible, to cry, but now it seems that I cannot stop!
Through the window I can see my mother feeding the pig, caressing her gently. The old lady’s face is sweet and tender. There is an aura of warmth around my mother. She is finally in harmony, I tell myself, and as if she could hear my thoughts, she turns and looks over her shoulder. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles. It is as if I were hit by a ball of fire. I smile back, and the tears fall on yet another page of my life.
It has long been clear to me that my past is what makes my present. Always an outsider, always different, I hope my story can contribute something of importance to anyone who has felt different, and that I may be an ambassador for my people and give them the pride and confidence they deserve.
Namu
Lake Lugu
November 2001
We wish to extend our warmest thanks to our agent, Richard Balkin, and our editor at Little, Brown, Deborah Baker, for the enthusiasm, hard work, and encouragement that made this adventure possible. We also give very special thanks to Eileen Walsh for her support, to Thoralf Stenvold for all his patient support and dedication. And we thank Peter Shotwell, Sandra Steele, Cassis Lumb, Harley Blakeman, and Lisa Cody for their comments on the work in progress; and Paola Zuin and Matt Forney for relaying messages between San Francisco, Geneva, and Beijing.
Yang Erche Namu was born in the year of the horse (1966) in Zuosuo village by Lake Lugu. At the age of eight, she was sent to live with her maternal uncle and herd yaks in the mountains. She did not return to live in the village again until she was about thirteen years old, entirely illiterate, yet ready to undergo initiation as an adult woman. In 1981 she left her mountain home for the first time to partake in a series of singing contests sponsored by the provincial Cultural Bureau, which led all the way to Beijing and the discovery of her talent. A few months after returning home, she ran away from her village and joined the Liangshan Minority Singing and Dancing Troupe in Xichang, Sichuan province. The following year she was accepted in a special minority program at the Shanghai Music Conservatory, where she not only studied singing but also learned to read and write. After graduation she joined the China Minority Singing and Dancing Ensemble in Beijing. In 1990 she left to reside in San Francisco for several years. When she returned to China in the mid-1990s, Namu had lost all her hearing in one ear and was forced to abandon singing professionally. She then pursued a career in modeling, which took her to Italy, Japan, Hong Kong, and the United States. In 1999, she won
Cosmopolitan
magazine’s first annual fashion award in Beijing. Over the past ten years, Namu has published several books in China about her life and career, including a book coauthored with Moso scholar Lamu Gatusa. Today she lives with Norwegian diplomat Thoralf Stenvold and divides her time among Geneva, Beijing, and San Francisco.
Christine Mathieu was born in Paris, France, in 1954 (another horse year). When she was sixteen, she went to live in England and from there emigrated to Australia, where she studied anthropology. After graduating, she pursued various interests and a career in teaching. In 1989, she began doctoral research in the comparative histories, customs, and cultures of the Moso and Naxi peoples of Yunnan province. There she met Moso academician Lamu Gatusa and through him Namu. Christine is married with two children and lives in San Francisco. She teaches anthropology at Saint Mary’s College of California.
*
In the 1950s, the People’s Republic of China counted fifty-five official nationalities, among which the Han made up 93 percent of the total population. In 1978, however, the Jino were added to the list of Chinese national groups. Thus, today, China has fifty-six nationalities, of which fifty-five are also known as minority nationalities.
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